The Devil And Drusilla. Paula Marshall
loose cannon, careering round the deck then,’ his neighbour, Lord Granville, had said languidly to him. ‘Hit, miss and to the devil when anyone gets in your way.’
His reward for this shrewd comment was a crack of laughter from Devenish. ‘By God, Granville,’ he had offered, ‘you’d be Prime Minister if you could make a speech half as incisive as your private judgements.’
‘Not a remark anyone would make about you,’ returned Granville, his perfect politeness of delivery robbing his words of their sting. ‘You have no private judgements. Everything you say is for public consumption. So far as that goes, you’re the most honest man in the two Houses.’
Remembering this interchange, Devenish smiled when he saw Granville and his wife across the Leominsters’ ballroom, talking to the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth. Some devil in him, which desired confrontation today, had him walking over to them.
Sidmouth’s response to him was all that he had expected. ‘Ah, here comes the noble advocate for the murdering Luddites I’m busy trying to control! What got into you, Devenish, to have you defending them?’
Devenish had a sudden vision of a mean street in a Northern town where a half-starved boy and his penniless and widowed mother had eked out a poor living.
He repressed it and said, ‘I don’t condone their violence, you know, but I do understand what causes it. Some relief, surely, could be given to those who wish to work, but who are unable to do so.’
‘Not Jacobin tendencies then, eh, Devenish? No feeling for revolution?’ Sidmouth said this quietly. He was a mild man. ‘No, don’t answer me, I know that on the whole you are more like friend Granville here and favour moderate and gradual change.’
He paused, ‘Perhaps Lord and Lady Granville, you will forgive us both. Devenish is well met. I have need of a private and quiet word with him. You will both excuse us, I trust.’
The Granvilles assured him that they would. Sidmouth led Devenish into an ante-room and shut its double doors behind them. Without preamble he said, ‘Do you intend to visit Tresham in the near future?’
Devenish said, ‘I have thought of doing so, yes. It’s years since I was there. My agent reproaches me every month for my absence, so I have arranged to go as soon as the House rises.’
‘Yes, you take your duties seriously. As I take mine. I ask you because something odd has been happening there recently. The Lord Lieutenant of Surrey has brought to my notice that over the last few years two men, one a person of quality, have disappeared. The gentleman was later found murdered. Several women of the lower orders have also disappeared—one as recently as a month ago. No reason has been found for their disappearance, and apart from that of the gentleman, not one of their bodies has been recovered. He would like an enquiry made.
‘Now, I have the hands of myself—and the few men I have at my disposal—overfull with this business of controlling radical revolution, to say nothing of Luddite discontent. I was speaking to an old friend of mine—Wellington, to be exact—and he told me that he has reason to believe that you are a sound man in a crisis involving danger. That being so I would ask you—discreetly, mind—to investigate this sorry business and report back to me should you find anything of moment.’
Devenish’s first thought was of Robert’s mysterious letter. He said nothing, however, other than, ‘I think that the Duke overestimates my abilities, but I will do as you ask. As a stranger to the district it will not seem odd if I ask questions about it. I take it that that is all the information you have. Has no other landowner raised the matter?’
‘Yes, Leander Harrington, the eccentric fellow who lives at Marsham Abbey, alerted the Lord Lieutenant about the second man who disappeared. It was his valet, and although he had no reason to believe that foul play was involved, he had given no warning of his imminent departure. On the other hand his clothes and possessions had gone, which seemed to indicate that he had left of his own free will.’
‘As a matter of interest, have you any information about the murdered gentleman?’
‘Yes, indeed. He was Jeremy Faulkner of Lyford, a young man of substance. He was found dead in a wood some miles from his home. His body had been brutally savaged by an animal, it was thought, although whether before or after death was not known. His widow, Mrs Drusilla Faulkner, the late Godfrey Stone of Stone Court’s daughter, had reported him missing at the beginning of the previous week.’
‘And Lyford House is less than a mile from my seat at Tresham. I see why you thought of me.’
‘Coupled with what Wellington hinted, yes.’
Well, at least it would help to pass the time at Tresham—and perhaps serve to subdue his unwanted memories.
‘I can’t promise success,’ Devenish said slowly, ‘but I’ll do my best.’
‘Excellent, I shall be able to reassure the Lord Lieutenant that I am taking him seriously—although I shall not tell him who my emissary is. The fewer people who know, the better. This business might be more dangerous than it appears.’
Sidmouth paused. ‘You’re a good fellow,’ he added warmly. ‘I felt sure that you would oblige me.’
‘Despite my reputation for never obliging anyone.’ Devenish began to laugh. ‘At least it will enliven a few dull weeks.’
Later he was to look back on that last remark and at the light-hearted fool who had made it, but at the time he walked back to the ballroom to congratulate Lord Orville on having won his beauty.
Chapter Two
‘Isn’t it time, Drusilla, my love, that you left off wearing your widow’s weeds? Jeremy has been gone for over two years now, and I don’t believe that he would approve of your hiding yourself away from the world, either.’
Miss Cordelia Faulkner looked anxiously at her nephew’s widow. She did not wish to distress her, but she thought that the time had come for something to be said.
‘Dear aunt,’ said Drusilla, looking up from her canvaswork, ‘I am scarcely wearing widow’s weeds. I have always chosen to dress modestly, and to live in like fashion, and I have certainly not hidden myself away from the world. I live a busy life locally, and only this week I have arranged with the parson of Tresham Magna that his annual fête to raise money for the poor children of the parish will be held in our gardens.’
‘I expressed myself badly. I should have said the polite world. You ought to marry again, my love, not spend your life pining for my poor, dead nephew, and where better would you find a husband than in London?’
How to answer that? Drusilla looked away and caught a glimpse of herself in the long Venetian glass which hung on the other side of the room.
She saw a composed young woman in her very early twenties, dressed in a high-waisted gown of pale mauve, the colour allowed to a widow during her second year of mourning—a year which was now over. Her glossy curls were dressed on top of her head, one ringlet falling round a swan-like neck. Her eyes were the soft grey of clear water and her complexion was creamy, with only the faintest blush of pink.
Jeremy had always called her lips kissable—and he had often kissed them during the two years of her marriage. No, that was not correct, Drusilla reminded herself sadly, for eighteen months only. He had barely touched them, or her, during their last six months together.
It was the memory of those last sad months which helped to keep her in thrall to him. What had gone wrong with their marriage that he had absented himself from her not only bodily, but mentally? What had changed him from a carefree laughing boy to a brooding man? Was it something which she had unwittingly said or done?
Drusilla returned to the present with a start. Miss Faulkner was staring at her. She put her work down. ‘I’m sorry, aunt, I was wool-gathering. But you already know that the polite world does not interest me, and I have no intention of marrying again.’
‘So