(A Charm of Magpies 1)The Magpie Lord (15 page)

“Not much did.”

Mr. Haining frowned. “Surely
de mortuis nil nisi bonum
, my lord?”

“Yes, and moreover, one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” added Mrs. Millway earnestly.

“Allan Day is dead too,” said Mrs. Vernon, with an unexpected edge in her voice. “I thought it was an excellent letter, my lord.”

“Who is this fellow?” demanded Lady Thwaite.

Crane stretched his lips in the shape of a smile. “A good man, grossly wronged by my father. On which note, let me introduce my guest. Mr. Stephen Day. Allan Day’s son.”

Everyone turned, looking slightly startled, as though they hadn’t noticed Stephen till that point. Mrs. Vernon gasped aloud.

“Oh good heavens. Stephen Day? My goodness, it
is
you! How did I not see you there?” She flew over and grasped his hands. “Stephen! You used to play with our Richard, do you remember? He’s in the army now. Oh, I’m so glad to see you well! But you’re so thin!” Her eyes were filling with tears. “My dear boy. Come and tell me everything about yourself.”

Wrapped in warmth and looking slightly stunned, Stephen allowed himself to be led to a sofa. Crane had to work to repress a smile and looked round to see Mr. Vernon wearing an identical expression to his own.

“He’ll be lucky to escape Maria tonight,” he remarked. “We always felt distressed that we lost touch with Day’s family, when they left. It was a devil of a business. I’m glad the boy’s well. Are you righting wrongs, Lord Crane?”

“Hardly. Let’s say I’m tackling matters as they arise.”

“You’ll be here a while, then,” said Vernon dryly.

Crane smiled at that. “Not if I can help it. I’m actually just here to deal with the legal matters around my inheritance.”

“I thought I heard you were moving back to Piper?”

Crane shook his head. “If I stay in England, which is not certain, it will be in London. I’m not cut out for country life.”

“Oh, but you must admit the country has some attractions,” Lady Thwaite remarked from his side, and insinuated a hand onto his arm. With an effort, Crane didn’t throw it off, but he did move his arm away, putting his hands behind his back.

“I dare say it has many attractions, but not for me,” he said. “I like cities.”

“Naturally.” Lady Thwaite smiled. “But what if Lady Crane prefers a country home?”

“There is no Lady Crane.”

“Ah, but some day, she may—”

“There is no Lady Crane, there is no Lady Crane in waiting, and I do not have any expectation of a Lady Crane
some day
,” said Crane, biting the words out. “So the wishes of this hypothetical lady are hardly relevant.”

Glances shot between the Millways. Mr. Haining stopped rocking on his heels for a second, and Helen Thwaite’s lips pressed together, colour coming to her cheeks. Lady Thwaite gave a wide smile.

“Of course not, my lord,” she said. “Single gentlemen never like to think of being caught in parson’s mousetrap, as Sir James likes to call it.” She gave a little laugh, in which some of the others joined, but Crane did not.

Her smile stretched, and she extended her hand invitingly. Crane kept his hands folded behind his back. Lady Thwaite’s eyes flicked to his face. “My dear lord,” she said clearly enough to be heard by others, holding out her hand commandingly. “Let us have a comfortable talk. Do give me your arm.”

Crane had to fight to keep the revulsion off his face. The horror of the jack, and what had happened to Merrick, and Stephen’s manipulation combined into a sickening whole, so that the idea of this bloody woman touching his skin—

And Stephen wasn’t even paying attention. He was over the other side of the room, talking animatedly to Mrs. Vernon, his promise to defend Crane against fluence forgotten, and, perversely, it was a flare of hurt anger at that abandonment that made Crane extend his arm. He crooked it, but Lady Thwaite’s fingers immediately found the bare skin of his hand.

She led him over to a sofa and sat with him, murmuring. “My dear lord, listen to me. You’re here to see my daughter. She’s very lovely, very charming. And you need to marry, don’t you? You need to marry and you will choose Helen because she is lovely and willing and you need a wife…”

She muttered on in that vein. Crane contemplated her for a moment, then looked over at Stephen’s back. Stephen casually lifted a hand to scratch his ear and his fingers gave a quick flutter in Crane’s direction, like a tiny little wave, and a bubble of something intensely happy opened up in the middle of Crane’s anger. Lady Thwaite was coming nowhere near his mind, because Stephen would not let her, and suddenly her murmured commands seemed not threatening but simply ludicrous.

He tolerated it a moment longer, till it seemed clear she was intent on nothing but a rich marriage for her daughter, politely disengaged his arm and rose. “Thank you, madam, that was most informative,” he said courteously. “And I shall certainly take your views under advisement, although I fear you may be doomed to disappointment.”

He left Lady Thwaite staring after him and went over to talk to Vernon again, as the only person present he didn’t actively despise, until they were called in to dinner.

It was an intensely tedious evening. Lady Thwaite was coldly angry, and Helen’s prettiness didn’t conceal her building fury at Crane’s failure to pay court. Sir James told a succession of hunting stories that were of no interest to anyone. The Millways were primarily concerned with establishing how many titled people they knew and trying to find mutual acquaintances with Crane, who lost all patience at the third reference to “your dear father”.

“My father was no dearer to me than I to him,” he said bluntly. “I couldn’t tell you which of us was happier when I went to the other side of the world, but I assure you, I would not be within five thousand miles of here if he were still alive.”

Mrs. Millway went pink with shock. “Oh, but he was your
father
.”

Mr. Haining nodded earnestly. “Surely there should be filial love—forgiveness—especially in a noble family—”

“No,” said Crane.

Mrs. Millway opened her mouth and closed it again in the face of that uncompromising monosyllable. Helen Thwaite gave a tinkling laugh, with a slightly grating note to it. “Goodness me, my lord, you’re terribly brusque. Is that how the best people speak in China?”

“If you mean the aristocracy, Miss Thwaite, I wouldn’t know. I’m a trader.”

“A tradesman. Dear me.” Helen was bright-eyed and highly coloured, and her voice was vicious. “And what about your little friend? It’s so interesting that you can’t spare any time for courtesy to your neighbours but you’ve plenty of leisure for a
guest
. What exactly is Mr. Day doing for you?”

Her voice was loud. Heads turned involuntarily across the table, and Crane deduced from the various expressions of horror, embarrassment and excitement that his reputation had once again preceded him. Oddly enough, nobody looked at Stephen.

“Resolving some rather dull legal points about local issues,” said Crane calmly, addressing Miss Thwaite as if unconscious of anyone else’s interest. “Conveyances, I believe. Or possibly estouffements.”

Vernon, the solicitor, coughed into his wine glass and loudly asked Mr. Haining about some parish argument. The Millways dragged in a not terribly relevant anecdote about a duke of their friend’s acquaintance, the point of which was that the true mark of good breeding was courtesy and putting one’s social inferiors at ease. Crane greeted this with a wolfish smile.

He didn’t point out that nobody except the Vernons had made any effort to put the socially inferior Mr. Day at ease, because the little devil was obviously up to something. Crane could see him, and Mrs. Vernon, next to him, clearly could, but the rest of the company once again turned away as though he was literally not there.

Helen Thwaite continued to glower, made a few more unpleasant remarks, complained she had a headache, and left the table abruptly.

Eventually the meal ended. Crane sat through a single glass of port with the gentlemen before announcing that he would have to leave, after a private word with the vicar.

Mr. Haining was a thin, old-maidish sort of man, liver-lipped and almost completely bald, with a red birthmark disfiguring his scalp. Crane had taken his measure through the course of the meal, and wasn’t disposed to be pleasant.

“Mr. Haining,” he said without preamble. “Do you recall the case of Ruth Baker of Nethercote? Killed herself two years ago.”

“A terrible business.”

“I understand she’s buried outside the Fulford churchyard.”

“That’s right. As a suicide…you understand.”

“No, I don’t. She was seduced by deception, at the age of fifteen, learned that she was carrying her own father’s child, and killed herself. I’d have thought that a case for pity, not ostracism.”

Mr. Haining’s eyes bulged. “This is scarcely a suitable topic for a lady’s parlour.”

“There are no ladies here,” Crane said. “Just you and me. What pastoral care did you offer this strayed lamb of your flock, Mr. Haining?”

“It’s hardly my responsibility—” began the vicar.

“Actually, it is. Did you know her father, and seducer, was my brother?”

“I really feel that gossip is inappropriate—”

“How much influence did my father bring to bear on your decisions regarding the girl?”

“It was—that is—there were certain difficulties—the fact is— My position carries certain obligations to all levels of society, Lord Crane, and one must weigh—”

“Enough,” Crane said contemptuously. “It is my opinion that Ruth Baker killed herself while the balance of her mind was disturbed. As such, she should be properly reinterred, in her local church. This ceremony should take place as soon as possible, at my expense. That’s my opinion, and I think you’ll find it’s your opinion too.”

“I’m afraid not, my lord,” said Mr. Haining stiffly. “I must absolutely refuse to contemplate such a thing. It is a matter of the dignity of the Church. The great gift of human life is not to be thrown away.”

He put up his weak chin. Crane let the silence stretch out to an uncomfortable length, until he saw the flicker of nerves in the man’s eyes, then spoke very gently. “Vicar, I’ve let it be known that I don’t propose to run my affairs with threats, intimidation or the abuse of power. That, in fact, I’m not like my brother or my father. I hope this has reached your ears.”

The vicar looked at him hopefully. “Yes, it has, my lord.”

Crane smiled and leaned closer. “The thing is,” he murmured, “between us…I’m
quite
like them.”

Chapter Fourteen

Stephen and Crane settled into the dogcart for the drive back to Piper. The wind was up now, and the night was at last suitably cold for April.

“What on earth did you do to the vicar?” Stephen asked. “He looked like he was going to cry.”

“Sanctimonious prick. I told him that he’d rebury Ruth Baker within the week or there would be a new vicar in place within the fortnight.”

“Can you dismiss a vicar?”

“If she’s not properly interred by next Sunday, we’ll find out.”

They probably would at that, Stephen thought, looking at the set of Crane’s mouth. “You seem very concerned by this.”

“She was my brother’s child. My niece,” Crane said. “Which makes her baby—”

“Your brother’s child.”

“Yes, thank you. In any case, family.
Inoffensive
family. I think I have a responsibility there. And I do object to the stupid superstition of burial outside a churchyard. Might as well be at a crossroads with a stake through her heart. Talking of which, thank you for dealing with Lady Thwaite. What did you make of it?”

“Well, to be honest, I rather sympathised,” Stephen said. “If that was my daughter, I’d be desperate to get her off my hands as well.”

Crane snorted. “God, yes. What a foul-tempered girl.”

“There’s something really quite wrong with her, I think. She’s angry about a lot more than not being Lady Crane. I wonder… Well, it doesn’t matter. But I wouldn’t marry her if I were you.”

“You’re full of useful advice tonight.”

Stephen grinned. “Anyway, Lady Thwaite hasn’t a hope of finding the girl a good marriage without fluence, and even then she’d be pushing her luck. So it’s actually possible we don’t have anything more complicated than that on our hands. I’ll come back and speak to her formally tomorrow, then if I can get the haunting dealt with, I think that may be the end of it up here.”

“Thank God. I loathe this place,” Crane said. “Lady Thwaite, her idiot husband, that harridan her daughter, those dreadful toadies, and that grovelling hypocrite of a vicar.”

“The Vernons are very pleasant.”

“They are, but outweighed by the rest of the company. Not that you had to suffer most of the conversation. How did you do that?”

“What?” said Stephen innocently.

“You were hiding. I saw you.”

“How could you see me if I was hiding?”

“I watched you. I didn’t find it at all hard to concentrate on you, even if everyone else did.”

“Oh. Well, I thought I’d rather not be noticed.”

“You’re good at that,” Crane said. “You’re a very unobtrusive, nondescript little man.”