A Fatal Assignation (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  A FATAL ASSIGNATION

  The Rutherford Trilogy

  Book Two

  Alice Chetwynd Ley

  In memory of my father, F.G. Humphrey, O.B.E. and of the story sessions we all enjoyed on family holidays long ago.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  MORE BOOKS BY ALICE CHETWYND LEY

  CHAPTER 1

  Curiosity was an integral part of Miss Anthea Rutherford’s character. She could no more resist exploring an intriguing situation than a bee could be restrained from gathering nectar. It was because of this regrettable tendency that she first became involved in a mystery concerning a well-known gentleman of the ton, who was also an intimate friend of no less a personage than the Prince Regent.

  It all seemed quite simple at the time. Miss Rutherford was keeping an appointment for a dress fitting at Madame Yvonne’s modish salon in Bond Street. All the ton ladies patronised Madame Yvonne, said to be a French émigré, possibly of aristocratic blood, who had reached these shores some twenty or so years ago with little besides an undoubted French flair for dress and a determination to make a prosperous living for herself. Her present establishment and exclusive clientele bore witness to the success of her efforts.

  Anthea alighted from the family town coach with instructions to the coachman to return for her presently. She airily waved aside her maid, who had been about to accompany her into the shop.

  ‘No, Martha, stroll about a little instead, if you wish. It will amuse you more than sitting indoors waiting for me.’

  Martha, a sensible looking woman close on forty years of age, looked grateful for the reprieve.

  As Anthea entered the elegant green and gold showroom of Madame Yvonne’s premises, she was greeted briefly by the proprietress. The Honourable Anthea Rutherford, youngest daughter of Viscount Rutherford, was a valued client and as such could usually count upon claiming Madame’s undivided attention. Unfortunately, today it was already being claimed by an equally important older lady who was in the process of placing a large order with the firm. Madame was therefore obliged to hand Miss Rutherford into the care of a minion before returning to her previous customer, whom she proceeded to lead out of the salon and into the adjoining workroom to inspect various samples of dress materials.

  Usually the faithful Miss Parker was at hand to deal with exigencies of this kind, but there was no sign of her now. Instead, a young assistant, ill at ease and uncertain, hastened to obey Madame’s parting instruction to show Miss Rutherford into a fitting room and summon the dressmaker responsible for her new gown. She hesitated for a moment before guiding her client to a small closet on the extreme right of the showroom and on the opposite side from the fitting rooms Anthea had used on previous occasions. Here the attendant left her with many incoherent apologies, though for what offence Anthea could not imagine.

  As she looked about her, however, it began to appear that the girl had conducted her to a room much inferior to any she had previously occupied. There was no chair, for one thing; and instead of several full-length pier glasses disposed about the room, there was only a small square mirror on one wall. It was even a trifle spotted with age.

  For a few moments, Anthea amused herself in gazing at her reflection with laughing dark eyes and deciding that the pink bonnet she was wearing was really quite becoming. Then she turned to look about her once more before returning to the salon, as obviously a mistake had been made, and it would be better to give the poor girl time to correct it before her employer appeared on the scene.

  She forgot all that in a moment, however, when her quick eyes discovered the outline of a cleverly concealed door on the left hand wall. It was masked by the stripes of the green and gold wallpaper and with its handle lying flat against a strip of oak timbering running around the walls at chest height.

  A secret door leading to exciting places?

  Well, most likely not, she thought regretfully, after the first surge of excitement. It probably opened into nothing more mysterious than a cupboard.

  All the same, she could not resist the challenge. She grasped the handle and turned it.

  The door opened inwards, revealing a small enclosed space in front of yet another, more solid door.

  She hesitated, feeling a momentary pang of guilt at venturing to intrude on someone’s privacy. But curiosity proved too strong for her; she took a step forward and quietly opened the second door a few inches, peering round it.

  The room beyond was luxuriously appointed with a thick red carpet on the floor, red and white striped satin covers to the mahogany furniture and discreet lighting. At first she thought it was empty. Then she noticed a gentleman seated upon the elegant sofa to her right. She had a full view of his face, but his expression gave no indication of his having noticed the partly opened door or the intruder looking through it.

  She recognised the gentleman at once. He was a well-known member of the ton and one of the Prince Regent’s circle. He was also of her father’s generation, but certainly not a personal friend. Prinney numbered several gentlemen among his acquaintance whom Viscount Rutherford would unhesitatingly describe as ‘loose fish’. Anthea, who was surprisingly well-informed in scandalous slang for a gently nurtured young lady of nineteen, understood this to mean that Sir Aubrey Jermyn was a womaniser.

  He must on no account catch sight of her, she thought in sudden panic, for he could not fail to recognise her, as she was a friend of his niece and ward, Charlotte.

  Quickly but quietly she closed the door and returned to her tiny closet to shut herself in just as the assistant returned with the dressmaker.

  There followed an icy reprimand for the unfortunate girl, abject apologies to Anthea and a swift removal to a larger, more opulent fitting room. Thereafter, her business was concluded in the usual efficient manner, with Madame Yvonne, now at liberty, personally conducting her to her carriage.

  A fashionably dressed lady, known to Anthea as one of London’s foremost hostesses and married into a family of great antiquity and prestige, was alighting from a carriage outside the premises just as Anthea stepped into hers. Anthea and the lady exchanged bows, while Madame Yvonne at once took the newcomer under her wing, escorting her into the salon.

  Anthea’s finely etched brows drew together for a few moments as she pondered the mystery of Sir Aubrey Jermyn’s presence in Madame Yvonne’s private apartments. There was no likelihood of an amorous liaison there; business was the ruling passion of the elderly Frenchwoman’s life, as everyone knew. Neither would any gentleman have been shown into the private part of the house had he escorted some lady to the modiste’s. On such very rare occasions, the unfortunate male would find himself accommodated in the salon itself on one of those highly decorative but excruciatingly uncomfortable small chairs of gilded wood with striped green and gold satin covers. Anthea had seen this occur only once in the several years of her own and her mama’s association with the establishment; she recalled feeling extremely sorry for the victim, who had looked, and doubtless felt, as out of place as any man would do in such surroundings. Most took ca
re to avoid the ordeal.

  But if Sir Aubrey were not there for either of these reasons, then why? He had looked as if he were awaiting someone…

  She shrugged, dismissing the matter from her mind with a rueful smile. It would be for some stupid reason, not in the least bit exciting, just like the door which she had hoped might lead to some unusual place, the threshold of an adventure. But now she came to consider, there were often such concealed doors leading out of drawing rooms into a narrow landing and the servants’ staircase. She remembered there had been one at Wimpole Hall, where she had visited recently with her parents.

  She sighed. Really, life was not nearly so exciting as one always hoped it would be. Of course, there had been rare fun a few months ago, when she had been able to give her Uncle Justin some trifling assistance in the matter of investigating a murder. But one could scarcely hope for anything of that kind to chance in one’s way again.

  Sir Aubrey Jermyn and his wife Amelia had been married for close on twenty years and led admirably self-contained lives. When at his town house, Jermyn spent most of his time at his clubs or with the Carlton House set; when he was at his country estate in Sussex, he occupied himself in the usual male sporting activities. Lady Jermyn passed her days in the approved manner for a lady of Quality: paying social calls, shopping in the fashionable quarter, and chaperoning her husband’s nineteen-year-old niece and ward, Charlotte. Husband and wife appeared together at social gatherings whenever custom or the particular invitation required this, but otherwise their ways lay apart. It was a marriage in the accepted mode.

  Nevertheless, Lady Jermyn always knew where her husband might be found should he decide to absent himself for a few days. Such occasions were usually mentioned in advance, so as not to interfere with their joint engagements. And she had never known him to stay anywhere overnight without taking his valet.

  This was why it came as a surprise to her to discover on this particular morning that not only had her husband failed to sleep at home on the preceding night, but that Preston, his man, was still in the house.

  She summoned Preston and questioned him, careful to make her voice sound casual.

  ‘I wonder, did Sir Aubrey chance to mention to you that he wouldn’t be returning home yesterday evening? He may have said something about it to me, but I have forgot — I fear I’ve the wretchedest memory!’

  Preston considered her for a moment. She had once been pretty in an unremarkable mousy style; now that had faded, leaving her with a washed out look that matched her timid air. She was kind and gentle, but such qualities did not appeal to a full blooded gentleman like his master. He knew a great deal about Sir Aubrey’s private life, as was only likely after more than twenty years in his service. Preston knew, too, how to be discreet.

  He shook his head.

  ‘No, milady. Before he set out for White’s yesterday morning, he informed me that he would be dining at Carlton House in the evening. I accordingly laid out his dinner dress in readiness, but he did not return here to change.’

  Her eyes opened wide at this.

  ‘Oh, dear! Dining with the Prince at Carlton House, you say? But he would most certainly need to change into evening dress for that! And you’ve had no message?’

  ‘I am afraid not, milady. But, of course, it’s still early in the day.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Ten o’clock — oh, yes, of course it is! No doubt we shall hear later. Thank you, Preston.’

  ‘Milady.’

  The valet withdrew.

  Lady Jermyn mentioned her husband’s unexplained absence to her niece by marriage, Charlotte Jermyn, when the latter came into the morning room. Charlotte, a lively blonde with a smile that captured most male hearts, gave a tiny shrug.

  ‘Well, yes, Aunt, it is unusual, I know, but emergencies do sometimes occur. I don’t mean,’ she added hastily, seeing a look of apprehension cross Lady Jermyn’s countenance, ‘anything in the nature of an accident. My uncle is too well-known for us not to be informed of such a thing immediately. But perhaps some urgent matter of business — you’re certain no word has come from Sussex to send him dashing off to Wynsfield?’

  Lady Jermyn shook her head. ‘He would never have gone without Preston,’ she said, decidedly. ‘Besides, why could he not leave me a message with one of the servants?’

  ‘Pray don’t vex yourself, my love,’ advised Miss Jermyn, with an air of one twice her years. ‘He’ll appear presently, you will see. I mean to go shopping this morning — do you wish to come?’

  The afternoon still brought no news of the master of the house, and Lady Jermyn was hard put to it to know what to say when one of his friends called later with the intention of giving him a lift to an arranged meeting with some others.

  ‘I’m vastly sorry, Mr Ambrose,’ she said falteringly, ‘but my husband is not here at present.’

  The Honourable Nigel Ambrose raised his neatly plucked eyebrows and stared at her.

  ‘Not here, ma’am? Then — pardon me — where the dooce is he? We’re engaged to Winters for this evening — made the arrangements at White’s last Friday. Only four days ago — can’t have forgotten. Yes, and another thing,’ he went on, his indignation mounting. ‘He wasn’t at Carlton House yesterday evening. Tell you what, ma’am, his credit with Prinney must be better than mine, to miss a Royal dinner without a word of apology. Doing it too brown, if you ask me. Not ill, is he?’

  ‘N-no,’ stammered Lady Jermyn. ‘That is — not exactly.’ She gazed about her wildly for inspiration, then Charlotte’s words came into her mind. ‘He’s had to go down to Wynsfield, our house in Sussex,’ she finished, with a desperate swallow. ‘An urgent matter of business. You will understand, sir, I’m sure. He — he asked me to apologise.’

  ‘Hmph!’ exclaimed Mr Ambrose, in far from satisfied tones. ‘Must say, it seems a havey-cavey business to me — beg your pardon, ma’am, but it ain’t like Jermyn to cut and run like this, giving all his appointments the go by. Not a punctilious feller exactly, but one always knows where one is with him. Still, mustn’t take up any more of your time. I’ll explain to Winters. Your servant, Lady Jermyn.’

  After he had left, she cast herself wearily into a chair; and it was there that Charlotte found her, when the girl had returned from a drive in the Park with one of her admirers.

  ‘What am I to do, Lottie dear?’ she wailed, having explained what had happened.

  ‘If this isn’t just like Uncle Aubrey!’ exclaimed Charlotte, bitterly.

  ‘Oh, no, how can you say so? I can’t recall a single previous occasion when he has absented himself without ensuring that I had due warning. It’s not in the least like him! That’s what is so worrying.’

  ‘I mean it’s like him not to care a rush for anyone else’s feelings, but just to consider what he wants,’ replied her niece, somewhat illogically. ‘I tell you what, Aunt Amelia, if it weren’t for making you unhappy, I’d as lief he took himself off for good!’

  ‘Oh, no, dearest, really you mustn’t say such things! I know you’re vexed with him because he is trying to persuade you to wed Lord Escott, but only consider how your welfare has always been his first concern ever since you were placed in our charge as a baby scarce three years old, poor little mite! What a darling you were — I loved you on sight, just as if you were my own — indeed, I feel that you truly are!’

  Charlotte gave her a warm embrace.

  ‘I know, my love, and so do I. But as for my uncle, whenever I see anyone but himself being his first concern, why, pigs may fly! I’m a wretch to upset you, though,’ she added contritely. ‘Don’t regard my sharp tongue — dare say I shall turn out to be the most odious shrew, then no one will wish to marry me. Not that I care a rush for that at present, for I’ve only just begun to enjoy myself with balls and parties and the like, and it would be a pity to settle down too soon.’

  Her aunt wagged her head sagely.

  ‘Ah, that’s because Mr Right hasn’t chanced along! Only wait
, and you will see!’

  Charlotte laughed.

  The following day, Lady Jermyn sent Preston off to Sussex to see if his master had indeed gone to their country house. He returned late in the evening to report that the servants at Wynsfield had not seen Sir Aubrey since the family’s last visit in March and moreover had no notion of his present whereabouts.

  Seriously alarmed now, Lady Jermyn tried to consider what was best to be done. To raise a public hue and cry was out of the question, for nothing would anger her husband more when he finally returned home. She had no close relatives living in London whom she might have consulted, and she did not wish to burden Charlotte, who should be enjoying herself, with anxiety.

  She waited patiently for one more day, then finally succumbed to the temptation to confide in someone outside the family. She had for many years been friendly with Lady Quainton, a widow of ample means who had also been a close friend of Anthea Rutherford’s dead grandmother. Charlotte had gone riding in the park with a group of other young people, leaving her aunt free to follow her own devices for a few hours. Trusting to luck that Lady Quainton would be at home that morning, Lady Jermyn called at her friend’s house in Grosvenor Square.

  Fortune favoured her. There were no other callers with Cassandra Quainton, neither was her friend about to set out on any necessary expedition. She was a shrewd, though compassionate observer, and soon saw that Amelia Jermyn was very unhappy and disturbed.

  She ordered some coffee in spite of her visitor’s refusal, and talked quietly of trivialities until they were served and once more alone.

  ‘Drink it, my dear, and then tell me what is weighing on your mind. It’s of no use to say that there’s nothing,’ she added, anticipating resistance, ‘for I can see quite well that you’re in a sad taking.’

  But Amelia Jermyn had no will to offer resistance. She unfolded her tale, a little incoherently, for she herself was uncertain of the facts.

  ‘I am to understand, then, that your husband walked out of the house on Monday as usual to go to White’s, and has not been seen since? And you’ve received no word from him?’ summarised Lady Quainton, in calm tones.