A Reputation Dies: A thrilling combination of detective fiction and romance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  A REPUTATION DIES

  The Rutherford Trilogy

  Book One

  Alice Chetwynd Ley

  ‘At ev’ry word a reputation dies.’

  —Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock

  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

  Lady Windlesham, like many another fashionable London hostess, wished her soirées to be considered more eventful than the general run of such affairs. But even she would not have desired anything so eventful as a murder.

  The London season of 1816 had scarcely begun, so it was highly unlikely that her entertainment would earn the accolade of being ‘a sad crush’. Nevertheless, quite a few eminent members of the ton were to be present. The guests were nearly all acquainted with each other, of course, as Town society consisted of a small, select circle meeting frequently at the same fashionable gatherings. The only new face, she reflected, would be Lord Velmond’s young bride, a girl from Somerset.

  She congratulated herself on having secured Mr Marmaduke Yarnton. He was much in demand; not because anyone liked the man, but his fund of malicious gossip and innuendo seldom failed to amuse a coterie avid for scandal. Mr Yarnton did not specialize in the larger scandals, such as the amours of Lord Byron, which were at present being exclaimed over in the drawing-rooms and providing heaven-sent material for the print shop caricaturists. Instead, he contented himself with humbler matters, which he ferreted out painstakingly by keeping a watchful eye on his acquaintance. A word dropped here, a look there, would intrigue the curious and sting the guilty, lending a welcome astringent touch to an otherwise conventional gathering.

  Among the early guests to arrive were Lord and Lady Velmond, the newlyweds.

  ‘So good of you to come,’ fluted Lady Windlesham.

  ‘Not at all, ma’am — good of you to invite us,’ replied Velmond, a personable young man in his early thirties, with brown hair swept into a fashionable Brutus style and clear, honest blue eyes. ‘Don’t believe you’ve met my wife? Lucy, Lady Windlesham.’

  Lucilla Velmond curtseyed while her hostess studied her. Not a day over nineteen and as pretty as report had promised. Pale gold hair framing a roses and cream complexion, a slender figure well set off by a discreetly décolleté gown of primrose silk, and the most unusual amber-coloured eyes. It was not so surprising that the wealthy young peer, for whom the Town’s matchmaking mamas had been on the catch for years, should have fallen victim to the charms of a penniless country girl. But such a girl as this!

  Oddly, though, the chit did not look too happy, as Lady Quainton, an old acquaintance, remarked later to her hostess.

  ‘There seems a little constraint between our lovebirds, wouldn’t you say, Maria? The child looks too pale and finedrawn. Undoubtedly it’s a love match on Velmond’s side, for why else should a man in his position take a dowerless bride from the depths of the country? But possibly she may have been persuaded into it against her inclination, for I hear her father and brother are quite done up. There may have been another young man in her own neighbourhood whom she’d have preferred. Though what girl in her senses would pass over such a handsome beau as Velmond for anyone else is more than I can comprehend!’

  Lady Windlesham, who still had an eye for a personable gentleman, agreed.

  Mr Henry Cleveland, MP and his wife Sophia had been quarrelling in the carriage on their way to the soirée. Mrs Cleveland was complaining bitterly about the retrenchments which had been made lately in their household affairs.

  ‘Why you should find it necessary to sell off half the cattle in your stables and reduce the numbers of indoor servants, I cannot at all understand!’ she snapped, with a toss of her expensively coiffed dark head which set the diamond drops in her ears glittering. ‘We can’t possibly be as purse-pinched as that!’

  ‘Can we not?’ he asked sardonically. ‘When your bureau drawer is stuffed as full as it can be with bills for gowns, pelisses and God knows what other items of female attire, enough to last you should you live to be an octogenarian! And not one of the damned things for less than a hundred guineas!’

  She stared at him coldly. ‘Do you suppose I should patronize the linen draper’s and make up my own gowns? As the wife of a member of His Majesty’s Government, I’ve a certain standard to maintain, you’ll allow. Besides, when has anyone worried over a few unpaid bills? You used not to be so — so clutch-fisted as you’ve become this past twelvemonth! I’m sure I’m at my wits’ end to account for it — unless,’ she added, spitefully, ‘it’s because you’re at that time of life when a man feels a certain malaise. Perhaps you should consult Dr Wetherby to see if a little blood-letting cannot cure you of these absurd megrims. I dare say he’ll be at Maria Windlesham’s this evening, so you can mention it to him.’

  Although in general doctors were considered to be on a social level with tradesmen, and therefore unlikely to be invited to ton parties, Dr Ralph Wetherby was, like the Prince Regent’s Sir William Knighton, an exception to the rule. He had built up a fashionable practice and a consequently affluent standard of living, so was everywhere received.

  Cleveland snorted. ‘Wetherby! I only wish it might be as simple as that. I tell you, Sophia, I’m rapidly going under the hatches, and unless I can find a way — but, God, what’s the use of trying to explain?’

  ‘I can only suppose you’ve been gaming,’ she replied with an impatient shrug, ‘though I must admit that I never realized deep play was among your vices. However, no doubt you’ll come about before long with Roderick’s assistance. If you take my advice, you’ll leave all your business affairs in his capable hands — he’s uncommon shrewd. Meantime, for pity’s sake let’s have no more of this unseemly pinching and scraping! I declare I’m quite worn down by it!’

  ‘You were not always so pleased with Peyton,’ retorted Cleveland. ‘After Cecilia came home from school, I recall that for a time you urged me to get rid of him, even though it was at your insistence that I employed him in the first place.’

  ‘Yes, well, that was because they began to be on far too easy terms for my liking, and I was afraid she might become attached to him — or fancy herself so! — as he’s a prodigiously personable young man, and she was at an impressionable age. But I spoke to her seriously on the subject, and fortunately she’s a sensible girl and quite saw that it would not do. Then it wasn’t long before her come-out when she met plenty of more eligible bachelors to give her thoughts a new direction and quickly contracted a very good match. So that objection to him is long past, and we may indeed be thankful that you’ve obtained such an excellent secretary at what can only be considered a most reasonable salary, even by your present penny-pinching standards!’

  Roderick Peyton was a talented young man with an ambition to eventually enter Parliament himself. His family were in reduced cir
cumstances, so on his coming down from Cambridge nearly three years before, he had been obliged to look about him for a means of earning a living. It chanced that Sophia Cleveland was very distantly related to Peyton’s mother, and an over-zealous cousin, always eager to promote the interests of even the remotest branches of her family, had nagged at Cousin Sophia until she had persuaded her husband to employ the luckless young man.

  Cleveland made no reply to all this but passed a weary hand over his brow. There was never any point in arguing with his wife, as long experience had taught him.

  Presently their carriage pulled up outside Lady Windlesham’s house, ablaze with lights and with two liveried footmen waiting at the top of the carpeted steps. The occupants of the chaise dismounted, schooling their expressions into something more nearly approaching the degree of cordiality expected of guests arriving for an evening’s entertainment.

  Eventually they entered the drawing-room, an elegant apartment in eau-de-nil and gold, already filled with chattering groups. Waiters circulated with liquid refreshment. Sophia Cleveland looked about her, noting which females of her acquaintance were wearing the same gown she had observed on a previous occasion and similar matters which might provide tit-bits of gossip. But she soon saw that she would be outdone, for among the groups moved Mr Yarnton, a mincing figure in formal evening dress, dropping his poisoned barbs with a cynical twist of his thin lips. Usually a ripple of laughter greeted his remarks, for he had a clever tongue and most people were only too ready to laugh at the follies of others. Some, however, had no taste for his style of witticism and turned contemptuously away at his approach.

  Beau Brummel made a late entrance, as usual. Lady Windlesham had hesitated over sending him an invitation, as his circumstances were now greatly changed. He had quarrelled with the Prince Regent some time since and was so deeply in debt that it was rumoured he would be obliged to run from his creditors any day. None of this showed, however, in his elegant appearance and cool manner. Having conferred the honour of his presence on the assembly, he left within twenty minutes, but not before Yarnton had managed to administer one of his stings.

  ‘I wonder,’ he asked of the small group surrounding the Beau, ‘who will advise Prinney on the cut of his coats now?’

  Smiles were hastily concealed. Everyone knew that before the quarrel, the Regent had often consulted Brummell on sartorial matters. If Yarnton had hoped to take a rise out of the erstwhile leader of fashion, he was to be disappointed. Brummell elevated his nose as if he had detected a particularly bad smell and continued his desultory conversation with those about him. He departed soon afterwards, and Yarnton moved to another part of the room.

  ‘Must admit,’ remarked a man in the group with a chuckle, ‘that chap Yarnton’s devilish amusin’, what? Always hits the nail on the head, don’t y’know.’

  ‘Aye, and one of these days I shouldn’t wonder if he’s hit on the head himself,’ replied another. ‘Like a demned wasp — needs swatting.’

  ‘Oh, no, don’t suppose anyone takes him seriously enough for that. Of course, one can’t like the fellow, exactly, but he does provide a little light relief at these affairs, what?’

  Lady Quainton had been joined by Lady Kinver, a widow of her own age whom she had known for many years. It did not escape Lady Quainton’s sharp eye that her friend looked a trifle peaky; but she wisely refrained from commenting on this, knowing that such remarks, however sympathetic, only made one feel worse.

  They exchanged family news for some time until they became drawn into a group consisting of the Clevelands, the Velmonds, a friend of Lord Velmond’s named William Bradfield, and Dr Wetherby. The gentlemen soon began talking together on male topics, leaving the ladies to chat among themselves.

  Mrs Cleveland was a compulsive talker, and the part required of the others was slight enough for Lady Quainton to leave the responses to her friend Lady Kinver after a time, so that she herself might concentrate on drawing out Lucilla Velmond. So far, the young bride had scarcely uttered a word.

  ‘Is this your first time in Town, Lady Velmond?’ she began, although she knew the answer.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ responded Lucy shyly.

  ‘Then you may find it a little trying at first, although you’ll soon grow accustomed. I dare say you frequently attended the assemblies in Bath, for I collect your home was near the town?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘No, ma’am, I have been very little used to going into company, I fear. There was no one to chaperone me. My mother died when I was a child, and I have no sisters.’

  Lady Quainton raised her brows in surprise.

  ‘But surely your father arranged for some older female companion for you?’ she asked mildly.

  Lucy hesitated. ‘My aunt, papa’s sister, manages the household. But she does not care for any kind of entertainment, except to provide dinners now and then for papa’s friends.’

  ‘Dear me, that sounds a dull life for a young girl! Still, doubtless you will make up for it now that you are married and living in Town.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Lucy in a doubtful tone.

  Lady Quainton laughed. ‘Oh, pray don’t be put off by the fact that you find yourself surrounded almost entirely by dowagers this evening! Once the season’s in full swing, you will meet some of the younger set and soon find friends of your own age.’

  Lucy’s face brightened. ‘I did meet a young lady the other day whom I liked extremely,’ she said with more animation. ‘She came to call on us with her parents, Viscount and Lady Rutherford. She is much about my own age. Are you at all acquainted with her, Lady Quainton?’

  ‘Anthea Rutherford, indeed I am! She’s an engaging puss, full of fun and gig! I’ve been intimate with the whole family for a very long time. The late Lady Rutherford — Anthea’s grandmother, you know — was a girlhood friend of mine. Her eldest son now holds the title. She had six offspring altogether, but my favourite is the youngest, my godson, Justin. You may have heard your husband speak of him, for they were up at Oxford together and have remained close friends ever since.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I have, ma’am. My husband —’ she coloured faintly at the words, somewhat to Lady Quainton’s amusement — ‘tells me that it is some time since he saw Mr Rutherford. It seems that the gentleman is out of England at present.’

  Lady Quainton chuckled. ‘One never quite knows where Justin will be or what he’ll be at! He may be deep in research in the Oxford libraries — he’s quite a scholar and has published a book on the architectural antiquities of Greece — or else grubbing around his dusty old ruins and generally poking his nose into trouble. Especially the latter! He’s not at all like the general run of academics. Every now and then, he feels an urge to take himself out of his books and plunge into some adventure or other. The last was when he acted as an intelligence officer for Wellington during the Peninsular campaign. He says he suffers from a consuming curiosity which now and then breaks out in unexpected directions. His family don’t quite know what to make of him — all except Anthea, that’s to say. She’s a good deal like him herself and frankly adores him! So absurd, don’t you think, a girl of nineteen with an uncle of three and thirty? But such oddities occur in large families.’

  Lucy, who had listened fascinated to this account, smiled.

  ‘You sound very fond of him yourself, ma’am.’

  ‘Why, so I am. I’ve no son of my own, you know, and I’m his godmother.’

  She broke off and looked up as a young man approached Mr Cleveland diffidently, evidently wishing to have a private word with him.

  ‘That’s young Peyton, Cleveland’s secretary,’ she informed Lucy in an undertone. ‘Do you not think him handsome, my dear?’

  Lucy studied the newcomer covertly. He was in his middle twenties, slender and fair-haired, with a classical cast of countenance. She was unwilling to think any man as handsome as her husband, but grudgingly nodded.

  He and Cleveland drew a little apart, conversing rapidly in undertones.
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  A mellifluous voice broke in upon the conversation of the four female members of the group.

  ‘Ah, my dear ladies, so far I have not had the pleasure of speaking with you, alas!’

  It was Yarnton who had joined them in his usual soft-footed manner. He bowed to each in turn, naming them as he did so.

  ‘Delightful to see you all in such bloom,’ he purred. ‘It is more than can be said of some ladies present, I fear. Do you suppose that Mrs Crathorne intends her hair to look so very — roseate — or is it an error made by an over-enthusiastic coiffeur? I cannot think it an improvement, can you, dear Mrs Cleveland? And your own coiffure such a perfect shade of black.’

  Sophia Cleveland flushed. She liked to think her artistic touches undetectable. But she was not going to give this man the satisfaction of knowing that he had piqued her, so she tittered dutifully at Mrs Crathorne’s expense.

  Yarnton moved farther into the circle, bowing in the direction of the gentlemen. They all responded correctly but without enthusiasm. Cleveland had finished his short conference with his secretary, and the latter was just about to turn away. He hesitated a moment as Yarnton spoke.

  ‘Matters of importance, gentlemen?’ asked Yarnton with raised eyebrows. ‘And at a soirée? But there, life is full of mysteries, is it not? One in particular has been exercising my mind a good deal of late. Pray can any of you…’ — he let his cynical glance travel round the entire group — ‘enlighten me as to who Mr Thompson may be?’

  Lady Quainton, her besetting sin of curiosity at once to the fore, cast a shrewd eye over her companions. Lady Kinver, who was next to her, gave a nervous start. Lucy turned pale, and surely Cleveland had momentarily registered a quickly suppressed reaction? The others frowned in what appeared to be bewilderment.

  ‘Well, who the deuce is he?’ demanded Velmond. ‘I for one never heard of the fellow. Come on, Yarnton, you may as well explain. This is another of your little jests, ain’t it?’