The Stuart Sapphire Read online

  Townsend stopped, thumped his fists together. ‘There we have it. That is our evidence. Does that sound to you like a note from a woman who was going to throw herself in the lake?’

  Handing the note back, Tam considered its significance. There was no point in mentioning that it could have been a note from a woman who had accidentally fallen into the lake.

  Continuing to walk with his head down and his hands behind his back in that familiar gesture, he said to Tam: ‘How came you by this note, may I ask?’

  ‘One of the footmen gave it to me when you were with Sir Joseph.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Townsend dismissively at what was obviously an unpleasant reminder. ‘We had better find out when the maid gave it to him for a start, and then we can continue our enquiries.’

  The note was not as difficult to track down as Townsend had imagined. Tam recognised the footman who said it was left on the hall table amongst the morning’s mail.

  ‘I think this makes it fairly obvious that her reason for wishing to speak to me must have concerned something she knew about the death of her mistress,’ said Townsend. ‘Sounds as if the killer knew and decided to shut her mouth for good.’

  Tam realised there was nothing in the note to hint that she was in danger, and it might well have been that she fancied a change of scene, and that the Bow Street officer would have had reliable London connections.

  Suddenly Townsend stopped and put his hand in his pocket. ‘Dropped my best silk handkerchief. Must have been at the stables. You head on—’ he said and hurried back the way they had come.

  Which was a piece of fortune for Tam, as at that moment Lady Gemma emerged from one of the adjoining paths.

  ‘I’ve been hoping to find you,’ she said. ‘At last!’

  She was at his side and, with his heart beating unaccountably fast as he looked down at her, longing to take her hand, he felt delighted at this encounter, so different from those other dreaded encounters in the Promenade Gardens with Princess Charlotte.

  ‘Let’s go to the summerhouse over there,’ she said. ‘We won’t be disturbed at this time of day.’

  The gazebo was prettily furnished with a comfortable sofa and tables, perfectly adapted, he realised, for assignations since the curtains could also be closed.

  ‘Do sit down, Mr – I mean, Tam, you are making me nervous,’ she said patting the sofa beside her and regarding him solemnly. ‘We may not have much time so where do I begin about Jem?’

  ‘Why not try the beginning?’ he asked dryly.

  She laughed. ‘As I said yesterday before we were interrupted, life had become intolerable here at Creeve. I couldn’t bear it any longer, especially the nightmare prospect of being married off against my will.’

  She shrugged. ‘From what I have seen of the married state, I would prefer to make my own choice – some day, perhaps! So I decided to go to London to my maternal grandmother who, it is true, I have rarely met over the years. But she has been kind and remembered my birthdays, so I was sure she would understand and make me welcome.

  ‘Alas, I had chosen the wrong time. She was away to Italy, I was told at the door, the house locked up with only this woman, the housekeeper and her husband, as caretakers. I was told, somewhat grudgingly I thought, yes, I could stay the night, but when I got up next morning, I was alone in the house. The two of them had disappeared – so had my luggage from the hall and all my money. In fact, the house had a rather bare look and I suspected that most of the silver and valuable contents were in the process of disappearing and I had interrupted thieves raiding the house.’

  She sighed. ‘There was I with nothing but the nightgown I was wearing and not a penny to pay for my next meal. I searched through empty cupboards but there was no food, but I did find a shirt and a pair of shabby breeches which had been discarded as worthless, probably by the gardener’s boy. Miraculously they fitted, after a fashion, so I sailed forth on London, to make my fortune,’ she added bitterly.

  ‘I decided that I would fare better as a boy, trying to get some menial job with enough to live on until my grandmother’s return, than a girl wearing only a nightgown. The answer to the latter, I am sure, would have been pretty obvious and street-walking was not an alternative I relished. I wandered about for a whole day and in Covent Garden, desperately hungry, I took a loaf of bread from a stall.’

  She sighed. ‘From my sheltered life at Creeve, I had no idea of the consequences of stealing a loaf of bread. The woman was furious, called a watchman who was walking by and I was arrested, thrown into a horrible jail where I had to fight off the advances of some dreadful men who were fellow prisoners. Then the very next day, there were trials on the go, and I was sentenced to transportation to the colonies.

  ‘I could hardly believe the injustice of it all. You know the rest. I was put aboard the convict ship in chains but fortunately my ankles and wrists were so thin that I managed to wriggle out of them and get on deck, desperately thinking of a way to escape, as I couldn’t swim.’

  She stopped and turned to him. ‘And then – there you were.’

  ‘Do go on,’ said Tam.

  She shook her head and said in bewildered tones: ‘I was told yesterday that you are an Edinburgh lawyer, a survivor off the Royal Stuart, the ship that sank after we were escaping from the hulks.’

  Hand on chin, she surveyed him intently, awaiting some comment. When none was forthcoming, Tam staring steadily across the lake, she said softly: ‘But that is a lie, is it not, Tam Eildor? You certainly were not a passenger on any ship, you were in the water in that little boat with me when we saw it go down.’

  Tam was searching for some convincing but non-committal words, when Gemma continued in a voice that now held caution and a touch of fear. ‘Tell me, how did you do it?’

  ‘Do what?’ he asked with a smile he hoped was innocent.

  ‘Do what?’ she repeated sharply. ‘You know perfectly well. How did you get on to the hulks? Just – just suddenly appear like that – out of nowhere.’

  She sounded scared now and he tried to make light of it. ‘What exactly had you in mind?’

  She shook her head. ‘I was hiding, carefully watching those two men who had come on deck in search of me, deciding what to do next. There was no one else on that part of the deck – only them and me. Then suddenly there was something—’ She frowned, ‘like a bit of light, the blink of an eye – and there you were, sitting against the bulwark. It was lucky for me that they were more interested in you and the boots you were wearing.’

  There was silence and then puzzlement, and perhaps still rather frightened, she said: ‘Where did you come from and how on earth did you do it, Tam Eildor?’

  He took her hand, smiled and said: ‘It was a trick I learned, I’ll tell you all about it sometime.’

  ‘Why not now?’ she demanded. ‘And why a convict ship, of all places?’ she added, pulling her hand free in an impatient gesture.

  ‘Listen, Gemma, I saved your life. You owe me that and all I ask is that you trust me. You didn’t seem to do that when we met in Brighton. You took to your heels fast enough, as if you had plenty to hide.’

  ‘And so I had. I didn’t want to be sent back to my stepmother’s tender mercies.’

  ‘How did you get to Brighton then?’ he asked.

  ‘I was going to ask the same of you. An amazing coincidence, wasn’t it, us both turning up at the Old Ship like that—’

  Looking out of the gazebo, Tam saw Townsend approaching on the road that would take him past the summerhouse.

  ‘I’m supposed to be helping that gentleman out there solve a murder,’ he said briskly. ‘Our little talk will have to wait until later, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Don’t think you can get away from Creeve without telling me,’ she said shortly. ‘I have friends in Brighton, too.’

  Seizing her hand, he kissed it. ‘I wouldn’t dream of leaving without seeing you again. You are lovely, dear Gemma – and I much prefer you to young Jem.’
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br />   She blushed, and as he was stepping into the garden she asked: ‘What do you know about Lord Henry Fitzgeorge, by the way?’

  Turning, he said: ‘Not a lot. He’s the Prince Regent’s son. Why?’

  She laughed. ‘He has just asked my father for my hand in marriage. All based on us having met at supper last night.’

  ‘Are you going to accept Lord Henry then?’ Tam, suddenly angry and jealous, was sure he had not disguised the anxiety in his voice.

  She looked at him and smiled slowly. There was no mistaking a woman’s coquetry this time. ‘I haven’t really had time to think about it, but I might.’

  As he walked quickly to catch up with Townsend, with feelings towards Lord Henry that were far from friendly, he decided that Lady Gemma was learning fast how to become a woman of her time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tam hurried towards Townsend, his thoughts with Gemma, exquisite in her white muslin dress with its fashionable Paisley shawl. How lovely she was, how could anyone have been idiot enough (meaning himself, in particular) to mistake her for a boy?

  So engrossed was he in recriminations, he failed to see Lord Henry who had been lurking about the vicinity of the summerhouse. Hoping to see Gemma and acquaint her with the results of his interview with her father, he was somewhat aggrieved to see her in the company of Mr Eildor, consoling himself that the lawyer perhaps had some legal matter to discuss, a possible legacy from her late stepmother’s will.

  However, as the minutes passed, sudden bursts of merriment from within the summerhouse suggested less of a lawyer on urgent business than an intimacy based on more than a first acquaintance at Lady Sarah’s funeral.

  Checking his pocket watch, frowning, with increasing feelings of suspicion, disquiet and jealousy, he strained to hear more than the indistinct murmur of conversation, impatient at being kept waiting since his interview with Sir Joseph had been even more successful than he could have ever anticipated.

  Stammering out his request, Henry had found Gemma’s father most amenable. Beaming upon him, he had shaken him by the hand in a most sincere manner.

  ‘By all means, young fellow, ask Gemma and if she raises any objections, I think I can deal with them,’ Sir Joseph added grimly, certain that no girl in her right mind (but could that be said of Gemma?) would dream of turning down such a catch.

  Besides, he wanted rid of her as soon as possible, any excuse would do. He had allowed himself to be persuaded by Sarah’s whispers, tantrums and tears that That Girl was No Good and, having made up his mind years ago, he was not prepared to change it now. But her presence did arouse uneasy feelings of guilt, that he had never ever loved her. She was a blot on his conscience. All his love and devotion belonged to Timothy.

  The boy had screamed when Gemma came near him, a tribute to Sarah’s influence, and as Sir Joseph heard his bedtime prayers only last night, whispering ‘Amen’ he said: ‘When is That Girl going, Pa? I don’t like her much.’

  And what Timothy wanted, Timothy got as far as his doting father was concerned. There was another reason too for jubilation at Lord Henry’s proposal. As a favoured acquaintance of Prince George, Sir Joseph was selfish enough to consider the social advantages of such a royal alliance, even with a bastard son of the Prince Regent, and, although not greatly endowed with imagination, he could not fail to relish the prospect of a wedding in Westminster Cathedral.

  When Henry left, blushing and still stammering his thanks, Sir Joseph had called Gemma to his study. Greeted with a fond smile, he tried not to wince or push her away as she offered to kiss his cheek.

  Something deep inside recognised that this was a time ripe for reconciliation but he could not make the right move. He was awkward with her, always had been from the first days when she was handed to him, a tiny bundle of lace shawls. Never knowing what to say or what was expected of him, bitterly resentful with a wife dead giving her birth, when she was not the son he craved. He had never loved her, not even before Timothy.

  ‘Please take a seat, Gemma.’

  She looked at him, still smiling, her eyes full of affectionate regard.

  ‘How long are you staying with us?’

  ‘As long as you need me, Father,’ she said softly.

  He looked away, embarrassed. He did not need her or anyone else in the world, as long as he had Timothy, his joy and his life.

  ‘Have you any plans for the future?’ he asked.

  Gemma recognised his embarrassment and said gently: ‘Not at all.’ That wasn’t quite true but she asked: ‘How long would you like me to stay?’ hoping he would say: ‘I love you, my darling girl. I would like you to stay forever, all the past forgotten, we could start anew.’

  Instead she saw only his cold face as he shrugged: ‘As you wish.’ And rubbing his knuckles, a gesture she remembered from childhood when there were disciplinary matters ahead, he said: ‘The reason I asked you to come and see me so urgently is because—’ Pausing, he took a deep breath, ‘because Lord Henry Fitzgeorge has asked for your hand.’

  There was a pause from Gemma this time. ‘My hand—’ she looked at her fingers, clenched her fist. Bewildered, she repeated: ‘My hand?’

  ‘Yes, your hand – in marriage,’ he said shortly. ‘Silly girl, he wants to marry you.’

  Gemma sprang from her chair and stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. ‘But – but I hardly know him. We only met at supper last night – we talked politely—’

  ‘Whatever you talked about must have impressed him enough to ask for you.’ Sir Joseph sounded cynical, losing patience rapidly, afraid there might be a trick in this stroke of fortune. It was too good to be true that the Prince Regent’s son wanted to marry this skinny, plain girl who had no bosom and looked like an immature boy.

  ‘Well, what have you to say to that?’ he demanded.

  Gemma shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to say, Father.’

  Sir Joseph drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and continued to regard her dispassionately. How could any man want to bed this slip of a girl? The thought aroused visions of his voluptuous Sarah and he sighed. He would never find her like again.

  ‘You might at least show some gratitude,’ he said huffily.

  Head on side she regarded him. ‘Gratitude – for what?’ she asked quietly.

  He stabbed a finger at her. ‘Gratitude and honour that the son of the future King of England wants to marry you. That should be enough for any girl. Even for you,’ he added sourly.

  ‘So – I’m to be sold to the highest bidder, am I?’

  Sir Joseph made an impatient gesture. ‘You’ll never get such a chance again, I can assure you, if you turn this one down.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Chance of a lifetime – women all over the country would give their eye teeth to marry the Prince Regent’s son.’

  ‘Which would not be a pretty sight,’ she said acidly.

  He stared at her blankly. It was his turn to be bewildered and angry. Sarah had been right. He seemed to hear her voice: ‘That Girl was born an idiot, an ungrateful idiot after all we have done for her.’

  ‘I will think about it, Father. Now may I be excused?’ And with a swift curtsey which somehow seemed more mockery than politeness, she was gone.

  Gemma went up to her room, trying to remember the events of the funeral supper, trying to recall anything interesting about Lord Henry’s table conversation. All she remembered was smiling and saying ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in what she hoped were the right places while all the time watching Tam Eildor across the table and wishing, wishing she had been placed beside him.

  Tam Eildor, her rescuer from a watery grave, that intriguing man of mystery. There were a lot of questions with answers only he could provide. Afraid that if she did not see him before he left with Townsend they might never meet again, she had laughed at yet another of Lord Henry’s outrageously flattering remarks, of which she had heard not one word.

  Obviously she should have paid more attention, for she had in
her distraction and anxiety to be polite quickened some masculine desire strong enough to make him want to marry her. Trying now to get him into perspective, all she could remember was her first impression of a resurrected young George, Prince of Wales, from those flattering early portraits. She had thought with some amusement that given the Court lifestyle of over-indulgence in wine and women he would probably run to fat and gouty middle age.

  She sighed. That was last night. Today her world had changed, and looking into the secrets of her heart, she knew where her love lay, doomed and too late as, watching Tam striding down the path, remembering their conversation and his angry comments, she gathered up her shawl and prepared to leave the summerhouse.

  She found Lord Henry before her, framed in the doorway, bowing and smiling.

  He was the last person she wanted to see at that moment and, after a polite greeting, a curtsey and wishing him good day, she expected him to stand aside. But Henry was not in the least intimidated by her somewhat frosty reception, that is, if he even noticed it was a little on the cool side.

  He was not to be put off. As she approached him, he grasped her hand firmly; his was cold and clammy, even on a warm summer morning.

  Nerves, anxiety, poor creature, Gemma thought with a shudder, remembering other more agreeable hands – Tam’s, so warm, so – everything.

  Lord Henry was fondling her fingers. How extraordinary. ‘You would make me the happiest of men.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Gemma said breathlessly, unable to think of anything that would not hint at encouragement.

  ‘I have spoken to your father. I believe he has spoken to you – I have his permission—’ All this came out in a rush as he dropped on one knee before her on the dusty summerhouse floor. Those white trousers, she thought, they would never recover from this onslaught.

  ‘Please, I beg you, Lady Gemma. Say you will be my wife and I will be the happiest man in the entire world.’

  Gemma stared down on his head. Brown curls, like the Prince’s portraits. Not a bad-looking fellow, but about as enticing as Michelangelo’s statue of David in Florence. Less really, she thought in a moment’s frivolity.