Jane and the Wandering Eye by Stephanie Barron Read Free Book Online Page A

short, it was
planned?”
    “It was.”
    “Capital! And how long did you spend in prating and posing?”
    “Mr. Elliot!”
    “Oh, God’s breath—answer the question, man!”
    Hugh Conyngham’s air of contempt deepened visibly. “I should judge that I spoke for no less than five, and no more than ten, minutes, sir.”
    “During which time Mr. Portal met his end.”
    “So we must assume.”
    “Any cries? Any scuffle?”
    “Nothing of the sort—until, that is, Lord Kinsfell entered the room.”
    Mr. Elliot heaved a sigh, and threw his corpulent frame onto the settee. It creaked beneath his weight. One blunt-fingered hand caressed his chins, and the other lay limp upon his knee. He seemed to be waiting for something—divine inspiration? But no—it was the return of the constable named Shaw. The man appeared and claimed the magistrate’s attention.
    “Well, my good fellow? Was our Devil’s imp observed?”
    Constable Shaw shook his head. In so anxious a moment, the gesture
must
be eloquent. I felt my hopes to sink.
    “Lord Kinsfell!”
    The Knight inclined his head.
    “You persist in refusing to offer some explanation for your conduct?”
    The Marquis’s colour was high, and I detected the effects of anxiety in his countenance. “I do not understand you, Mr. Elliot. I have offered the only possible explanation under the circumstances.”
    “Rot!” The magistrate grunted, and slapped his knees with decision. “Very well—come along with you, my lord.”
    “I beg your pardon, sir?”
    “To the gaol!”
    The Dowager Duchess cried out with horror, and staggered at her granddaughter’s shoulder. Lady Desdemona’s arm came up in support, but she uttered not a word.
    “I am very sorry, Your Grace,” the magistrate continued, “but there it is—we must have Lord Kinsfell along to the gaol! For one man is dead, as you will observe, and another must pay for it; and in the absence of the unseen fellow at the window, I cannot think that anyone will do nearly so well as his lordship!”
    “But I am innocent!” the Marquis cried.
    “Perhaps you are, my lord,” Mr. Elliot responded kindly. “Perhaps, indeed, you are. But what does that signify, if you cannot possibly prove it?”

Chapter 3
The Tiger Rampant
     
    12 December 1804, cont.
~
    I AWOKE THIS MORNING RATHER LATER THAN IS MY WONT , being entirely overset by the events of last evening and the weariness of my return from Laura Place. Thus I made my way to the breakfast-room in every expectation of finding it quite deserted. But here presentiment failed me—for at the sound of my step upon the threshold, the assembled Austens each turned a countenance suffused with false innocence. From their eager looks it was apparent that word of the murder had preceded me.
    “Well, my love!” my mother cried, waving her napkin with some animation, “make haste! Make haste! We have been expecting you this quarter-hour. I will not be satisfied until I have heard it from your own lips. A lovers’ quarrel, so Mr. Austen’s paper says, but with theatre people, it might have been as much a joke as anything. There is no accounting for an actor’s taste.”
    “Although in this instance,” I observed, as I pulled back my chair, “it is the manager who is dead.”
    “There, now!” My mother rapped the table triumphantly.“And so we cannot hope ever to learn the truth of the matter from
him.
All dispute is at an end. But I cannot be entirely mute upon the subject, Jane. I cannot turn so blind an eye to the comportment of my youngest daughter.
How
you can find diversion in such a business—”
    “Diversion, ma’am?”
    “You have a decided predilection for violence, my dear, and if the habit does not alter, no respectable gentleman will consider you twice. Only reflect,” she admonished, with a pointed gesture from her butter knife—“you are
not
growing any younger, Jane.”
    “Nor are we any of us.”
    “Jane, dear, let me pour out your chocolate,”