Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) by Lucinda Brant
Authors: Lucinda Brant
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My sister Selina, Mrs. Jamison-Lewis.”
“Sorry to disoblige but I’m going out of town tomorrow afternoon; into Kent and then on to Bath,” Alec said without disappointment.
“Come in the morning then. Even better you’ll be in Bath. My studio’s in Milsom Street.” The painter smiled self-consciously. “I make a living from portraiture mainly: ambitious mammas with lovely daughters, and stout, little old ladies with ugly pooches.”
“I can’t promise I’ll sit to you, but I will look you up.”
Talgarth Vesey nodded, handed Alec a card engraved with his name and Bath studio direction and disappeared into the crowd to be accosted by an over-enthusiastic mamma with her tall daughter in tow.
Not a moment after the painter’s departure Alec found himself nudged in the ribs. Lord George had sidled up to him again.
“Looks right at home beside the Duke, don’t she?” he sneered. “Thinks she’s in with a chance now Mamma’s dead. Ha! Not if I have any say in the matter. Father can open her legs as wide as he pleases but as to marriage— never .”
Alec hid his complete surprise at such crude speech and followed the direction of Lord George’s sneer to where the Duke of Cleveley and Selina Jamison-Lewis stood talking with Talgarth Vesey and Lady Cobham. Alec’s gaze held on Selina. He had resisted the temptation to go to her since sliding into the room and disappearing behind a wall of silks and perfume. More than once he had glanced over at her and wished he had not. She was completely at ease with the Duke, and the way she occasionally touched his silk sleeve with a smile and he responded in kind indicated they were old friends. She looked for all the world as if she belonged at the great man’s side. Less than a month ago she had belonged to Alec.
“There is the small problem of the Viscountess’s husband,” Alec pointed out, finally tearing his gaze from the object of his love and desire to look up at a canvas, its subject an inconsequential blur of color and light.
“Not Caro, man!” Lord George said with a snort of laughter, thinking Alec’s mistake a great joke. He nudged Alec again (who wished he would stop doing that), and said with another snort, “The widow. I’m talking about the widow : Mrs. J-L.” He lowered his voice and breathed stale wine in Alec’s ear. “Rumor has it she’s opened her legs more times in the months since her husband’s death than in all her six years of marriage. But if she thinks lettin’ the Duke spread ’em wide will end in a proposal of marriage she’s got feathers in her pretty head.” He slurped at the wine in his glass saying as a drop dribbled down his fleshy chin, glazed eyes riveted to Selina’s narrow back, “That bitch’d be worth a dose of the pox.”
Before Alec could demand that Lord George step outside to repeat such outrageous slander he was ruthlessly pulled backwards into a windowless alcove and a glass of claret forced between his fingers.
“Sorry. Couldn’t allow you to strike him,” Sir Charles Weir said on a quick breath, a glance over his shoulder to ensure Lady Cobham had Lord George in hand. She was coaxing him into the next room. Satisfied, Sir Charles turned to Alec with a deprecating smile. “Don’t want to see an old friend end up in Green Park at dawn. Besides,” he said with a nervous laugh, “you’d have killed him.”
Alec drank the claret. “I don’t thank you for this, Charles.”
“Perhaps not now, but you will. Calling Stanton out would’ve been the ruin of your career. His Grace’d see to that.”
Alec stared at him, still in a white-hot temper. “I wonder, Charles: Did you intervene on my behalf or to save Cleveley the embarrassment of seeing his drunkard stepson worsted in a one-sided duel? You really must cut the leading strings.”
Sir Charles glanced down at the claret in his glass. “Surely she isn’t worth your career?”
Alec thrust his empty glass at Sir Charles and went to
“Sorry to disoblige but I’m going out of town tomorrow afternoon; into Kent and then on to Bath,” Alec said without disappointment.
“Come in the morning then. Even better you’ll be in Bath. My studio’s in Milsom Street.” The painter smiled self-consciously. “I make a living from portraiture mainly: ambitious mammas with lovely daughters, and stout, little old ladies with ugly pooches.”
“I can’t promise I’ll sit to you, but I will look you up.”
Talgarth Vesey nodded, handed Alec a card engraved with his name and Bath studio direction and disappeared into the crowd to be accosted by an over-enthusiastic mamma with her tall daughter in tow.
Not a moment after the painter’s departure Alec found himself nudged in the ribs. Lord George had sidled up to him again.
“Looks right at home beside the Duke, don’t she?” he sneered. “Thinks she’s in with a chance now Mamma’s dead. Ha! Not if I have any say in the matter. Father can open her legs as wide as he pleases but as to marriage— never .”
Alec hid his complete surprise at such crude speech and followed the direction of Lord George’s sneer to where the Duke of Cleveley and Selina Jamison-Lewis stood talking with Talgarth Vesey and Lady Cobham. Alec’s gaze held on Selina. He had resisted the temptation to go to her since sliding into the room and disappearing behind a wall of silks and perfume. More than once he had glanced over at her and wished he had not. She was completely at ease with the Duke, and the way she occasionally touched his silk sleeve with a smile and he responded in kind indicated they were old friends. She looked for all the world as if she belonged at the great man’s side. Less than a month ago she had belonged to Alec.
“There is the small problem of the Viscountess’s husband,” Alec pointed out, finally tearing his gaze from the object of his love and desire to look up at a canvas, its subject an inconsequential blur of color and light.
“Not Caro, man!” Lord George said with a snort of laughter, thinking Alec’s mistake a great joke. He nudged Alec again (who wished he would stop doing that), and said with another snort, “The widow. I’m talking about the widow : Mrs. J-L.” He lowered his voice and breathed stale wine in Alec’s ear. “Rumor has it she’s opened her legs more times in the months since her husband’s death than in all her six years of marriage. But if she thinks lettin’ the Duke spread ’em wide will end in a proposal of marriage she’s got feathers in her pretty head.” He slurped at the wine in his glass saying as a drop dribbled down his fleshy chin, glazed eyes riveted to Selina’s narrow back, “That bitch’d be worth a dose of the pox.”
Before Alec could demand that Lord George step outside to repeat such outrageous slander he was ruthlessly pulled backwards into a windowless alcove and a glass of claret forced between his fingers.
“Sorry. Couldn’t allow you to strike him,” Sir Charles Weir said on a quick breath, a glance over his shoulder to ensure Lady Cobham had Lord George in hand. She was coaxing him into the next room. Satisfied, Sir Charles turned to Alec with a deprecating smile. “Don’t want to see an old friend end up in Green Park at dawn. Besides,” he said with a nervous laugh, “you’d have killed him.”
Alec drank the claret. “I don’t thank you for this, Charles.”
“Perhaps not now, but you will. Calling Stanton out would’ve been the ruin of your career. His Grace’d see to that.”
Alec stared at him, still in a white-hot temper. “I wonder, Charles: Did you intervene on my behalf or to save Cleveley the embarrassment of seeing his drunkard stepson worsted in a one-sided duel? You really must cut the leading strings.”
Sir Charles glanced down at the claret in his glass. “Surely she isn’t worth your career?”
Alec thrust his empty glass at Sir Charles and went to
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