Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) by Lucinda Brant Page A
Authors: Lucinda Brant
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leave but Sir Charles detained him, a hand firmly on the upturned cuff of his frockcoat. Alec frowned down at that restraining hand and Sir Charles instantly removed it.
“We need to talk,” Sir Charles stated and when Alec merely raised his eyebrows, reminiscent of his mentor’s haughty treatment of him when he was displeased, he stumbled on, feeling slightly foolish. “To talk about the other night. Blackwell’s—what happened to him.”
“Blackwell’s death?”
Sir Charles nodded. “There’s been much gossip— whisperings —about it.”
“Not surprising, is it, given he up and died in the middle of your dinner party.”
“The gossip concerns you.” Sir Charles looked up then and was secretly pleased his friend was disconcerted. “Yes. Unrelenting, aren’t they? People can’t leave the past buried. Your brother’s unfortunate accident …”
Alec hoped his voice held a note of detachment. “I won’t discuss that here or anywhere.”
“Of course not,” Sir Charles said sympathetically. “You and I know, your friends know , that you couldn’t possibly have had a hand in Blackwell’s death, but that’s not what others think; what’s being whispered behind your back.”
“Indeed? You seem to have made it your business to know what others think, Charles.”
“And you seem to forget that it was in my house that the wretched man up and died!”
“I doubt anyone will forget that circumstance. Now, you must excuse me…”
“No!”
Alec turned and looked down at him.
Sir Charles went on in an under voice; too many powdered heads had turned in their direction for his liking. “We need to talk and soon. There are certain particulars, certain matters concerning Blackwell that I must discuss with you.”
Alec, too, saw the interest they were attracting.
“Not here. Not now,” he said impatiently and shouldered his way into the crowd waiting the unveiling of the draped canvas. He soon found himself just a few wide-hooped petticoats from the canvas itself.
The patroness of the exhibition was addressing the gathering. Talgarth Vesey, Gavin Hamilton and the two other painters whose works were displayed were standing at her side. Just to the right of them stood the small cluster of journalists, pencils at the ready, and the Duke of Cleveley with Selina Jamison-Lewis beside him. There was much laughter and applause, but Alec heard none of it. He was forcing himself to remain calm, but he could not stop himself from looking at Selina.
While chatting with her brother and introducing the Duke to him, out of the corner of her eye Selina saw Alec turn away and merge into the crowd. Later she watched as he put on his gold-rimmed spectacles to better view one of the many portraits in the assembled collection. The portrait just happened to be of herself, leaning a silk clad shoulder against the trunk of an elm, a broad-brimmed straw hat in her hand, its wide blue ribbon caught by the breeze. It had been painted a year ago.
She must have flinched because the Duke glanced at her, saying as soon as he could break conversation, “Do I sense a certain tense expectation, my dear? Rest easy. Your brother is a considerable talent. His first exhibition will be a resounding success. My being here will see to that.”
“I doubt Talgarth has a notion as to your social consequence, your Grace,” Selina said truthfully, which had the Duke’s fawning cronies gulping for air at her bluntness. “The shape of your face, yes; the length of your hands, that too, but as to your name and title, they are of supreme indifference to my little brother. I warned you, he hasn’t an ounce of social grace. But he does paint wonderful pictures, doesn’t he?”
Far from finding offence the Duke smiled. “That is why I came. You promised me wonderful pictures, and wonderful pictures they are.” He saw her gaze wander longingly across the room. “Shall I introduce you? Ah! But I forget. You are already known to Lord
“We need to talk,” Sir Charles stated and when Alec merely raised his eyebrows, reminiscent of his mentor’s haughty treatment of him when he was displeased, he stumbled on, feeling slightly foolish. “To talk about the other night. Blackwell’s—what happened to him.”
“Blackwell’s death?”
Sir Charles nodded. “There’s been much gossip— whisperings —about it.”
“Not surprising, is it, given he up and died in the middle of your dinner party.”
“The gossip concerns you.” Sir Charles looked up then and was secretly pleased his friend was disconcerted. “Yes. Unrelenting, aren’t they? People can’t leave the past buried. Your brother’s unfortunate accident …”
Alec hoped his voice held a note of detachment. “I won’t discuss that here or anywhere.”
“Of course not,” Sir Charles said sympathetically. “You and I know, your friends know , that you couldn’t possibly have had a hand in Blackwell’s death, but that’s not what others think; what’s being whispered behind your back.”
“Indeed? You seem to have made it your business to know what others think, Charles.”
“And you seem to forget that it was in my house that the wretched man up and died!”
“I doubt anyone will forget that circumstance. Now, you must excuse me…”
“No!”
Alec turned and looked down at him.
Sir Charles went on in an under voice; too many powdered heads had turned in their direction for his liking. “We need to talk and soon. There are certain particulars, certain matters concerning Blackwell that I must discuss with you.”
Alec, too, saw the interest they were attracting.
“Not here. Not now,” he said impatiently and shouldered his way into the crowd waiting the unveiling of the draped canvas. He soon found himself just a few wide-hooped petticoats from the canvas itself.
The patroness of the exhibition was addressing the gathering. Talgarth Vesey, Gavin Hamilton and the two other painters whose works were displayed were standing at her side. Just to the right of them stood the small cluster of journalists, pencils at the ready, and the Duke of Cleveley with Selina Jamison-Lewis beside him. There was much laughter and applause, but Alec heard none of it. He was forcing himself to remain calm, but he could not stop himself from looking at Selina.
While chatting with her brother and introducing the Duke to him, out of the corner of her eye Selina saw Alec turn away and merge into the crowd. Later she watched as he put on his gold-rimmed spectacles to better view one of the many portraits in the assembled collection. The portrait just happened to be of herself, leaning a silk clad shoulder against the trunk of an elm, a broad-brimmed straw hat in her hand, its wide blue ribbon caught by the breeze. It had been painted a year ago.
She must have flinched because the Duke glanced at her, saying as soon as he could break conversation, “Do I sense a certain tense expectation, my dear? Rest easy. Your brother is a considerable talent. His first exhibition will be a resounding success. My being here will see to that.”
“I doubt Talgarth has a notion as to your social consequence, your Grace,” Selina said truthfully, which had the Duke’s fawning cronies gulping for air at her bluntness. “The shape of your face, yes; the length of your hands, that too, but as to your name and title, they are of supreme indifference to my little brother. I warned you, he hasn’t an ounce of social grace. But he does paint wonderful pictures, doesn’t he?”
Far from finding offence the Duke smiled. “That is why I came. You promised me wonderful pictures, and wonderful pictures they are.” He saw her gaze wander longingly across the room. “Shall I introduce you? Ah! But I forget. You are already known to Lord
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