The Lord's Fatal Mistake: The Discreet Investigations of Lord and Lady Calaway, #5

By Issy Brooke

Lord and Lady Lassiter are young, minted and living the high life in the Bohemian artistic circles of London. It's Christmas, 1893, and the excitement of a new millennium is already gathering pace. New opportunities! New ways of living! An end to stuffiness and convention!

But society and business are still controlled by the old guard. Where there is money, there is power. And where there is both, there must be corruption. Lord Lassiter chooses the wrong friends and he quickly finds himself ensnared in a criminal gang within the sophisticated world of art fakes and forgeries.

He begs his father-in-law, Lord Calaway, for help to get him out. Theodore agrees, but no sooner than they begin their investigation, the main player is killed.

Now they're all involved but this is a far more dangerous world than anything Theodore has known before. He needs all his wits about him. Adelia, Lady Calaway, is at his side but they've made powerful enemies who will stop at nothing to keep control of their secrets.

Will he have to choose between justice – and his family's safety?

This is the fifth book in the series called The Discreet Investigations of Lord and Lady Calaway. It is written by an actual Brit, so it may contain unfamiliar spellings, vocabulary and grammatical structures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Issy Brooke
• Release date: Aug 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9798201034276

Book preview

1

London, December 1893

"N o. I shall not go and you cannot make me." The Dowager Countess Grace stamped her foot and pouted.

Adelia, the Countess of Calaway, burst out laughing at the sight of the elderly lady throwing such a childish fit. She addressed her recalcitrant mother-in-law with fondness and a certain amount of exasperation as she said, Oh, my dearest Grace, whatever are we to do with you? You are behaving for all the world like a small child who is refusing to come down to the dinner table to say goodnight before bed.

Grace was unrepentant. She may have been well into her eightieth year but she stood upright and almost straight-backed. She flapped one gnarled hand in the air with disdain. Lady Purfleet is simply a monster dressed up in paint and lace, though none of you seem able to see it, she declared. She deliberately sent the invitation to me so that it would arrive inconsiderately late – in fact, I did not receive it until this morning. This very morning! And she cannot blame the post. You received your invitation two weeks ago. Can you not see the slight? It is deliberate, I tell you. It is an insult.

The argument was being conducted in the high-ceilinged drawing room of an elegant townhouse in central London. Adelia and her husband Theodore were staying with their daughter Charlotte Lassiter. She was married to Robert Lassiter, heir to the fortunes of the Earl of Mareham. As the good old earl was still stubbornly and heartily living, Robert had only his courtesy titles to decorate his name if he chose, and very few actual occupations or responsibilities to fill his time. Robert and Charlotte – Lottie to her friends – seemed to have spent the first few years of their married life enjoying a ceaseless whirl of parties, holidays, shooting expeditions, balls and soirees.

Indeed, so busy had they been with their high life, Adelia had barely heard from Charlotte in years. She’d encountered her briefly a few months previously but had hardly had a chance to speak to her daughter before Charlotte had disappeared from sight at a party. Therefore Adelia had been shocked to receive a letter inviting her to stay with the Lassiters in London during Christmas and to take part in the social gatherings of the festive season.

Lady Purfleet is not a monster, Adelia said. She is reserved in her ways, I grant you, but I admire her reticence. She is never drawn into gossip and that is to be commended. Aha! That is why you won’t come. You are an unrepentant gossip – you cannot deny it. Whereas she is not so inclined. She provides no fuel for your fires. Adelia grinned at her mother-in-law. She had already had one festive glass of sherry and perhaps that was a mistake. It had loosened her tongue.

Grace frowned. Before she could issue a retort, the door opened and a few other members of the family came in. Charlotte entered first. She was a glittering vision of youth and elegant frivolity, dripping with jewels and wearing a low-cut dress that seemed to show altogether too much shoulder. Behind her was the dashing Robert, dressed in a quasi-military style for the evening, lacking only a rapier or sabre to complete the effect. Theodore looked almost parochial as he brought up the rear. The cut of his dinner jacket was perfect, the trimming of his beard was precise, but alongside the modern and sophisticated vibrancy of his son-in-law and daughter, he looked like a crumbling ancient relic from the mid-century.

Oh dear, thought Adelia. And what might that suggest of my own appearance? She had been so very busy lately, and had not caught up with fashions or the latest modes. In fact, over the past month, she felt that her world had narrowed to routine and predictability.

But she had no time to sink into self-conscious reflection. Charlotte bounced around with energetic enthusiasm, already deep into her third glass of sherry, and Grace grumbled and moaned and left the house, saying she was going to retire early to bed. Almost instantly, the carriage was announced and soon they were rumbling the short distance through the packed streets to the evening dinner party at Lady Purfleet’s house. It would have been far quicker to have walked there.

But appearances, in London, were absolutely everything.

There were thirty guests that evening, and Adelia noticed immediately that a place had not been set for Grace, the Dowager Countess. So Lady Purfleet had known all along that Grace would not attend even though Grace had not bothered to reply to the invitation. But of course, Grace had known Lady Purfleet’s mother and had seen more of Lady Purfleet herself than Adelia ever had. Perhaps the older lady did know a little more about what lay behind the perfectly placid face of the tall, willowy Lady Purfleet.

Adelia had been seated next to a young man who did not speak to her, as his attention was focused entirely on the beauty to his other side. Her other dining partner was a man of mature years who knew how to behave more properly, and he quickly engaged her in courteous conversation.

So, are you an art lover like the rest of them here, Lady Calaway? he asked. I am aware that your background grants you a great deal of knowledge, but that does not necessarily mean that you must have a love of the subject.

She smiled. He was politely alluding to her once-great family’s business of galleries which had plummeted from favour and been lost to bankruptcy and ruin, decades ago. Once upon a time, her family had attended to royalty, and been called upon to offer artistic advice to the highest in society. But Pegsworth’s were no longer trading and few people, these days, even remembered the name that had been built up over generations.

Such loss no longer pained her and she could speak about it without embarrassment. She said, My knowledge is all about the old years and past painters, sir, and my love for art is likewise fossilised. Tell me, who are the names that I ought to know about now, so that I do not disgrace myself in company and seem ignorant? The Pre-Raphaelites, those young hot-heads, were all the rage when I was young. What of them these days? They must be old news now.

Well, Burne-Jones is still churning them out, his ladies and his knights, all wearing an identical face of utter boredom which is rather what I feel when I see yet another one of them. Millais’s not doing too badly. Shown some pretty landscapes lately. That woman of his has changed him.

His current wife used to be married to Ruskin, didn’t she?

Ha! Yes, indeed! They’re all married in one way or another to each other, and it’s like a constantly changing carousel. But artists can get away with that sort of thing, I suppose. His eyes twinkled. I do not shock you, I see.

I am too old to be shocked.

"You should come to some of the parties they hold. Not the ones of the old guard like Millais, of course – they’re past all that. I imagine they sit around and rub liniment into their knees while demanding hot cocoa. But there’s a constant little circle of new students and wide-eyed hopefuls. Not just artists, but sculptors and writers too. Bohemians, they’ve been dubbed."

I’ve heard the term. I may not be easily shocked, Adelia said. But I do have my limits. I am aware of the excesses of the modern youth but have no interest in lowering myself to becoming associated with these Bohemian sorts. She smiled to soften her admonishment.

Good point. Anyway, as to what’s new, if you like landscapes – and who doesn’t? – the stuff coming out of France is worth a look. Cezanne and a chap called Manet, they’re jolly interesting. Do avoid Gauguin if you feel sensitive.

Ah, I saw a Gauguin when I was last in London. I do like his … richness and use of colour.

Know much about the fellow’s habits?

No…

Good job he’s over in Tahiti, that’s all I will say. Don’t enquire too deeply, my lady. Now, if you want to be very much in the know, you need to find out about the artist known as Lord H.

Oh, how intriguing! Adelia said. Who is he, really?

That’s exactly it. No one knows! It’s awfully thrilling. He could be here, this very night. He paused and looked around dramatically.

Is he?

"I have no idea. It is said that Lady Purfleet knows who he is, or she claims to know, though everyone claims to know something – in fact, she has one of his paintings in her drawing room. You will see it later. I suppose some of the dealers know, or perhaps they wish that they knew. It’s said that he is a high-ranking noble and cannot possibly reveal his talents without bringing shame upon his family."

Nonsense! said Adelia. Plenty of aristocrats dabble, dawb or scribble. Even the Princess Louise paints in a tolerable way.

But he makes rather good money from it. That’s the difference. He’s no longer a gentleman amateur. One loses respectability when one makes a living from such doings. Although I agree with you that the secrecy is part of the allure, and adds a nought to his price tag, I am sure.

The woman who was sitting across the table from them had been unashamedly listening to them. She leaned forward, making eye contact, and Adelia nodded, inviting her to join in. Talk turned to the scandalous death of the sculptor Sir Joseph Boehm – it had happened three years previously, but the presence of the Princess Louise, the Queen’s own daughter, in his studio when he died meant that the gossip was going to run for a good while yet, especially as the princess was still being linked in gossip to other men. Her husband was usually away in Canada and she was running around the artistic circles of London, probably pursued by equerries having to pay everyone off to keep it all out of the papers.

Artistic circles, thought Adelia. Hotbeds of scandal and gossip. I shan’t put a foot near those people, she vowed.

After the meal, while the men stayed at the table and drank their port, the women wandered off to the drawing room and Lady Purfleet did an excellent job as hostess as she mingled and made careful introductions between people whom she thought would enjoy one another’s company. Adelia was looking around for someone that she had met a few days’ previously, but she was surprised that she could not find her. She realised she hadn’t seen her at the table either.

Lady Purfleet materialised. My dear Lady Calaway, for what or for whom are you looking?

I was given to understand that Mrs Manning would be here.

Lady Purfleet was tall and elegant, and her face showed a very narrow range of emotions. She gave the impression that she had been hewn from marble as she said, Mrs Manning found that she was better engaged elsewhere. Have you enough wine there? No, you must have a top-up. Now, come and sit with the honourable Mrs Llewellyn – you know her, of course; everyone with the slightest interest in social reform will admire her…

Adelia had no choice but to follow Lady Purfleet to a small group of women hanging onto Mrs Llewellyn’s every softly-spoken word, and before she had even sat down, Lady Purfleet had melted away.

Curious, thought Adelia. Mrs Manning had clearly done some wrong, which was a surprise, and Adelia wondered what on earth her transgression could be.

Actually, it’s not bad at all, Adelia said later as she stood in front of the portrait that was attributed to the enigmatic Lord H. It was a large piece in oils, and depicted a beautiful young woman in some kind of white robe which was probably supposed to be Roman though Adelia did doubt that the average Roman lady could have gone about her daily business with so much drapery flapping about. It would be endlessly snagging on things and getting trapped in doors. Still, if all one did was recline prettily on couches, it did at least hint at a semblance of modesty, as long as there wasn’t a draught to lift the edges of the fabric.

Charlotte was alongside her. She was watering her wine, Adelia noted with surprise but admiration. That said, watered wine on top of three sherries wasn’t going to drag her daughter back into sober waters any time soon. I suppose it’s all right, Charlotte replied, but she wasn’t looking at the painting. That model gets about a bit. Sally Spencer, I believe.

What do you think to Lady Purfleet? Are you of the same mind as your grandmamma?

Lady Purfleet is … good heavens, mama, how can I describe her? Charlotte shook her head. "Unobtainable and I barely dare speak with her. I think that I admire her. She …" But she tailed off, still looking around the room.

Adelia continued to gaze at the woman on the canvas. She had skin made warmly olive by a great deal of sun, and pale green eyes that creased slightly at the corners, hinting at a smile. She was striking. Adelia said, Artists might be a dissolute bunch, on the whole, but they cannot be all bad if they can depict such beauty as this. And you know her, do you?

Charlotte snorted. Oh, mama.

"Oh, mama, what? What is distracting you? Who are you looking for?"

No one, Charlotte replied, quite obviously still scanning the crowd in the drawing room. "As for Sally Spencer, I merely know of her."

They were in a large room with two circular gaming tables set up at one end. Someone was picking out a slightly bawdy tune on a piano until Lady Purfleet stepped in to stop that. There was raucous laughter from a huddle of younger people in one corner, away from the card games. The assembly of thirty guests was nearly doubled again by the profusion of liveried servants on hand at every turn.

Are you admiring the decorations, then? I admit it’s all very tasteful, Adelia said.

I think it’s plain and dowdy and that surprises me, if I am honest. It wouldn’t hurt Lady Purfleet to hang a little more sparkle here and there. Tastes have moved on. Charlotte spoke distractedly and her sentence tailed off. She gulped in a little intake of breath. Ah! Oh. Oh, him.

Who? Who makes you sound so afraid? Adelia followed the direction of her daughter’s gaze. She was looking at Robert who was talking to another man.

I am not afraid, Charlotte said sharply. Too sharply.

That’s Mr Nettles, is it not? He has an auction house. I seem to recollect that he deals in fine art for the very wealthiest of collectors.

Mr Digby Nettles, Charlotte repeated, speaking each word slowly and with disgust in her voice. "Oh, I do wish he weren’t talking to Robert. We’ve had enough of him and his … influence. Can we go over and cause a diversion or distraction, break up that little tête-a-tête? I say we. I mean you, mama. Go and save him, please!"

Charlotte, whatever is the matter?

Mama, you must – oh. No, the danger is passed. Look, he is going away. Good riddance. As they watched, Digby Nettles turned and walked slowly away from Robert, whose shoulders sagged as if in defeat.

Charlotte, what on earth is all this about?

Charlotte chewed her lip. She was very pale.

Charlotte, if you do not tell me, I shall go over there and speak to Mr Nettles myself. He seems to be an interesting chap. Look, he’s heading for your papa, in fact.

It was true. Digby Nettles was now heading towards Theodore, who greeted him warmly. Mr Nettles sat down and was hidden from view.

That broke the spell that seemed to hang over Charlotte. She grabbed hold of Adelia’s wrist, and brought herself very close to her mother. Mama, she whispered in a broken voice. I fear we have made a most terrible mistake.

2

Theodore had little interest in playing cards but he had seated himself in a comfortable gentleman’s armchair near to one of the gaming tables. He had a glass of brandy in his hand and he felt uncharacteristically convivial. He was not known for his love of company and parties, and in his heart of hearts, he had been dismayed at first when Adelia had told him that they had been invited to spend Christmas in London.

Yet he was ready to admit that he was enjoying himself, at least so far. The year had been a trying one, and he had faced rather more danger than any man in his stage of life was quite comfortable with. He enjoyed his burgeoning career as a detective to the upper classes, of course, but many of the cases had involved threats to his nearest and dearest. The additional strain of the emotional toll was a little much. He longed for a good old-fashioned murder that would involve someone else’s family being harmed for a change. Then he caught his train of thought, and stopped it, shaking his head at himself. What was he doing, wishing for a stranger to be killed just to amuse his intellect! He would not tell Adelia of these idle thoughts.

He was a little concerned about Adelia, in truth. Since the last investigation, she had seemed flatter somehow. It was natural, of course, to have something of a depressive air after a period of high excitement but one usually levelled off and regained one’s equilibrium. He wondered, briefly, if the medical experts were correct about how dangerous excitement was to the female mind; had he caused Adelia’s low mood by exposing her to risk and adventure? He had hoped that a return to normality would help anchor her once more in the female sphere of influence. Adelia however had seemed to grow more careworn and ground down by the everyday tasks of normal life, and did not laugh as much as she used to. If he pressed her, she said with a sigh that she was bored. It was another reason he’d agreed to come to London. One could not possibly be bored here. She could buy dresses and gossip with other women here; surely that should help.

Theodore looked up from his musings with a start. A man was standing nearby, pointedly waiting for an invitation to take a seat. The man was in his forties, with thinning grey hair and small round spectacles, and one of those narrow triangular faces that made the chin into a point that would disappear into one’s neck when one smiled. There was an intensity about him that burned and made him compelling to look at, nevertheless. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were dark and piercing. If Lord Byron had gone into the financial business rather than poetry and licentiousness, no doubt he’d have looked like this.

The man was smiling now. Theodore sought for the man’s name in vain, but the man spotted his uncertainty, and thrust out his hand with no self-consciousness at all.

Mr Digby Nettles. It’s Lord Calaway, is it not? I have heard much about you, sir. Forgive my intrusion. May I?

Please do. Be my guest. Ah, I have it. You are a connoisseur of art, I understand? Theodore hoped he was correct.

He was. Indeed, sir, I aspire to connoisseurship perhaps but I am content, in my own way, to be a mere jobbing art dealer. Mr Nettles spoke with a cut-glass accent forged in the halls of the best schools in the land. Theodore thought it unlikely that Mr Nettles had ever been a jobbing anything.

I see. You must know everyone who is anyone, I would wager.

I certainly do encounter many people from a wide range of backgrounds, yes, Mr Nettles said smoothly. One would like to think that those of a higher class would be easier to deal with but… He laughed and shrugged.

Theodore smiled. There are as many rogues in the aristocracy as anywhere else. More, perhaps. Parliament is simply stuffed with them.

Mr Nettles smiled, hiding his teeth. You and I understand one another, then.

Well, said Theodore, of course I am not suggesting that I am any kind of radical, you understand. The system is as the system is. We may grumble and we may complain but it brings me to where I am, and I would be the very worst kind of hypocrite if I were to take against it, do you see?

I do see, said Mr Nettles, who was no longer smiling, as if Theodore had said something that displeased him very much. He opened his mouth to say something else but evidently thought better of it, and pressed his lips together in a bloodless line. If he took his spectacles off, he would have been the very definition of brooding.

Theodore took a sip of brandy, hoping that alcohol would bring him insight into whatever he had said that had annoyed Mr Nettles. He decided simply to move on. He need not apologise unless Mr Nettles complained directly, after all. He said, You live in London, don’t you, I suppose?

I do. I have done so all my life.

Theodore raised his eyebrows, hoping Mr Nettles would expand on his background, but the art dealer did not. It was annoying to not be able to place someone precisely in their proper place within the vast network of social ties and grand families. Clearly this chap wasn’t an aristocrat but he must have been linked to the edges of some family or another, or he wouldn’t have been at the gathering. Theodore said, eventually, So how do you know Lady Purfleet? He was glad Adelia wasn’t within earshot, as she would have kicked him for such an indelicate question. One never ought to imply any sort of relationship between a man and a woman in such a way.

It didn’t seem to bother Mr Nettles though it would have undoubtedly riled Lady Purfleet too if she’d overheard them. Mr Nettles said, in careful reply, She is a patroness of many fresh new artists and has a keen eye for talent. She is also a wealthy patroness of a number of galleries in London. I understand that she is highly thought of.

Theodore nodded. The conversation felt slow and painful. And what did he mean when he said that he understood she was highly thought of? That was a cautious way of praising