Slightly Wicked

Chapter XVII

Judith had very little time in which to gather her scattered thoughts and emotions. Perhaps very few people noticed her return to the ballroom on Lord Rannulf’s arm, but Aunt Effingham certainly did, and the look on her face did not bode well for her niece later. Julianne had somehow surrounded herself with gentlemen, the waltz having just finished, and was laughing and fluttering in their midst. Uncle George was back with his group of older gentlemen, engrossed in conversation with them. Of Horace there was no sign.

“But where did you go, Rannulf?” Lady Beamish asked when he escorted Judith to her grandmother’s side. “One moment you were waltzing and the next moment you were gone.”

“Miss Effingham suddenly missed her bracelet,” he explained, “and Miss Law was kind enough to help us search for it. Fortunately it was discovered in just the place Miss Effingham thought she might have left it.”

Judith’s grandmother smiled placidly, but Lady Beamish looked from one to the other of them with sharp eyes. Of course, Judith thought, she had been the one eager to promote the match between her grandson and Julianne. She must be disappointed that the courtship was not proceeding faster.

And then Lord Rannulf strolled away to ask a young lady to dance who to Judith’s knowledge had danced only once before during the evening, and Mr. Tanguay arrived to claim his set.

Judith smiled and gave him her attention, but it was very difficult to do when her heart was still pounding from the tensions of the past fifteen minutes.

She was laughing by the time the set ended. It had been a vigorous dance with intricate steps and patterns. But Mr. Tanguay did not have the opportunity to escort her back to her grandmother. Branwell appeared in front of them instead and took her arm.

“Excuse us if you will, Tanguay,” he said. “I need to talk to my sister for a minute.”

She looked at him in surprise. Though he had exchanged glances and smiles with her and even one wink in the course of the evening, he had been too busy enjoying himself with other young ladies to hunt out a mere sister for conversation. He was still smiling, though there was something stiff about the set of his lips.

He was unusually pale. His fingers were digging rather painfully into her arm.

“Jude,” he said when they were on the landing outside the ballroom and he had looked about to ascertain that they could not be overheard, “I just wanted to let you know that I am leaving. Now.

Tonight.”

“The ball?”She looked at him with incomprehension.

“Harewood.” He smiled and nodded at Beatrice Hardinge, who was passing on the arm of an unknown young man.

“Harewood?” She was further mystified. “Tonight?”

“Effingham just had a word with me,” he said. “It seems someone else came here a couple of days ago demanding payment of me for some trifling bill. Effingham paid him without even informing me. Now he wants the money back as well as the thirty pounds I owe him for the journey here.” He raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. “Of course I mean to pay him back, but I cannot do it just now. He cut up rather nasty about the whole thing and said some pretty offensive things, not just about me but about you too. I would have popped him a good one to the nose or even challenged him, but how could I, Jude? I am at Uncle George’s as a guest, and we are surrounded by other guests. It would be in the depths of bad taste. I am going to have to go, that is all.”

“But tonight, Bran?” She grasped his hand in both her own. Oh, she knew very well what this was all about. How dare Horace take out his anger and frustration on her brother in this way? “Why not wait at least until the morning?”

“I cannot,” he said. “I have to go now. As soon as I have changed my clothes. There is a reason.”

“But in the middle of the night? Oh, Bran,” she said, “whatever are you going to do?”

“You must not worry about me,” he said, reclaiming his hand and looking considerably agitated. “I have a—a lead on something. I’ll have my fortune made in no time at all, I promise you.” He flashed her a ghost of his old grin. “And then I’ll pay Papa back everything extra he has spent on me lately and you girls will be secure again. I have to go, Jude. I must not delay any longer.”

“Let me at least come upstairs with you,” she said, “and then see you on your way after you have changed.”

“No, no.” He looked around him again, obviously anxious to be gone. “You stay here, Jude. I want to slip away unnoticed. I’ll pay Effingham first as soon as I can, and then I’ll pay him back in a different way for what he said about my sister.” He bent his head and pecked her on the cheek.

She watched him go in some dismay and with a strong sense of foreboding. He obviously owed a great deal of money to a great many people, and now their number included Horace—obviously for a far larger sum than thirty pounds. Yet he was dashing off furtively in the middle of the night, convinced that at last he had found a way to make his fortune quickly and rid himself of debt. He was surely only going to dig himself a deeper grave.

And in the process completely ruin his family.

It was with a heavy heart that she returned to the ballroom. Even the prospect of dancing the last set with Lord Rannulf Bedwyn failed to cheer her.

She was to be further disappointed within a few minutes.

“Judith,” her grandmother said, taking her hand and squeezing it, “my dear Sarah is not feeling at all the thing. It is too drafty in here with the doors and windows open, I daresay, and too noisy. Perhaps you would fetch Lord Rannulf.”

“There really is no need to fuss, Gertrude,” Lady Beamish said. “I feel better already since you fanned my face.”

But looking at her, Judith could see that the old lady’s always-pale complexion had a gray tinge and her always-correct posture was drooping somewhat.

“You are weary, ma’am,” she said, “and it is no wonder. It is after midnight already. I shall certainly fetch Lord Rannulf.”

It proved unnecessary. He came even as Judith started to look around for him in the milling crowd between sets. He bent over his grandmother’s chair and took one of her hands in his.

“You are tired, Grandmama?” he asked, such gentleness in his face and voice that it felt to Judith that her heart turned over. “So am I, I must confess. I shall have the carriage brought around immediately.”

“Nonsense!” she said. “I have never left a ball early in my life. Besides, there are two sets left and two young ladies to whom you have committed your time.”

“I have not engaged anyone for the next set,” he said, “and Miss Law was to be my partner for the last one. I am sure she will excuse me.”

“Indeed I will,” Judith assured them both.

Lady Beamish looked at her, her eyes still sharp despite her obvious weariness.

“Thank you, Miss Law,” she said. “You are both gracious and kind. Very well, then, Rannulf, you may call the carriage. Gertrude, my dear, I am going to have to abandon you.”

Judith’s grandmother chuckled. “I have scarcely known how to keep my own eyes open for the last half hour,” she said. “After the next set is over, I will have Judith help me to my room, if she will be so good.

Then she can return for the last set if she wishes. It has been a thoroughly pleasant evening, has it not?”

“Miss Law,” Lord Rannulf said, “would you care to help me find a servant to take a message to the stables?”

Someone of his rank and demeanor had no difficulty in finding and attracting the attention of a servant, of course. The message was sent in no time at all. Judith used the opportunity to ask the same servant to send Tillie up to her grandmother’s room. But Lord Rannulf had wished to speak with her privately. They stood outside the ballroom, on almost the exact spot where she had stood with Branwell just a short while earlier. He clasped his hands at his back and leaned a little toward her.

“I am sorrier than I can say,” he said, “about the last set.”

“But we are not children,” she said, smiling, “to have a tantrum whenever we are deprived of an expected treat.”

“Perhaps you are a saint, Judith,” he said, his eyes narrowing with the old mockery. “I am not. I could throw a tantrum in the middle of the ballroom right now, lying on my back, drumming my heels on the wooden floor, punching my fists in the air, and cursing most foully.”

She burst into delighted laughter, and he tipped his head to one side and pursed his lips.

“You were created for laughter and happiness,” he said. “May I call on you tomorrow morning?”

Whatever for?

“I am sure everyone would be delighted,” she said.

He regarded her with steady eyes, mockery still lurking in their depths.

“You are being deliberately obtuse,” he said. “I asked if I might call upon you , Judith.”

He could mean only one thing, surely. But he had asked before—in a manner she had found offensive—and she had answered quite firmly in the negative. But that had been two weeks ago. Much had happened since. Much had changed, though perhaps nothing more than her own opinion of him. His of her could not have changed much, could it? She was still the impoverished daughter of a never wealthy but now impoverished country clergyman, while he was still the son of a duke and second in line to the title.

“If you wish.” She found that she was whispering, but he heard her.

He made her a deep bow, and they returned together to the ballroom, where he helped his grandmother to her feet, tucked her arm protectively through his, led her toward Aunt Effingham, whose tall hair plumes nodded with stiff graciousness, and then out of the ballroom.

Judith sat down in the chair Lady Beamish had just vacated and wondered if the rest of the night would be long enough in which to digest all that had happened this evening.

“Do not worry, Judith, my love,” her grandmother said, setting one plump hand over both hers in her lap and patting them. “I have no intention of leaving the ballroom before the last bar of music has died away.

But I did not want Sarah to feel that she was abandoning me. I fear she is quite ill and has been for some time past, though she will never talk of her health.”

And so after all Judith danced the final set—with Lord Braithwaite again—though she would have far preferred to retire to her own room. Upsetting thoughts of Branwell churned about in her head with anxious, euphoric ones about tomorrow morning’s visit, while at the same time she had to smile and respond to Lord Braithwaite’s mildly flirtatious conversation.

A full-blown ball that did not finish until after one o’clock in the morning was rare in the country. Many of the outside guests left even before the final set ended. None of them lingered long afterward. Neither did the orchestra. Only the family, the houseguests, and a few servants were left in the ballroom when a small commotion was heard outside the doors.

Tillie’s voice could be heard raised above the softer, haughtier tones of the butler.

“But I have to talk to her now ,” Tillie was saying, obviously agitated over something. “I have waited long enough. Perhaps too long.”

The butler argued, but Judith’s grandmother, who had just got to her feet and was leaning on Judith’s arm, looked toward the doors in some surprise.

“Tillie?” she called. “Whatever is the matter? Come in here, do.”

Everyone stopped to watch and listen as Tillie hurried into the ballroom, wringing her hands, her face distraught.

“It is your jewels, ma’am,” she cried.

“What about them?” Uncle George asked, exerting himself.

“Gone!” Tillie announced in tones a tragic heroine might have envied. “All gone. The box was open and upside down on the floor in your dressing room, ma’am, when I got there, and there is not a sign of a single piece except what you are wearing on your person.”

“Nonsense, Tillie,” Horace said, stepping up beside his father. “I daresay they were spilled earlier in Step-grandmama’s hurry to be ready in time for the ball and you piled them into a drawer to be put away properly later. You have simply forgotten.”

Tillie gathered together her dignity. “I would not have done any such thing, sir,” she said. “I would not have spilled the box, and if I had , I would have stayed until every piece was picked up and put back where it belonged.”

Her mistress meanwhile was gripping Judith’s hand so tightly that all her rings were digging painfully into her granddaughter’s hand.

“They are gone, Tillie?” she asked. “Stolen?”

It was as if everyone else had been waiting only for that word to be spoken. There was a buzzing of sound and a crescendo of excitement.

“There are no thieves in this house,” Aunt Effingham said sharply. “The very idea! You must look harder, Tillie. They must be somewhere .”

“I hunted everywhere, ma’am,” Tillie said. “Three times.”

“There have been a number of outsiders here tonight,” Mrs. Hardinge pointed out, “and some of their servants.”

“We are all outsiders too,” Mr. Webster reminded her.

“We cannot possibly suspect any of our guests,” Uncle George said.

“Someone has stolen Mother’s jewels,” Aunt Louisa told him. “They obviously did not disappear on their own.”

“But whoever would have had a motive?” her mother asked.

Branwell, Judith thought and felt instantly ashamed. Bran would never steal. Would he? From his own grandmother? But would he for that very reason have justified his act as one of borrowing rather than stealing? Who else could have done it? Bran had been backed farther into a corner this evening. He had left Harewood in the middle of the ball, in the middle of the night. He had been very agitated. He had not wanted her to go upstairs with him or see him on his way. Branwell. It was Bran. And soon everyone else would realize it too. She felt dizzy and had to concentrate hard upon not fainting.

“Who is short of money?” Horace asked.

His words hung in the air rather like an obscenity. No one answered.

“And who had the opportunity?” he asked. “Who knew where Step-grandmama keeps her jewels and would be bold enough to go into her room to get them?”

Branwell. It seemed to Judith that the name fairly screamed itself into the silence.

“It could not have been an outsider,” Horace continued. “Not unless he was a very bold man indeed or had an accomplice in the house. How would anyone know the right room? How would he accomplish the task without being detected? Or missed from the ballroom? Was anyone missing from the ballroom for any length of time?”

Branwell.

Everyone seemed to speak at once after that. Everyone had an opinion, a suggestion, or a shocked comment on the theft. Judith bent her head to her grandmother’s.

“Will you sit down, Grandmama?” she asked. “You are trembling.”

They both sat, and Judith chafed the old lady’s hands.

“They will be found,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

But how far had Bran well ridden by now? And where was he going? What would he do with the jewels? Pawn them? Sell them? Surely he would not do that. Surely there were some remnants of honor left in his conscience. He must see that the jewels would have to be retrievable. But how would they ever be redeemed?

“It is not so much the value of the jewels,” her grandmother said, “as the fact that your grandpapa gave them to me. Who could hate me this much, Judith? There was a thief in my own room . How can I ever go into it again?”

Her voice was shaking and breathless. She sounded old and defeated.

Uncle George and Horace finally took charge again. They sent the butler to fetch all the servants so that all could be questioned. Judith wanted to take her grandmother upstairs, even if only to her own room, where she could be quiet and Tillie could perhaps bring her a cup of tea and her night things to change into. But her grandmother would not move.

It was a long, tedious process, which was clearly going to lead nowhere, Judith thought over the next half an hour. What amazed her more than anything else was that no one had missed Branwell yet. Uncle George asked if any servant had been upstairs to the bedchamber floor since the ball began. Three of them had, including the chambermaid Judith had bumped into on the way out of her room. All of them had had a good reason to be up there and all of them had worked at Hare wood long enough to be judged trustworthy.

“And no one else went up there?” Uncle George added with a sigh.

“If you please, sir,” the maid said. “Miss Law did.”

All eyes turned Judith’s way, and she felt herself flushing.

“I went up to exchange Grandmama’s earrings,” she said. “The others were pinching her. But the jewel box was in its accustomed place at that time and all the jewelry was in it. I made the exchange and came back down. The theft must have happened since that time. It was ... let me see. It was between the first and second sets.”

“But you was coming out of your room, miss,” the chambermaid said. “You was flying and we ran right into each other. Remember?”

“That is right,” Judith said. “The earrings Grandmama wanted were in my reticule, where they had been since the evening we were all at Grandmaison.”

“It must have been when you were returning to the ballroom that you almost ran into me, Cousin,”

Horace said. “You were quite breathless. You looked to be almost in a panic. But yes, I can confirm that that was between the first and second sets.”

“Judith, my love.” Her grandmother was very close to tears. “I sent you up there and might have been sending you to your death. What if you had walked in on the thief? You might have been struck over the head.”

“It did not happen, Grandmama,” she said soothingly. She wished she had walked in on Bran. She could have prevented this whole nightmare.

“Well,” Horace said briskly, “we are going to have to start searching, that is all.”

“Distasteful,” Uncle George said. “We cannot search people’s rooms, and the thief would hardly have hidden the jewels in any of the public rooms.”

“Well, I for one do not object to having my room searched,” Horace said. “In fact, Father, I insist that it be the first to be searched.”

“If I may make so bold, Sir George,” the butler said, stepping forward, “I will volunteer my own room to be searched and those of the other servants too unless anyone has an objection. If anyone does, speak up now.”

The servants all held their peace. Which of them, after all, would voice an objection when doing so must throw instant suspicion on them?

Lord Braithwaite cleared his throat. “You may search my room too, sir,” he said.

There was a murmuring of assent from all the other guests, though Judith guessed it was grudging in many cases. It would feel like violation to have one’s room searched, to feel even if only for a few minutes that one was being suspected of theft. But she kept her mouth shut.

“Would you like to go to your room, Grandmama?” she asked again after Uncle George, Horace, the butler, and Tillie had left the ballroom. “Or to mine if you would prefer?”

“No.” Her grandmother was looking more dejected than Judith had ever seen her. “I will stay here. I hope they do not find the jewels. Is that not foolish? I would rather never see them again than know that someone in this house has stolen them. Why did whoever it is not ask me? I have plenty. I would give to any relative or friend or servant in need. But I suppose people are too proud to ask, are they not?”

Julianne was sobbing in her mother’s arms, and looking remarkably pretty in the process.

“This has turned out to be a perfectly horrid evening,” she wailed. “I have hated every moment of it, and I am sure everyone else will pronounce it a disaster and never accept another invitation from us all their lives.”

The servants stood in silence. The guests huddled in small, self-conscious groups, talking in lowered voices.

Another half hour passed before the search party returned, looking grave.

“This has been found,” Uncle George said into the hush that had fallen over the ballroom. “Tillie recognized it. It is from Mother-in-law’s jewelry box.” He held aloft the wine-colored velvet bag that usually contained her most valuable jewels. It was very obviously empty. “And this, also from the box.”

He held up a single diamond earring between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand.

The small swell of sound instantly died away again.

“Does anyone wish to say anything about these items?” Uncle George asked. “They were found in the same room.”

Branwell’s. Judith felt sick to her stomach.

No one wished to say anything, it seemed.

“Judith,” Uncle George said, his voice low and devoid of all expression, “the bag was at the bottom of one of your dressing table drawers. The earring was on the floor, almost out of sight behind the door.”

Judith suddenly felt as if she were looking at him down a long, dark tunnel. She felt as if her mind were still grappling to decode the sounds he had just spoken, to make sensible words out of them.

“Where have you hidden everything else, Judith?” he asked her, still in that flat voice. “It is not in your room.”

“What?” She was not sure any sound had come out of her mouth. She was not even sure her lips had formed the word.

“There is no point in even pretending that there must be some misunderstanding,” Uncle George said.

“You have stolen costly jewels, Judith, from your own grandmother.”

“Oh, you ungrateful, wicked girl!” Aunt Effingham cried shrilly. “After all that I have done for you and your worthless family. You will be punished for this, believe me. Criminals hang for less.”

“We should send for the constable, Father,” Horace said. “I do apologize to everyone else that we must be seen airing our dirty family linen thus publicly. If only we had known it was Judith, we would have hushed all up and waited until everyone had gone to bed before investigating. But how were we to know?”

Judith was on her feet without any memory of having stood up.

“I have not taken anything,” she said.

“Of course you have not. Of course she has not,” her grandmother said, grabbing her hand again. “There is certainly some misunderstanding, George. Judith is the very last person who would steal from me.”

“And yet,” Julianne said scornfully, “she does not have a penny to her name, Grandmama. Do you, Judith?”

“And her brother is deep in debt,” Horace said. “I must confess that I suspected him when Tillie first came here with her discovery. Did anyone else notice that he disappeared in the middle of the ball? It was, I fear, because I reminded him of a trifling debt he owed me. I really thought he had done something foolish, though I hated to say it aloud. But it appears that it was Judith.”

“Or Judith in league with Branwell,” Aunt Effingham said. “That is it, is it, you evil girl? That is why the jewels are not in your room? Your brother has made off with them?”

“No, no, no!” Grandmama cried. “Judith has done nothing wrong. That bag ... I-I gave it to Judith to keep some of her own things in. And that earring. Judith often takes them from me when they pinch my ears, just as she did these I am wearing now. She must have dropped one when she brought them back to me and we did not notice.”

“That is not even a very good try, Mother-in-law,” Uncle George said in the same flat voice. “I believe we should all go to bed now and try to sleep. Judith will be dealt with in the morning. No one will have to face the embarrassment of having to see her again. She will be sent home, I daresay, for her father to deal with. In the meanwhile we will have to have Branwell pursued.”

“Father,” Horace said, “I still believe a constable would—”

“We will not have Judith thrown into a cell and create a sordid sensation for the whole countryside to gossip over,” Uncle George said firmly.

Judith raised both hands to her mouth. This was all too horrifying even to be a nightmare from which she might hope to awake.

“I fervently hope my brother will take a whip to you, Judith,” Aunt Effingham said, “as he ought to have done years ago. I shall write making that very suggestion. And I hope you intend to lock her into her room tonight, Effingham, so that she cannot rob us all in our sleep.”

“We will not be melodramatic,” Uncle George said, “though this scene bears an uncomfortable resemblance to the worst of melodrama. Judith, go to your room now and remain there until you are fetched in the morning.”

“Grandmama.” Judith turned to her and stretched out both hands. But her grandmother had her own hands clasped tightly in her lap and did not look up.

“Branwell is in debt,” she said so quietly that no one but Judith could hear, “and you did not tell me. I would have given him some of my jewels if he had asked or if you had asked. Did you not know that?”

Grandmama believed it, then. She believed that Judith had conspired with Bran to rob her. It was the worst moment of all.

“I did not do it, Grandmama,” Judith whispered as she saw a tear plop onto the old lady’s hands.

She never afterward knew how she got herself out of the ballroom and up to her room. But she stood against the closed door after she arrived there for a long, long time, her hands with a death grip on the handle behind her back, as if the weight of her body was all that stood between herself and the universe crashing in on top of her.