ThePerfectPoison










ELEVEN

“I MUST SAY, LUCY, I QUITE LIKE MR. JONES.” PATRICIA paused in front of a stand of foxglove. “But he is decidedly out of the ordinary, isn’t he?”
“That is putting it mildly,” Lucinda said. They were in the wing of the conservatory devoted to traditional medicinal herbs and plants. Her mother had called it the Physick Garden. “But I suspect that is part and parcel of his unusual psychical nature.”
“Very likely.” Patricia leaned down to examine some feverfew.
“He is, I think, quite powerful,” Lucinda said. She paused by the aloe that she used to treat minor burns and wounds. “Such strength requires a great deal of self-mastery. And self-mastery of that degree can produce some quirks and a dash of eccentricity.”
Caleb had left an hour ago, taking his tisanes with him. Patricia had disappeared upstairs for a time to supervise the unpacking of her trunk. When she had come back down, she had insisted on a stroll through the conservatory.
“One can certainly understand a touch of eccentricity.” Patricia wandered over to look at the pale pink flowers of the tall valerian plants. “Papa says that very strong talents who do not control their paranormal senses are in danger of being overwhelmed by them.”
“It is a popular theory in the Society and I think there is, indeed, some risk of that occurring.” Lucinda fingered the large, broadly oval leaves of a Solomon’s seal. “In my work, I have sometimes encountered individuals who were mentally unstable due to illness of a psychical nature. It has not escaped my notice that such people are usually rather strong talents.”
Patricia cleared her throat delicately. “One hears certain rumors concerning the Jones family. Evidently there is more than a dash of eccentricity in the blood. They are descended from the founder, after all.”
“Yes, I know, Patricia. But if you are implying that Caleb Jones might be a bit unhinged, you are wrong.” She did not know why she felt obliged to defend Caleb but she could not seem to help herself. “He is a complex man who controls an unusual and very strong talent. That accounts for any odd behavior you may have noted.”
“Does it explain the bruises on his face that I saw this morning?” Patricia asked smoothly.
“Mr. Jones suffered an accident of some sort last night. One of the tisanes I gave him is designed to alleviate the bruising.” She would not mention the reason she had given him the other medicinal tonic, she thought. Something told her that Caleb Jones would not appreciate having the odd tension in his aura discussed by all and sundry.
“I see.” Patricia moved on to survey the yellow flowers of the Saint-John’s-wort. “One would have thought that he would have been married by now. Don’t you find it strange that he is still single?” She looked up with an expression of polite inquiry. “He is still single, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes.” Lucinda frowned, considering the issue more closely. “As to why, I have no notion.”
“Whatever his eccentricities, he is a Jones,” Patricia pointed out, straightening. “The heir to a fortune and a bloodline that goes all the way back to Sylvester the Alchemist. Most men of his years and background would have wed long ago.”
“Mr. Jones is not that old,” Lucinda said sharply. But she knew that Patricia was right. Caleb could not put off marriage much longer. A gentleman of his station had a certain responsibility to his family.
Now why was that such a depressing thought? she wondered.
“He must be nearly forty,” Patricia said.
“Nonsense. Mid-thirties, I should think.”
“Late thirties.”
“Are you saying that he is too old for marriage? Rubbish. It is obvious that Mr. Jones is in his prime.”
“I suppose that depends on your point of view,” Patricia said very seriously.
“You are nineteen, Patricia. Wait until you are my age. A gentleman in his thirties will appear entirely different to you.”
“I never meant to imply that you were old.” Patricia whirled around, red-faced. “Please forgive me, Lucy. You know I did not intend any such thing.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Lucinda laughed. “Do not concern yourself. You did no grave injury to my feelings.” She paused and raised her brows. “Can I assume from this conversation that Mr. Jones is too advanced in years to be added to your list of candidates?”
Patricia wrinkled her nose. “Definitely.”
“I’m sure you’re aware that in the polite world young ladies of your age are frequently married off to men old enough to be their fathers and sometimes old enough to be their grandfathers.”
Patricia shuddered. “Luckily for me, Mama and Papa hold modern views. They would never try to coerce me into marrying a man I did not love.” She clasped her hands behind her back and studied a clump of shrublike wormwood. “How long have you known Mr. Jones?”
It occurred to Lucinda that, what with one thing and another, there had been no opportunity to explain Caleb’s presence in her life. She pondered whether to break the news that she was in danger of becoming a suspect in a murder case.
It would probably be best to keep quiet about her predicament, at least for the time being, she thought. The truth would only alarm Patricia and distract her from the project of finding a husband.
“Mr. Jones and I met quite recently,” she said.
“A few weeks ago, perhaps? You never mentioned him in any of your recent letters.”
“This is the second day of our association. Why do you ask?”

“What?” Patricia spun around, genuinely shocked. “You’ve only known him two days and he takes breakfast with you?”
“Well, he didn’t get any sleep last night and he didn’t eat this morning. I suppose I felt sorry for him.”
Patricia’s eyes widened a little more. Then she burst into a spate of giggles. “Really, cousin, you astonish me.”
“What’s so amusing?”
“Kept him occupied all night, did you?” Patricia winked. “You are more modern in your thinking than even I had believed. Does Mama know? I suspect not.”
“You misunderstand,” Lucinda said, baffled by the reaction. “I wasn’t the one who kept Mr. Jones busy last night. He was involved with another project until dawn.”
Patricia stopped giggling. “Mr. Jones is involved with someone else? How could you possibly bring yourself to share him?”
“Well, he is a professional,” Lucinda pointed out. “I’m sure he has a number of affairs going on at the moment. I am in no position to demand his services full-time.”
“His services?” Patricia’s voice rose. “You pay him?”
Lucinda frowned. “Well, of course.”
“Isn’t that a little, umm, unusual?”
“In what way?”
Patricia widened her hands. “Well, I suppose I have always assumed that if there was a financial consideration involved in that sort of liaison, it was the man who paid the woman, not the other way around. But now that I consider the matter closely, I can see where, given modern notions of equality—”

“Liaison?” Horrified, Lucinda considered fainting for the second time that day. “Mr. Jones and I are not involved in anything of the sort. Good heavens, Patricia, whatever gave you that idea?”
“Let me think,” Patricia said dryly. “There is the little matter of your returning home with him in a carriage very early in the morning. I had every reason to assume that the two of you spent the night in a secluded location.”
“You are quite mistaken.”
“And then you invited him in for breakfast. What else was I to think?”
Lucinda drew herself up and gave her a frosty glare. “Your assumptions could not be more wrong. Mr. Jones tracked me down in Guppy Lane this morning because of a business matter. We conferred in the carriage on the way back here, and when I discovered that he had not slept or eaten I felt compelled to offer him a meal. That is all there is to it.”
“Why?” Patricia said.
“Why what?”
“Why did you feel compelled to feed him? He’s a Jones. He probably has a kitchen full of servants just waiting to prepare meals for him.”
The logic of the question bothered Lucinda more than it should have. Why had she invited Caleb in for breakfast?
“He obviously does not look after himself,” she said. “It is in my own best interests to keep him fit and healthy.”
“Why?” Patricia asked again.
Lucinda threw up her hands. So much for trying to keep her association with Caleb unexplained. “Because he is the only person standing between me and prison, possibly the only one between me and a hangman’s noose.”