Текст книги "The Vanishing Thief"

Автор книги: Kate Parker

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Lady Westover nodded at my words.

“All right, young lady, but this goes no further than this room. George was responsible for part of the family investments. Not satisfied with his allowance, he embezzled from the family. From me. This Drake person found out, got hold of some records of George’s that showed the embezzlement, and began to blackmail him. George’s response was to embezzle more to pay the man. Idiot. I found out and put a stop to everything. The embezzlement and the blackmail.” Waxpool stomped his cane into the rug twice for emphasis.

“You weren’t afraid Drake would spread the story?”

“He saw it wouldn’t do him any good. George has been sent to the south of France. I’ve done nothing wrong. If anything, it should win me sympathy.” He laughed wheezily again.

“You met with Nicholas Drake? How long ago was this?”

“A month ago. I told him there would be no more money, and if he persisted in trying any more of his nonsense, I would press charges.”

Curiosity wouldn’t let me drop the subject. “But won’t your son control all the investments one day?”

“He’ll have the title, but that’s all he’ll have. I’ve organized my affairs so my grandchildren, a boy and a girl, will manage the investments and see to his allowance. My grandchildren take after me. Sensible, reliable, intelligent. I have no fears for the family fortune or name after I’m gone.”

Into the silence that followed, Lady Westover said, “Georgia, why did you come by today?”

I couldn’t hide my smile. “I mentioned Emma and I received invitations to the Duke of Arlington’s masquerade ball. Time is getting short and I have no clue as to what to do about costumes.”

“Something unusual,” the Earl of Waxpool suggested.

“Yes, shepherdesses and Marie Antoinette have been done to death. You want to stand out, so whoever is looking for you can find you,” Lady Westover said.

“What is this in aid of?” Lord Waxpool asked.

I answered him the way I would respond to Blackford. “In aid of justice for the blackmail victims and their families, and justice for a killer.”

“A killer?” Lady Westover looked concerned. Whether for me or for her police inspector grandson and the dangers he faced, I wasn’t sure.

I made a quick decision. The house fire that led to Drake’s death would remain a secret for the time being. “Drake has been abducted and no one has seen him. There’s always the chance he’s been murdered.”

“That’s terrible,” Lady Westover said.

“But what is the problem?” Waxpool asked.

“If this person would kill Drake to keep his secret safe, he’ll kill again if he thinks his secret is in danger. And,” I added, giving the old man a hard stare, “Drake’s abductor doesn’t have the right to kill the first time.”

“Blackford obtained invitations to the Arlingtons’ ball for Georgia and her friend Emma,” Lady Westover broke in before the Earl of Waxpool and I could begin a heated row over Drake’s right to live.

“Blackford? Did he? How extraordinary.” Waxpool smiled. “Then you must find these young ladies singularly unique costumes. Amelia, I always enjoy seeing you.” He rose shakily, using both canes. “Good luck, young lady.”

I rose and walked across the parlor to open the door for him. His man Price immediately appeared and helped the old man from the room. I went back to my seat on the sofa with Lady Westover.

Before I could say anything, she smiled at a jest I didn’t see. “Can you close the shop early tonight? I want both you and Emma here by six. I have an idea. We’re going to work on unique.”

Chapter Thirteen

EMMA and I arrived at Lady Westover’s town house just as the bells of the nearby churches were tolling six. Our hostess was waiting for us in the parlor with two other women who were introduced as Madame Leclerc and her assistant. The assistant stood by with tape measures, a notebook and pencil, and a bored expression. Madame Leclerc greeted us with, “Take off your clothes.”

“Madame Leclerc is my dressmaker. I have in mind very simple gowns of rich silk for you both. Seeing you together, I’m sure my idea will work. A pale blue for Emma and a deep red for you, Georgia.”

Emma and I exchanged one quick look before I said, “What idea, my lady?”

“Emma will be the Ice Queen, and you will be the Fire Queen. Show them the fabric swatches, madame.”

The red silk was beautiful, catching the light almost like flame. If fabric could shimmer and smolder, sending sparks along its length, this fluid material did. I touched only the corner, expecting to be shouted at by the dressmaker. She mustn’t have noticed. I was surprised by smoothness so soft it barely registered as more than air on my fingertips and didn’t burn my skin. I looked up to see Emma was just as entranced with her shade.

“The fabric is perfect, Lady Westover, but queens? How will we appear as more than well-dressed women?”

“Leave that to me. Just be here in time to dress the night of the ball.” She put her hands together as a look of pure joy crossed her face. “Oh, I feel like a fairy godmother.”

Emma and I looked at each other, grinning with pleasure. Fortunately, we had chosen to wear our best corsets, because once we were out of our skirts and blouses, Madame Leclerc and her assistant measured us so these gowns would be snug against our current undergarments.

“Lady Westover,” I began.

“Don’t move!” Madame Leclerc sounded like an angry schoolmistress.

I made certain only my mouth moved. “How am I paying for this?”

“You’re not.”

“That’s a relief. But I can’t expect you to—”

“I’m not.”

“Then who?”

“The Duke of Blackford.”

“What?” I spun around, knocking Madame Leclerc off balance and into a fern.

“Don’t move!” came in a chorus from Madame Leclerc, Lady Westover, and Emma. Madame Leclerc straightened herself from the plant, stomped over, and swung me around again.

I obediently took up my pose and she went back to measuring me, a palm frond stuck in her hair.

“He’s also lending you the tiaras for your crowns,” Lady Westover said. “And your jewels for the night.”

“Tell me they’re paste.” I couldn’t guard a fortune in jewels and find a murderer at the same time. Certainly not in evening clothes. We wouldn’t have any place to hide a handkerchief, much less a knife. The idea of going to a glittering ball in a beautiful dress was growing less appealing by the second.

“I doubt very much that the jewels will be paste.”

I had a bad feeling about this. “Then I hope someone will be on hand to guard them.”

“Oh, Georgia,” Lady Westover laughed. “You’ll be in a sea of diamonds. The jewels will be perfectly safe.”

Madame Leclerc began to measure my face. When I jerked my head back, she said, “For your mask. It shall be of the same silk as the dress.”

I held my head still, my eyes closed, and heard her murmur close to my ear, “A half mask. More dramatic.”

“I don’t know what the duke has planned.” Lady Westover sounded worried.

“When did he say he would pay for these gowns?” I asked.

“I sent him a note, suggesting my idea. He came to visit me at luncheon. As soon as I said you’d be dressed all in red, he murmured, ‘It’ll be easy to follow her,’ and pulled out a stack of banknotes. He wasn’t in the least interested in Emma’s costume.”

Emma gave me a raised-eyebrow look with a sly smile. Sometimes that girl can try my patience. The duke was a suspect, not a potential lover.

I was now beyond worried. I was confused, appalled, and frightened. These dresses would cost a fortune. What was Blackford up to? Why would he want to follow me? Or was he setting me up for somebody else?

*

NEITHER EMMA NOR I spoke on our trip from Lady Westover’s until we were almost to Sir Broderick’s doorstep. I was too busy listening to the duke’s man, Sumner, following us as he’d been ordered to do, and wondering why this was the first time I’d heard his footsteps when Emma said, “You’re really worried about this ball, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” came out in a hiss.

“In that crush, how will anyone find anyone? I suspect it will be a great deal of bother for a wonderful night and nothing more. Even a duke can’t stage-manage unmasking a murderer, if indeed Drake was murdered.” Emma reached out and rang the buzzer.

As Jacob, Sir Broderick’s young manservant, opened the door, I had a sickening thought. Either the duke had already deduced who had tried to abduct Drake, or he was the one after Drake and that meant he was a murderer.

We hurried in, glad of the light and warmth after the cold and fog. Jacob took our cloaks and we walked upstairs to the study, where we met with the rest of the Archivists who’d been summoned for our meeting.

“There’ve been developments?” Sir Broderick asked from his wheelchair parked by the fire.

I ran down everything new, from confronting Edith Carter, or Anne Drake, about her real name and marriage to Nicholas Drake to the fire at Drake’s house in Hounslow where he’d been hiding, and from meeting blackmail victims the Duke and Duchess of Merville and the Earl of Waxpool to the Duke of Blackford’s involvement in our attending the Duke of Arlington’s masked ball.

“Harry Conover. I’ll look him up again. When Jacob talked to Tom Whitaker, Drake’s other friend, he’d not seen Drake or Conover lately. Maybe Conover can tell us who Drake feared and what happened when someone tried to abduct him,” Adam Fogarty said, limping across the room to the fireplace, head bent in thought.

Sir Broderick caught my eye and winked. I knew Fogarty’s contacts inside the police force were valuable to the Archivist Society. Apparently, he was well liked by every constable and sergeant he’d ever worked with. Why the higher-ups let him go after he sustained his injury was a mystery he refused to discuss. If Sir Broderick knew, he wouldn’t say, and he wouldn’t allow the rest of us to ask.

“Find out what the police report says about the fire and the body,” Sir Broderick said to him. “I’ll have my man of affairs arrange a burial in the closest cemetery unless the widow has other plans.”

I felt heat rise up my cheeks. “With everything else, I haven’t told her yet.”

“First thing in the morning, Georgia. You can’t put a thing like that off,” Sir Broderick said.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Frances Atterby’s gray hair and ample bosom made her the perfect person for breaking bad news.

She’d spent decades working with her husband in their hotel before his murder. She’d developed a ready sympathy and an ability to talk to people that made everyone her friend. And I hated the bad-news part of the job. “Yes. Please. Thank you.”

“So,” Sir Broderick said, looking around at us, “who’s going to figure out what the Duke of Blackford is really up to?”

“The answer to that is at Castle Blackford, and none of us are going to have time for that trip until after the ball.” I looked around. “We need to attend Drake’s funeral at the very least. We need to find out what Lady Dutton-Cox is hiding besides a belief that her daughter was murdered. My guess is Drake stole letters from her daughter Victoria before she died, but neither Lord nor Lady Dutton-Cox seems at all concerned about blackmail or Drake. We need to find out the particulars of Lady Caphart selling or giving the house and land in Hounslow to Drake. Was she also a blackmail victim? And can someone attend the ball as a footman and bring a weapon? We don’t know what the duke plans, and I want to be ready for any eventuality.”

“You don’t trust him,” Sir Broderick said. He didn’t make it a question. He didn’t need to. I think he shared my suspicions.

“No. The Duke of Blackford is paying for our very expensive dresses, providing us with jewels and tiaras, and arranging for us to attend the ball. When I know why, then I might trust him. A little.”

Emma laughed. “Georgia, he might just fancy himself as your protector.”

I remembered his questions at Lady Westover’s dinner party about whether I was someone’s mistress and shuddered at the word “protector.” If he planned to make himself the protector of a trollop, he’d be sent away with firm words. If he wanted to extend his ducal protection to the work we were doing, that might be acceptable. As long as Blackford knew his bounds. I hadn’t taken orders from any man since my father was murdered, not even my fiancé, and I wasn’t about to start again now.

“We’ll get someone in as a footman to the Arlingtons’ masked ball. Who’ll look into Lady Caphart?” Sir Broderick said.

Emma raised her hand.

“Emma, check out her connection to Drake. Georgia, you’ve met Lady Dutton-Cox. Go back there and see what you can learn. And I’ll have my man of affairs sort out Drake’s funeral after I hear from Frances. Is there anything else?”

“One thing,” Jacob said, glancing around the room as if making certain none of us objected to him speaking up at a meeting. “Sir Broderick has me studying accountancy and I asked my tutor about the suspects Lord Hancock listed. He showed me how to look at public records about shares and companies.”

Jacob looked at Sir Broderick, who nodded. “The Earl of Waxpool’s son couldn’t have been stealing from the family. Their wealth has grown nicely each year for the last several. The earl has a brilliant mind for business. My tutor introduced me to his man of affairs, who was willing to tell me the earl is very hands-on. He won’t let his son, who has no interest in commerce, near any of the accounts. He never has let his heir have any role in their financial affairs.”

“So the story the earl gave me was just that. A story,” I said. Had he lied to hide the real reason, a compelling reason, why he was having Nicholas Drake hunted down?

“Sir Broderick’s having you trained as an accountant?” Emma said.

“The lad can’t be my valet and errand boy forever. He’s far too bright. If he picks up some extra skills, he can help the Archivists long after I’m gone.” Sir Broderick cleared his throat. “Is there anything else?”

I studied our leader’s face. He looked healthy to me. He often planned ahead. This must just be another instance of Sir Broderick’s foresightedness. I hoped.

“Just finding Drake’s murderer,” Fogarty said from where he’d momentarily stopped in front of a bookcase.

When Sir Broderick suggested we take a hansom cab home, I jumped at the idea. Even knowing it was Blackford’s man who was following, I was still anxious from the footsteps constantly echoing behind us.

“Georgia, one moment if you please. It’ll take Jacob a minute to find a cab.”

I sat down by Sir Broderick, trying to ignore the sweat springing up under my clothes.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time in Hyde Park Place lately.”

“That’s where I saw my parents’ killer.”

“Where you thought you saw him. What’s next? Knocking on the door of Surrey House and asking Lord Battersea if he knows any murderers?”

“Does he live along there?” I matched Sir Broderick’s sarcasm. I wasn’t going to stop hunting for the murderer. This was too important.

“Number seven.”

I’d thought the first time I saw the killer that he was a powerful man. Considering the neighborhood where I’d seen him, I’d have to add rich to powerful. “Then I’ll have to be more circumspect, because I’m going to continue to search for him.”

“Be careful, Georgia. You don’t know him, but he knows you.”

“I doubt their killer remembers me.” So far, everything had gone his way. But one day, he would slip up and then I’d find him.

Emma and I rode home to find Phyllida waiting for us. “Is the weather improving? Your skirts don’t look as dirty.”

“We’ve been more careful, Auntie,” Emma said, grinning.

Phyllida pressed her lips together, but the corners edged up. “None of your cheek, young lady. I know better than that. I heard the carriage outside. Take off your skirt so I can dry it in the kitchen before you brush it.”

Both of us obediently took off our skirts and handed them over. From the kitchen, Phyllida said, “You had a caller this evening.”

I walked into the kitchen in my stocking feet and petticoat. “Who?”

“Lord Hancock. He wants to sell a rare book. He said he’d come by the shop first thing in the morning.”

“Did you let him in?”

Phyllida heard the concern in my voice. “No. He didn’t get past the landing. Why?”

“How many rare book collectors have you ever seen come to this flat rather than the shop?”

We stared at each other as the temperature in the room chilled. “None.”

*

LORD HANCOCK ARRIVED the next morning as soon as I flipped over the Open sign. Walking to the counter, he laid a wrapped parcel on the smooth wooden surface and looked at me expectantly.

At least I had no reason to have worried about Phyllida’s safety. As I unwrapped the package, I said, “My aunt said you’d be here first thing this morning.”

“Phyllida Monthalf is your aunt?”

“Yes.” I looked at him suspiciously.

“We introduced ourselves last evening. Is she a member of the mad Monthalfs?”

They’d earned that reputation long before her brother had inflicted his depravity on the city. “A cadet branch. They’re only slightly mad.”

I looked down at the book I’d unwrapped. Definitely old and in good condition. Damp marks and a moldy cover, but no bookworm holes. “How much do you want?”

“One hundred pounds.”

He was madder than the Monthalfs. “It’s not worth more than ten.” I’d go up to fifteen, thinking I could eventually sell it for twenty. One hundred? Never.

“It’s the subject matter. It’s an alchemist book of formulas.”

“I don’t sell rare books on subject, but on the worth of the book to a collector. I’m sorry, Lord Hancock, but we’re too far apart to try to negotiate.”

“You won’t reconsider?”

“Ten pounds. That’s the best I can do.” I hoped he wouldn’t take it. I didn’t want a book on alchemy in my shop. I doubted people still believed such things were possible, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

He rewrapped his book with rapid, jerky movements. “You’ll be sorry,” he mumbled.

I hoped I’d misunderstood him. “What did you say?”

“You’ll be sorry. One day, you’ll all be sorry.” His package tucked under one arm, he stormed out of the shop, nearly knocking Frances Atterby over as she arrived to travel with me to visit Anne Drake.

I was already sorry. Nicholas Drake was dead, and I had to tell his widow.

*

I LEFT FRANCES later that morning dealing with Anne Drake’s grief. Now that she’d been forced to admit she wasn’t her sister, Edith Carter, she had no reason to hide either her identity or her love for her husband. Her carefully crafted world of lies, and the need for them, fell apart with Drake’s death. She broke down into a gasping, soggy mess.

Frances ordered Anne’s maid to bring heavily sugared tea and laudanum. Years of managing the family hotel with her husband had left Frances with the ability to handle any crisis, no matter how difficult the person or the situation. For now she sat with Anne, holding the new widow against her well-padded bosom as she rocked and crooned. Promising to do everything I could to find justice for Drake, I departed in haste.

My guilt followed me to Lady Westover’s. When I marched into her greenhouse and stared at her, she looked up from her spraying and said, “You’re in a temper.”

“I’ve just come from Nicholas Drake’s wife, informing her she’s a widow.”

She set the sprayer down and walked over to me, stripping off her large canvas gloves. Taking my hands, she said, “I am so sorry. That can’t have been easy for you. Always seeing your parents’ death and Sir Broderick’s accident whenever you have to deliver bad news.”

“No, I just—”

“Georgia, I am far too old to be put off by your denials.”

I pulled my hands away and studied the terra-cotta tile floor, fighting the tears that threatened to rend my heart.

“It’s been a dozen years since you lost your family and Sir Broderick ended up in a wheeled chair because of his injuries. You’ve grown up, but you haven’t lost your pain.”

I gritted my teeth. Swallowing my sobs, I forced my voice into something approaching normality. “I have to give Nicholas Drake justice. Then maybe I won’t grieve so much because I failed my family.”

She took my hands again. “I know, Georgia. I know.”

We stood in silence while the early spring sunshine shone through the glass panes, heating the air around us. The fragrance of moist soil and delicate blooms filled the air. This room always helped to ease my wounded heart. Once again I was reminded of how much time Lady Westover spent here on the anniversaries of events she wished had never happened.

I helped her off with her hat. “You must not tell anyone but your grandson that Drake is dead. We’re keeping it a secret for now so that the killer is the only suspect who knows.”

“All right,” she said with a feeble smile but a businesslike tone. “What do you plan to do now?”

“I need to speak to Lady Dutton-Cox again.”

“No, Georgia.”

“She believes her daughter was murdered. I believe Drake was murdered. If they both died by the same hand, we have to stop the killer.”

“If. Don’t you hear yourself?” Lady Westover shook her poufy gray à la concierge hairdo. I knew if I tried such a move, my hair would be around my shoulders in an instant. A knot worn on top of the head might be fashionable, but I wasn’t born to be fashionable.

Drawing my attention back to her words, I said, “You’re afraid your friend is behind Drake’s death, aren’t you?”

She took a half step back from me and looked out the window at the blooms in the garden. “I know you were terribly rude to her last time I took you to see Lady Dutton-Cox. I don’t want a repeat.”

“I only want to know if she or her husband received blackmail threats because of letters their daughter Victoria had written. Or if they were blackmailed due to something else entirely,” I added, not wanting to miss any possibility. I knew there wouldn’t be a third chance to question her.

“What will that prove?” Lady Westover’s blue eyes sharpened inside her scowl.

“Something Lady Dutton-Cox’s husband said makes me suspect Victoria’s death has nothing to do with Drake blackmailing them. Drake’s thefts are part of a pattern, and the reason why he was killed in a fire.”

“Someone wanted to burn the letters they couldn’t get away from Mr. Drake.” She nodded and walked away from me, sliding out of her enveloping apron. “I hope we can assure Honoria Dutton-Cox that her letters have been burned.”

“If they were in that house, they were destroyed.” I helped her out of her canvas duster.

“If they were? That’s not much comfort, Georgia.”

“That’s all I can give at the moment.” I went to follow Lady Westover into the main part of the town house, but she stopped me in the doorway.

“I’ve visited Lady Dutton-Cox since you saw her. She’s grown more reclusive. More fragile. I also lost my favorite child, and I thought for a long time I would lose my mind. Perhaps I did. Honoria was there for me. I won’t have you making her life more difficult. Do you understand?”

“I have to stop a murderer.”

“Not at the expense of making Honoria Dutton-Cox suffer more for something she didn’t do.”

I nodded. I understood Lady Westover’s determination to spare her friend, but I couldn’t chance letting a murderer go free. “This is the only way she can see her daughter’s murderer punished.”

Lady Westover looked at me and shook her head. “That’s not what she wants. Or needs.” Nevertheless, she called to her maid to get her ready to go out.

Chapter Fourteen

LADY Westover decreed the day was suitable for walking, so we arrived by foot at the Dutton-Cox town house. We found Lady Dutton-Cox in her morning room with a piece of half-finished embroidery on her lap. She immediately sent the footman away to have someone bring us tea and bade us sit, all without rising from her chair.

“How are you enjoying your stay in London, Miss Peabody?” she asked as soon as we were settled. She took a sip from the nearly full teacup on the table at her side, but I saw no sign of teapot or sugar or even a spoon. I wanted to get close enough to smell the brew in her cup. Brandy, most likely.

The skin beneath her eyes looked faintly bruised, as if she hadn’t had a restful night’s sleep in some time. Her face looked puffy, and she gazed at me without appearing to really focus on my face. And it was early afternoon. I glanced at Lady Westover and she threw me a warning look.

I managed a few bland comments about London, the weather, and the traffic one saw at all hours of the day. “For a while I was afraid to send any letters home. I kept hearing stories of Mr. Drake, that friend of your daughter Victoria, stealing letters and blackmailing the sender.”

Lady Dutton-Cox looked me over, scorn in her expression. “You have nothing to worry about. It’s only rich, beautiful girls like Victoria and Elizabeth who need to worry about Drake stealing their letters.”

Silence fell as the tea tray was carried in. Lady Westover fixed tea for herself and me. When she offered to pour some for Lady Dutton-Cox, the woman smiled slightly and shook her head, sipping from her own teacup.

The silence lengthened. I glanced at Lady Westover, who narrowed her eyes before taking a sip of tea. I needed to know if Drake had stolen letters from Lady Dutton-Cox or her daughter, and this brittle quiet was doing no good. “Did Drake steal any of Victoria’s letters and then try to blackmail her?”

“You certainly are a nosy young woman.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Then he had obtained letters you wrote?”

“I rarely write letters. Hadn’t you noticed? I’m a recluse. It would hardly do to be a recluse and then send letters all over the isle.” She drank the rest of the liquid in her teacup in one gulp and then swayed slightly in her chair.

“So Mr. Drake didn’t blackmail anyone in this house?” I must have sounded amazed, because the woman laughed at me.

“Not in this house.” She rang for her servants. One appeared immediately. “My teapot.”

“Do you think . . . ,” the footman began and quickly made his voice fade.

“My. Teapot.”

He disappeared and was replaced by a maid, who poured her mistress a cupful from a blue-flowered teapot and then left.

“Honoria, do you want us to leave?” Lady Westover asked.

Before I could glare at her, Lady Dutton-Cox said, “I don’t care. I haven’t cared since my beautiful Victoria died before she became a duchess. She should have been a duchess. It’s not fair. Nothing matters anymore.”

Lady Westover rose and crossed over to her friend. There was no place to sit near our hostess, since her chair was in a corner with tables standing sentinel on both sides of her. I pulled over a chair for Lady Westover to sit facing her friend. She was more likely to get the answers I needed. And I had failed twice today in being sympathetic. I was completely ashamed of my lack of tact. Not ashamed enough to stop this investigation, but embarrassed by my dearth of compassion.

“Honoria, look at me,” Lady Westover said. “You have other children. You have grandchildren. Don’t they matter to you?”

“My son has taken his family to the country and refuses to see me or let me see my grandchildren until I behave the way he wants. He says I have no shame.” She gulped from her teacup.

Lady Westover patted her free hand. “I don’t expect you to put away the pain of Victoria’s death. That’s impossible. I know. But Victoria wouldn’t want you to quit living. She was happy and carefree and would want you to enjoy life.”

Lady Dutton-Cox looked away, but she set down the teacup with a clatter.

I was only trying to be helpful when I said, “Your husband is beside himself with sorrow over Victoria’s death, with the blackmail and your melancholy. Talk to him. Share your grief.”

The lady took a quick drink, nearly spilling the liquid in her hurry to pick up the teacup again. Lady Westover looked daggers at me.

“Oh, he’s beside himself all right. Elizabeth always was his favorite. He had to pay a pretty penny to Drake to keep him quiet about her letters until we married her off to the viscount. Not our problem anymore.” She wagged a finger at me and then rang for the servants. “Bloody Drake. Bloody Elizabeth. Bloody servants.” Her voice raised in pitch with every word.

A footman entered and she yelled, “My teapot!”

“Milady . . .”

“My teapot, you fool!”

A maid returned with it a moment later and poured. She hadn’t left the room before Lady Dutton-Cox took a gulp.

“And you might get her lady’s maid,” Lady Westover said to the servant’s retreating back.

I knew I only had moments to learn anything else. “Who did Lady Elizabeth write?”

“Bloody Drake. Bloody shisters fighting over the same man. Elizabeth, the little fool, wrote compromising letters to Drake. Victoria would have won. She was the prettier. But then Blackford ruined it all. Ruined it all. And Blackford’s bloody sister, Margaret, killed my baby.” Tears ran down the woman’s pudgy face.

Lady Westover ran a gloved hand over Lady Dutton-Cox’s brow and murmured comforting sounds.

I had to ask. “Does Elizabeth’s husband know?”

“’Coursh he does. He’s a swine. Refused to meet Drake privately. Jush what Elizabeth deserves. And Drake, too.” She gulped down the rest of the contents of her teacup before it slipped from her hand. Then she started mumbling as her lady’s maid dashed in.

I tried one last time. “Lady Dutton-Cox, talk to your husband. He’s in mourning, too, for Victoria. Let him share your grief.”

She looked in my general direction with unfocused eyes and said, “Go to hell.”

Lady Westover marched past me on her way to the door. For an old lady, she moved fast. I didn’t catch up with her until we were outside the house.

“Lady Westover . . .”

“Good day, Miss Fenchurch. I’d almost forgotten that you are not one of us.” Her nose in the air, she stormed off. I’d lost an ally, and it was my own clumsy fault.

I stood on the sidewalk, looking from the house to Lady Westover’s retreating back and feeling miserable. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but I’d spent the day ripping people’s hearts from their chests and waltzing on them. Sadly, Nicholas Drake wasn’t the only victim of this abduction and murder.