Letters to a Lover, page 15
She was in luck. The girl must have been lurking in wait, for she all but ran toward Azalea with her wrap. Her huge, anxious eyes gazed up in something very like fright. “My lady, have you heard anything?” she almost whispered.
Azalea took the wrap. “About what?”
The girl’s eyes widened impossibly. “About him. Ned.”
“No,” Azalea said, honestly enough. “Have you?”
“No, thank God.”
“Franny,” the butler reproved, making the girl jump.
She sketched a hasty curtsey. “I’ll never forget what you did. Thank you.”
Azalea almost reached out to call her back. What did I do? But impossible to ask here with the butler and the footman hovering. Guests did not converse with the maids in hallways. So, with an odd mixture of frustration and excitement, she nodded graciously and left the house.
“That girl knows something,” she almost hissed at Eric as she took his arm, and they turned their footsteps toward Half Moon Street.
“Geraldine?”
“Franny, the maid. She thanked me, said she’d never forget what I did. And asked if I’d heard anything about Ned, who is the missing footman.”
“Did she say why you might have?”
“No, but she seemed pleased I hadn’t. That footman is connected with our problem, you know. I just can’t work out how.”
“Perhaps he is the blackmailer,” Eric said thoughtfully. “We have not even looked at the servants of our suspects.”
“Well, servants don’t have a great deal of freedom of movement,” Azalea argued. “Unless they disappear from their employers, of course.” She frowned. “Or are acting for their employers. Drat it all, Eric, the waters are muddied even further. Did you learn anything useful?”
“No, except that I doubt very much Beresford was the person I punched in Grosvenor Square. He’s too…insubstantial.”
“And his face isn’t marked. I think we have to rule out the Royston children. Neither of them seem malicious, just discontented.”
“Never mind,” Eric murmured, glancing up at the sky. “It’s a lovely day for a walk.”
Distracted, Azalea smiled at him instead and squeezed his arm. “So it is.”
*
They discovered Griz in her garden, sitting in the sunshine and casually throwing sticks for Vicky, the little Italian greyhound, to bring back to her. Azalea didn’t notice Dragan at first, but he sat on the ground at Grizelda’s feet, his back against her legs, while he gazed over several pieces of paper and occasionally made a brief mark in his ubiquitous notebook.
It was an idyllic scene. Even yesterday, it might have caused Azalea a hint of painful jealousy amongst her pleasure in her sister’s deserved contentment. Today, with her own growing happiness glowing about her, she felt merely loathe to interrupt them with the ugliness of blackmail.
It was Vicky who noticed them first, though the game was clearly too important to do more than glance at them and wag her skinny tail even more enthusiastically. At least that made Griz look up and smile.
“Aha. You’ve come for a conference,” she said. “Good timing, for Emmie will bring tea soon.”
Dragan laid aside his notebook and set trestle chairs for his guests before resuming his position at his wife’s feet without any embarrassment. Nor did Griz appear to mind.
“I got into Gunning’s rooms,” she confided, much like a mischievous child confessing it had managed to raid the biscuit tin. “Disguised as one of his ladybirds.”
“He must have a very relaxed landlady,” Eric said, amused.
“Landlord,” Griz corrected. “A retired gentleman’s gentleman, who winked at me and told me not to rush, for His Nibs would be back within the hour.”
“How,” Azalea asked, distracted by her sister’s workaday gown and spectacles, “did you manage to disguise yourself as—er—a ladybird?”
“Emmie altered a horrid, pink, frilly gown Mama made me wear once when I was fifteen. I knew it would come in useful one day. And it did, with a cheap matching umbrella and pink flowers in my old bonnet. I kept my spectacles in my reticule and batted my eyelashes, so I could hardly find my way upstairs to his rooms.”
Azalea smothered a snort of laughter. “Did you find anything?”
“Nothing incriminating,” Griz said, sounding disappointed, “but I did steal a note that he must have left for his landlord one day. We’re comparing it to your blackmail letter.”
“Ah, well, we have another of those,” Eric murmured, delving into his pocket.
Dragan glanced up, frowning, and took it from him, while Griz read it over his shoulder.
“It,” he pounced, pointing at the tiny word. “He says letters, plural, at the beginning, then says he will return it.”
“We thought it just a mistake,” Azalea said.
“It probably is, though it may stem from the fact that there is only one letter.”
They all thought about that for a moment. “I’m not sure that’s any better,” Azalea said at last.
“But it might be more believable that you forgot one letter.”
Azalea wasn’t sure believable was good in that case, either. Neither, she suspected, was Eric, who swiftly moved on.
“Is that Gunning’s note?” he said, nodding to the scrap of paper on Dragan’s lap. “It looks to be a completely different hand.”
“It does,” Dragan agreed. “But it’s always possible the blackmailer has enough sense to disguise his writing. In which case, there might be little things to give him away—distinctive loops or tails they forget to disguise sometimes and match with their usual writing.”
“And are there any such giveaways?” Azalea asked.
Griz took the stick from Vicky’s mouth and threw it again.
“Not that I have discovered,” Dragan admitted. “I don’t think it’s Gunning. And Griz was pretty thorough in her search, including under loose floorboards and the mattress. There were no stolen letters. And besides, I think Gunning is too…entitled to bother hiding such things.”
“You’re probably right,” Eric said. He pointed a toe at the other documents scattered around Dragan. “What are these?”
“Samples of Darchett’s writing, Fenner’s, Royston’s, and Lawrence Hammond’s.”
Azalea stared at him. A breath of admiring laughter hissed between Eric’s teeth.
“Where,” Azalea asked faintly, “did you get those?”
“Various places,” Dragan replied “There are no obvious matches, but I’m still looking. What do you plan to do about this?” He tapped the newest blackmail epistle.
“We haven’t decided yet,” Eric said restlessly. “Originally, I thought of going instead of Azalea and capturing our blackmailer. But as Azalea pointed out, he could easily see it was me and just not meet me. In which case, we might have lost our last chance to catch him.”
Emmie appeared then with a tea tray and extra cups for the guests. The scones were still warm. Vicky was banished to lie down with her stick several feet away.
Dragan buttered a scone and took a huge bite of it, while Griz passed around cups of tea. “What,” he said when he could speak again, “if we start early? Watch him watching us?”
“You mean hide early in the vicinity and wait for him to arrive?” Eric said thoughtfully.
“Azalea would still need to meet him,” Dragan said, “but as soon as there is any exchange, we can pounce on him. In fact,” he added, gathering up his papers and getting to his feet, “why don’t we go and reconnoiter now? Spy out the lie of the land and make plans accordingly?”
“We’re coming, too,” Griz announced. “Vicky needs a walk.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Dragan argued. “She’s been running round the garden for hours. Besides, ladies in the mews would cause notice, even if our man doesn’t happen to be there at the time. And, for his benefit, when you arrive this evening, you have to be looking for the right place, not marching right up to a familiar stable.”
“Hmm, perhaps,” Griz said grudgingly.
“Who lives in Berkley Square?” Azalea asked suddenly. “Who owns the mews in question?”
“We can find out about the mews,” Dragan said.
“But none of our suspects actually live in Berkley Square,” Eric said in frustration.
Dragan threw his arm around Grizelda’s shoulder and kissed her on the lips without embarrassment. “He doesn’t have to live there, just stand still long enough for us to catch him.”
Eric rose to follow him. “That is true.” Passing behind Azalea’s chair, he brushed his knuckles lightly across the back of her neck, which made her shiver. A strange, warm shiver of pleasure. She twisted her head to smile up at him. And then he was on his way.
“It’s an odd thing,” Griz observed after some minutes of thoughtful silence, “but since all this blackmail nonsense began, you actually seem happier.”
“Did I seem unhappy before?” Azalea asked lightly.
“No,” Griz admitted, then, “Yes, in comparison. I didn’t notice.” She glanced at her with a faint, self-deprecating smile. “I always thought you had everything. Everything you always wanted, all that Their Graces wanted for you. You were the shining example held up to Rosemary, Athena, and me. I didn’t want the same things as you, and yet I envied you.”
“Did you?” Had she known that? Certainly, there had been odd, ungracious moments that Azalea had pushed aside as just another of her little sister’s eccentricities. “Why? Because I found Eric when I was so young?”
Griz shook her head. “No. No, I think… I always thought everything was easy for you. Approval, social success, adulation, wealthy, adoring husband and children. Your husband isn’t even boring.”
“Should he be?” Azalea asked, amused. “Am I?”
“Of course not,” Griz said impatiently. “I am observant by nature, but I never truly observed you. It wasn’t always easy, was it?”
Azalea looked away, conscious of a lump in her throat. She shook her head. “Social success comes at a price. Oh, I enjoyed it and took every advantage, but at the beginning, I also had to face the spite of envious girls, the tricks of some of their mothers. That hurt. And I had to learn how to deal with over-amorous and entitled men. That does make one cynical and perhaps a little hard.”
She drew in her breath, giving herself time to clamp her mouth shut and stop talking. But it seemed she couldn’t. “I told you that after Lizzie, I was…sad. I had no reason to be, and yet I could not pull myself out of it. I really thought I must be insane.” She waved that aside with one, impatient hand. “Eric was wonderful, although I knew he was so worried. So I was inspired to make a push. I think I went through the motions of being happy again until I actually was. Only… I don’t know. I shone too brightly, lost part of myself in the pretense, and Eric and I…”
She broke off. “It is better now. We’re doing this together, and he trusts me more than I trust myself. I don’t just know I love him. I feel it again. I remember why. And I’m talking nonsense, aren’t I?”
“No.” A fleeting smile crossed Grizelda’s face. “You were always my favorite sibling. Shall we go inside?”
*
The mews in question ran the whole length of Berkley Square from Charles Street, with another mews lane leading off it to the left. Both lanes were wider than most and busy. Trench and Tizsa found Number 70 near the end, which opened onto Charles Street. Unlike most, the door was closed, and Trench could see no movement.
All around them were grooms and coachmen, the rumble of carriages and horses clopping along the cobbles. Some of the stables were being mucked out; at others, horses were being groomed. Outside a few stable boys lounged, talking or playing push penny against a wall.
Tizsa wandered over to the nearest such group. “Is Number 70 free to rent, do you know? My friend is looking for extra stable space.”
“Been empty for at least two years,” said a snubbed nosed stable boy. “Belongs to the old lady in Charles Street. She might rent it to him.”
“Nah,” said another. “My guv’nor tried to get it off her to keep the missus’s new carriage in, but she weren’t having it. Dog-in-the-manger like. She got no use for it now—don’t keep a carriage no more—but won’t let anyone else have it neither.”
“Wouldn’t let your guv’nor have it,” the first stable boy argued with a grin. “She probably don’t like him any more than you do. Might let him have it, though.”
“I wonder if she’d let me see inside it,” Trench mused. “Just to see if it suits before I call on her.”
“The stable door ain’t locked,” said the second boy. “So help yourself. Won’t be able to see the room above, though.”
Under the amused eye of the stablemen, Trench and Tizsa wandered back to Number 70 and pushed open the door.
There wasn’t much to see. It still smelled vaguely of horses, overlaid with damp. A small pile of old straw lay in one narrow stall. Some empty hooks for tack lined the walls. To one side of the door stood an old stool with a grubby cushion. The hairs of some long-gone horse still clung to it.
Despite the stable’s proximity to people and passing horses, it felt isolated and cold. Trench didn’t like to think of Azalea coming in here alone in the dark.
“At least there aren’t many places for him to lie in wait unseen,” he said grimly.
“Nor for us,” Dragan murmured, wandering in and out of the stalls.
Trench moved toward the inner door at the back of the stable. Presumably, it led upstairs to the living quarters, so when he pushed it, he didn’t expect it to open.
It did.
He found himself in a tiny, gloomy hallway. A short, narrow passage on the right led into what must have been the carriage house. Another door, directly opposite the one he’d just come through, proved to be locked. This would be the door to the living quarters upstairs.
“I could hide here,” Trench said as he sensed Tizsa standing behind him.
“So could he.”
“Then I could step back into the carriage house out of his way.”
“If he doesn’t look there, too. Wait. Stand behind me.”
Obediently, Trench swapped places with Tizsa, who was drawing from his pocket a piece of wire and something that looked like a surgeon’s instrument. Before his startled gaze, Tizsa crouched down and actually began picking the lock.
“I’m not even going to ask how you learned such a trick.”
“I once shared a prison cell with a thief. He imparted only a fraction of his knowledge before we escaped.” The lock clicked. Tizsa turned the handle and pushed. “But it was enough for simple work like this.”
Over Dragan’s shoulder, Trench glimpsed a bare staircase leading upward.
“We’ll leave this door unlocked,” Tizsa said, closing it and straightening. “That way, if our man does look around, you can back onto the stairs until he retreats again.”
“I suppose he will assume the stair door is locked and inaccessible.”
“Let’s hope so.”
As they walked back through the empty stable, Tizsa murmured, “I suppose you will want to be in here. Griz and I will find another spot outside to wait. That way, we should be able to trap him.”
They emerged into daylight. Trench waved to the watching stable lads, who suddenly jumped to their feet as a carriage began to approach from the other end of the lane.
“There will be people around all the time,” Trench murmured. “I can’t see where you and Griz could remain inconspicuous. The chances are our man would recognize Griz, at least, and bolt.”
“Amorous servants lurking in the darkness are not so unusual.”
Trench regarded him with amusement. “I suppose you should be allowed some compensation for a long wait.”
Chapter Sixteen
Trench stood in his wife’s sitting room, anxious to be gone and yet agonizingly reluctant to leave her.
“You mustn’t even glance at it in more than passing,” he said. “But I shall be behind the door at the back of the stable, just waiting to grab him.”
“I know,” Azalea pointed out from the armchair. “You told me.”
He smiled ruefully. “I’m repeating myself. The truth is, I hate the thought of you walking in there alone.”
“I shan’t be alone. You will be there, and Dragan and Griz will follow.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t tell you whether he will be waiting for you in the stable or come in after you.”
She rose and went to him, winding both arms around his neck. “I know that, too, and it doesn’t really matter.”
He held her tightly against him, pressing his cheek to hers, loving her scent and her softness. Anxiety threatened to become a pain under which he could not function.
“I wish there were another way,” he whispered.
“There isn’t,” she said, taking his face between her hands. “I will be careful, as should you. And Griz and Dragan. But I’m not afraid. And in a few hours, it will all be over.”
He kissed her fiercely, so moved by her instant response that he nearly forgot he was meant to be leaving.
He tore himself free, mocking himself for thinking of a soldier going into battle. In reality, he felt more like a wife must watching her husband march off to danger. He didn’t allow himself to look back.
The mews behind Berkley Square were much quieter as he strolled along at about seven that evening. He did indeed glimpse an amorous couple of servants, who were not Griz and Tizsa, and who ignored him.
He adjusted his speed to allow the carriage ahead of him to turn into Charles Street, then, he slipped through the door into the stable of Number 70. Closing it behind him, he raised his fists, ready for an attack.
None came. The stable was as empty as before. Knowing he would have a long and uncomfortable wait for ten o’clock, he considered the musty cushion on the stool beside him. God knew what was living in it. With regret, he walked past it, to the inner door, checked the equally empty carriage house, then closed the door to the stable.
