Letters to a Lover, page 19
“Franny Wilson is here, ma’am.”
“Thank you for coming, Franny,” Azalea said as the young maid dropped a deep curtsey. “Sit here, please, so that we can talk. That will be all, Morris, thank you.”
Morris inclined her head and walked into the bedchamber, closing the door behind her.
Franny’s hands twisted together in her lap. She was clearly both eager and apprehensive.
Azalea began. “I wanted to tell you that my brother-in-law found Ned. He is still weak, but he will recover. He has officially left Lord Royston’s employ and will leave London as soon as he is able. I’m assured he will bother neither of us again. Unless you wish to make charges against him.”
“Lord, no,” Franny said fervently. “If we got away with it, I won’t rock the boat.”
“Don’t ever accept such behavior from a man,” Azalea said seriously. “Whatever his expressions of love or regret. Tell the housekeeper, your employer. Or come to me. I will always help you if I can. I just don’t want you in that position again.”
“You’re so kind, my lady,” Franny whispered, wiping her eyes. “And I know what happened to Ned was an accident, but he deserved it. I been worried about you, my lady. I tried to pluck up the courage to ask in your kitchen how you were, but I thought it would cause too much talk.”
“It’s you who are kind,” Azalea said warmly. “And as you see, I am quite well.”
That was the easy part of the conversation dealt with. Azalea shifted in her chair. “Actually, I would have contacted you earlier, but the truth is…I had trouble remembering everything that happened. My brother-in-law, who is a physician—almost—thinks my mind blocked the memory because it was too horrible. I have lived a sheltered life, as you probably guess, and I had never seen violence of any kind before.”
Franny’s eyes were wide and attentive.
“I’m remembering more all the time,” Azalea persevered, “but there is still some time I can’t account for at the ball. At least, I think there is. I remember washing my hands with you in the scullery and then walking with you back outside. But that’s where it fades. Until I was back in the ballroom. Did I go straight back?”
“No, my lady,” Franny replied, and Azalea’s stomach twisted. “You needed time to recover from the shock of what happened, but I couldn’t take you through the kitchen. Everyone would have seen you. So, I took you back outside and in through a side door to the garden room, and from there up to the library, where I knew no one would go.”
Azalea tried but could remember no such journey. “Did you stay with me there? You must have been in some pain.”
“I was, a little,” Franny admitted. “And I did stay with you for a bit. If we were discovered, we agreed to say you were feeling unwell, and I was looking after you.”
That rang a vague bell for Azalea. She had a flash of a private library, lined with bookshelves and leather chairs. “And then?”
“I felt too guilty being away from work, so I left you there.”
“What was I doing when you left?” This is it. This is the question I truly need answered.
“You were going to write a letter, my lady.”
*
In the elegant dining room at White’s club, Trench and Tizsa took their seats at a table from where they could both see the door. It was still early, so there were not many other diners.
“Lord Darchett here yet?” Trench asked the waiter.
“No, my lord, but his party is expected soon.” He poured them each a glass of claret and departed.
Trench gazed thoughtfully into his glass, wondering how and why his wife had achieved distance between them once more.
“It will take her a little while to adjust,” Tizsa murmured.
Trench blinked, wondering uneasily if he had actually spoken aloud. Then he picked up his glass and drank. “Sometimes, I can’t make up my mind whether you are too perceptive or just too insolent.”
“Both,” Dragan admitted. “She is grappling with a huge mess of violence and guilt and shame. You know that, so I will just say…no one thinks of your wife or mine as particularly vulnerable. But they are. I daresay you’ve noticed Grizelda often hides hers beneath determined eccentricity or even aggression. She finds it hard to believe anyone could find her beautiful, charming, or delightful. Azalea was the unreachable heights of perfection she was encouraged to aspire to, so she finds it difficult to grasp that this paragon might have vulnerabilities of her own.”
Trench regarded him with a practiced hint of ice. “I’m sure you have a point, Tizsa, but I do hope you are not going to explain my wife’s vulnerabilities.”
“I wouldn’t presume,” Tizsa said promptly. And did. “Because of her poise and beauty, they are harder to see, but it seems to me, she is a little like Griz. Except, where Griz does not believe she has any beauty, Azalea thinks no one can see anything else. And beauty is little defense against assault or adultery or feelings of guilt.”
Trench stared at him, understanding perfectly well what he was implying. “If it were any of your business, I would tell you I have no intention of abandoning my wife. She has done nothing wrong. On the contrary, I am proud of her. She already knows that whatever she has done, or not done, makes no difference to my…to me.”
“You might need to keep telling her for a little,” said the unbearable Tizsa. “And on cue, just before you hit me, here is Darchett.”
“You’re not afraid of anything, are you?” Trench murmured, tearing his gaze away to the party of boisterous young men entering the dining room.
Tizsa laughed. “You could not be more wrong.”
At least the laughter attracted Darchett’s attention, and Trench left quizzing his wife’s impertinent brother-in-law until later. He lifted his hand in a friendly manner, gesturing Darchett to join them.
Obligingly, Darchett excused himself to his friends and walked across to Trench, saying cheerfully, “How do you do? Quiet dinner today?”
“Quieter than yours, by the look of things,” Trench said with an amiable gesture toward the slightly rowdy companions now sitting down at the large table at the back of the room. “I’m giving my wife a little peace since she is unwell. We were wondering,” he added, through Darchett’s civil good wishes for her speedy recovery, “if you could answer a few questions relating to that?”
Tizsa pulled out a chair he had thoughtfully added to their table earlier, and Darchett, looking bewildered and slightly alarmed, sat in it mechanically. A passing waiter set an extra glass on the table, and Tizsa poured some wine in it, pushing it toward their guest.
“Questions relating to your wife’s ill-health?” Darchett said warily.
“In a manner of speaking,” Trench replied. “I won’t beat about the bush here, Darchett. There is a nasty campaign against my wife, and I need your information and your discretion.”
“We understand,” Tisza put in, “that your distasteful wager with Mr. Gunning was no more than that, but I’m sure none of us here would like it to come out, let alone be misconstrued as part of a much more sinister plot leading to trial and prison.”
“No, indeed!” Darchett paled, his eyes wide. He took a reviving gulp of wine. “What is it you want to know?”
“A few odd questions concerning the Dowager Lady Darchett’s house in Charles Street.”
Darchett blinked. Clearly, he had not expected that. “What about it?”
“Do you have your own key to the front door?”
“Yes, but what does this—”
“Who else has one? Lady Darchett’s servants?”
“Not to the front door. They use the area door to the kitchen. The housekeeper does not even keep a latch key, only the deadlock key. Why—”
“Does Lady Darchett own the mews property Number 70, in the lane running behind Berkley Square, between Charles Street and Hill Street?”
“Yes, but it’s been empty for years. She doesn’t keep a carriage anymore. Can’t afford it, to be frank. In fact, between ourselves, we can’t really afford the house, but she refused to stay in Darchett House after my father died, and she won’t go anywhere less expensive.” Perhaps realizing he was talking too much, he compressed his lips.
“Did you know the door to the mews building is not locked?”
He shrugged. “The lock’s been broken forever. It doesn’t matter, there’s nothing in there. The other folk down there make sure the door is at least closed. And last I checked, the living accommodation is still secure—not that there’s anything up there either, but don’t want anyone sneaking in and making themselves at home. Why all this interest in my mother’s property?”
Trench glanced at Tizsa, who gave an infinitesimal nod. For the sake of urgency, they had to make a decision to trust that Darchett was not involved and that he would not warn whoever was.
Trench said, “An attack was made on my wife last night, an attack that could all too easily have killed her.”
“Dear God!” Darchett exclaimed in genuine horror. This was clearly news to him.
“The culprit fled,” Trench went on, “into your mother’s house in Charles Street, either using a key to get in or having an accomplice there to admit him.”
Darchett’s jaw dropped. “But that’s impossible. Last night, I was at my mother’s house. She isn’t well either. What time did all this happen?”
“Around ten o’clock. Were you still there?”
“I stayed the night to keep her happy. I don’t understand why she doesn’t just come back to Darchett House, though I suppose once I am married…” He broke off again, clearly yanking his wayward thoughts back to the matter under discussion. “I heard no one rushing in. The servants would have told me.”
“Did you go out at all during the evening?” Tizsa asked.
Darchett shook his head.
“Tell us,” Trench said, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers to quell his impatience, “about your mother’s servants. What manservants does she have?”
Darchett looked from one to the other, baffled. “None, save the boy who stokes the kitchen fire. It’s a house of women. They’re cheaper to employ.”
Tizsa threw himself back in his chair, clearly frustrated. “Any of them unusually tall for a female?” he asked without much hope.
“No,” Darchett said flatly. And then paused with his glass halfway to his lips.
Chapter Twenty
“I was about to write a letter,” Azalea repeated, gazing at Franny while her heart drummed with excitement. “In my host’s library during a ball?”
“Yes, my lady, that’s what you said. You sat at the desk, drew a sheet of paper, and picked up the pen. That’s how you were when I left you.”
“But who on earth was I writing to at such a time?”
“I don’t know, my lady. You didn’t tell me.”
Azalea rubbed her forehead, willing herself to remember. “Did we meet again that night, Franny?”
“No, my lady. I tried to look out for you leaving, but I was kept too busy. Everyone was annoyed with Ned for vanishing during the hard work. I kept my head down and said nothing.”
“And were there letters waiting to be posted that night?”
“Oh, no, the table where they’re left was empty that night and the next morning. I looked especially because of your letter.”
“I don’t suppose,” Azalea said without much hope, “that you went into the library to see if I had left it there?”
“Actually, I did, just before I went to bed. There was nothing there. You must have taken it with you.”
“I might have.” But somehow, it had ended in the hands of a blackmailer. Quite aside from why she would have written such a letter—she must have been temporarily insane—there was a very limited time when she could have lost it.
She knew because she had asked when she first realized she had forgotten the ball that her carriage, driven by the trusty John, had brought her home. If she’d dropped the letter in the carriage, or in the house, John or one of the house servants would have brought it to her. So she must have lost it at the Roystons. No one was likely to have taken it from her. Ned, who might have imagined she was accusing him to the police, had vanished into the night, severely wounded. Franny would not have protected him by stealing it.
But someone else could have stolen it. They had already ruled out Lord Royston, who could not have been present in all places the blackmailer had definitely been.
“The servants…” she murmured. “Franny, do you trust your fellow servants at Royston House? Particularly the manservants?”
“Mostly,” she said doubtfully. “Don’t particularly like some of them. They let Ned get away with too much. Matthew even began to talk like him, kind of bullying, you know?”
“What does Matthew look like? Is he tall and thin?”
“Tall, yes, but not thin, my lady. Big. Muscley, like footmen are.”
“Are any of the servants tall and thin?” she asked with fading hope. “Any of them own a silk hat?”
That drew a smile. “No, ma’am. Not even Mr. Thompson—he’s the butler—though he is tall and quite thin.”
“Is he indeed?” Azalea sat up. “I don’t suppose he was out yesterday evening?”
“Oh, no, my lady. It’s not his evening off until Monday. He was counting bottles most of the evening and fuming because he thought someone had been pilfering.”
“Even at ten o’clock?”
“He’d calmed down by then and was having a cup of tea with Mrs. Gently, the housekeeper.”
Azalea sighed. It had been a faint hope. “I think,” she said carefully, after a few moments, “the letter I wrote the night of the ball got lost or was stolen somewhere in Royston House.”
“Well, if it was lost, it would have gone to Lady Royston eventually, and if she knew it was yours, she would surely have given it back to you.”
“I must have signed it,” Azalea said. After all, the blackmailer knew it was hers. “So it must have been thrown out with the rubbish or stolen.”
“I didn’t take it, my lady,” Franny said in sudden fright. The instant fear of the servant that they would be accused before their betters.
“I know you didn’t,” Azalea replied at once. “But someone must have. Franny, do Mr. Beresford or Miss Geraldine frequent their father’s library?”
Franny smiled with genuine amusement. “Lord, no, Miss Geraldine isn’t interested in books, and his lordship can’t entice the young master in there to study, no matter how hard he tries. It’s really his lordship’s own room.”
“Were there guests staying the night for the ball?” Azalea asked hopefully.
“No, my lady.”
The Roystons’ ballroom was built onto the back of the house, on the ground floor. It had its own supper room, and the cloakrooms for both men and women were also on the ground floor. None of the guests would have had reason to go upstairs to the library. Which didn’t mean none of them did.
Only who?
“I have run out of suspects,” Azalea said ruefully. “It seems no one in the house that night—apart from you and I—would have had the time or the inclination to stray from the ground floor or go anywhere near the library.” Would I have wandered around the house, or even back to the ballroom, dazed, with the letter in my hand, so that someone just took it from me?
Another of those half-flashes of memory came to her. A desk in the room lined with books. Placing a pen tidily in its stand, rising to her feet, knowing she had been away from the ballroom too long and causing talk. She lifted her fan off the top of the desk, holding it in both hands as she walked away.
Dear God, I just left the letter there. I walked away, forgot what I was doing. What the devil was I doing?
“Not everyone was working or dancing,” Franny said unexpectedly. “The guests’ servants had very little to do.”
Azalea blinked. “The guests’ servants…” Many ladies took their dressers or personal maids with them to formal events such as balls, to aid with the changing of shoes, and last-minute hair and dress adjustments, to keep charge of shawls, combs, and extra hairpins, and to make any repairs on gowns that were snagged or trodden on. Azalea had never bothered to do so, although her mother did. So did Augusta. “Where were the guests’ servants for the ball? In the servants’ hall?”
“Yes, mostly, unless they were called or chose to help us. Most didn’t, just enjoyed an evening with their feet up.”
“Hmm.” Still, maids were of no interest to her. She paused in the act of rubbing her chin for inspiration. She and Athena had once giggled at their brother Monkton’s affectation in having his valet present at a ball they had all attended several years ago. If Monkton did it… “Franny, did any of the gentlemen guests bring their valets?”
“One or two. Mrs. Gently says it’s so they can cadge a free meal and save their employers the cost.”
Azalea gazed at the maid, almost afraid to breathe. For the second time, she had the feeling she was about to learn something crucial. “Do you know whose valets were there during the ball? Mr. Gunning’s, perhaps?”
But Franny shook her head. “Don’t recall that name. Mr. Hartstone’s valet was there—apparently his master is a very pernickety gentleman. And Lord Darchett’s, as usual.”
Lord Darchett’s valet…
What was it Darchett had said to her and Eric that day in the park? What is another scold from one’s valet? I would let him go if only I could afford to pay him…
*
Trench and Tizsa both gazed expectantly at Darchett, who seemed to have been struck by some not entirely pleasant thought.
“You forgot about one of your mother’s servants?” Trench prompted.
But Tizsa, not for the first time, was ahead of him. “He stayed the night. He brought his own servant with him.”
“I always do,” Darchett said defensively. “Useful chap, Jessop, and besides, he likes going to other people’s houses and getting fed, if he can. It’s no secret I’m strapped for cash. None of us eat well, the servants least of all. Can’t have that fact talked about, of course, so I make it an affectation. Actually, your brother-in-law, Lord Monkton, gave me the idea of taking my valet everywhere.”
