Letters to a Lover, page 6
“On the contrary. It was a delightful evening.” His fingers brushed against hers—impossible to know how deliberately.
“It is good to see Griz so happy,” she pursued. “She seems to have lost a lot of prickles since her marriage.”
Again, he walked past his own door toward hers, and she couldn’t breathe.
“She has found her soul mate,” Eric said.
The sadness in his voice nearly destroyed her. How could she say the words forming in her mind, her heart, when she was hiding things from him, when she could have betrayed him?
Abruptly, as tears started to her eyes, she seized his big hand, dragged it to her lips, and then fled into her room, closing the door behind her. Again, she leaned against the door, but this time she did not smile in hope. She wept.
It seemed worse somehow to know he hovered on the other side of the door for almost a whole minute. And then he walked away. She heard his footsteps fade along to the end of the passage and then downstairs. It seemed he did not wish to go to bed after all, not without her.
Chapter Six
Azalea spent the first part of the following morning interviewing governesses with impeccable references. In each case, she had the children brought in and watched their interactions. The first governess, Miss Smithson, fawned and gushed over them, which made them back off. The second, Miss Farrow, was distant and polite, her manner severe. The third, Miss Alsop, was younger, a little unsure, but asked what games they liked to play.
To each, Azalea said, “Thank you. I will make my decision by this afternoon and inform the agency.” And when the three were gone, she asked the children who they preferred—while fairly sure they would choose the inexperienced but play-loving Miss Alsop.
But not for the first time, they surprised her.
After exchanging glances with his little sister, Michael said, “Miss Farrow.”
“The older lady?” Azalea said cautiously, just to be sure.
Lizzie nodded.
“Why?”
“She seemed more interesting,” Michael said.
“And she makes her mouth prim like this,” Lizzie added, imitating the governess’s severe expression. “But her eyes smile.”
“Do they?” Azalea said curiously. But actually, now that she thought of it, Lizzie was right. Miss Farrow’s eyes had laughed, just not for the benefit of the other adult in the room. She spoke and secretly smiled to the children.
“Can we go shopping with Elsie now?” Michael asked.
“If she says so, yes. Shall I ask Miss Farrow to be your governess, then?”
Michael nodded and herded his sister out the door.
Children saw things more clearly, sometimes, Azalea reflected, without all the other concerns adults had—like references, experiences, and physical energy, and how long a governess might stay in their employment.
And how pleasant she might be at dinner. The gushing Miss Smithson would be annoying. Miss Alsop would be pleasant and obliging, and since, like the others, she had excellent references from her previous employer, Azalea would have been happy to engage her.
But now she thought of it, she realized Miss Farrow would fit perfectly with their family. In her forties, she was both independent and sensible, knowledgeable and experienced. She was neither disrespectful nor awed by Azalea. She would not fall apart when confronted by Eric or even His Grace.
And the children liked her.
With a sense of relief, she sat down at her desk and wrote a short note to the agency, requesting the services of Miss Farrow, starting a week today, on Thursday the thirteenth of June.
Leaving the room, she handed the letter to Henry the footman. “Please deliver this immediately. Oh, and Henry, is his lordship at home?”
“No, my lady.”
“Any post or messages?” she asked casually, for there had been no communication from her blackmailer with the morning’s first post.
“No, my lady.”
Well, she could not, would not sit at home all day, waiting and worrying. She would invite herself to luncheon with Griz to discuss matters.
She was happy to find both Griz and Dragan at home in their cozy drawing room. They sat at either side of the tea-table, each busily writing in a companionable silence that Azalea found rather sweet. Dragan had his own study, but he chose to work, apparently, in the company of his wife.
“What a hive of industry,” Azalea remarked. “I hesitate to interrupt.”
Dragan rose to his feet at once, but Griz only glanced up. “Ah, Zalea, just who we needed. We are trying to narrow down our culprit.”
“How?”
As she approached, Dragan placed another chair for her, and she saw the long list of numbers and names between them.
“How did you even come up with those? Are they my entire London acquaintance?”
“No, they’re the people who lease the theatre boxes closest to yours,” Griz informed her. “I persuaded the clerk to let me copy it. Now we’re eliminating the empty boxes that we noticed and noting the extra guests we recognized—which is where you could help.”
Azalea closed her mouth. “I would never have thought of any of that. And did you discover, is there a door between boxes?”
Grizelda’s eyes gleamed. “No, there isn’t, but we discovered how he escaped us. I should have thought of it, but it never even entered my head. I spoke to one of the ushers in the pit who saw a man climb out of your box and clamber around into the next. The usher was terrified he would fall to his death, but he was apparently quite nimble. Once he was safe, the usher shouted up at him, but he got no reply. He charged out to report the incident to his superior, so he doesn’t know when the climber left the new box. Dragan and I could have walked right past him.”
“Goodness,” Azalea said, gazing at her sister as some strange new species. Then she frowned. “But if he escaped in such a dangerous way, he must have known we were watching him.”
“Or just suspected it,” Dragan put in. “He might have noticed Dragan and me, hovering further along the passage, but in the crowd, I don’t think it is likely. I think our man was just being careful.”
“Did your usher recognize him?” Azalea asked without much hope. She was sure if they knew who it was, they would have told her at the outset.
“No,” Griz said. “And the only description he could give was that he was probably a gentleman, for he wore a silk hat and what appeared to be black evening clothes. He had his back to the usher most of the time he was in view and somehow kept the hat on his head while he was climbing.”
“Bizarre,” Azalea remarked.
“Not really,” Dragan said. “He left the usher with the impression of a young gentleman on a silly wager.”
Azalea sighed. “Which probably means he is nothing of the kind.”
“Probably.”
“Look at the names, Zalea,” Griz encouraged. “Some of them came into the box at the intervals. Who else do you know? And is there any reason any of them could either have a grudge against you—or Eric—or know anything at all to your discredit?”
“Even a misunderstanding,” Dragan added, “that might have amused you and yet left him with the wrong impression?”
She frowned at him. “Do I do that?”
“You can be careless of appearances,” Dragan replied, undaunted.
“Secure in the knowledge I will be forgiven such transgressions because of my father’s position and the indulgence of my husband? What a spoiled creature I am.”
“Beauty is nearly always spoiled,” Griz said briskly. “Be grateful. Now, look at the names.”
Azalea knew most of the men listed and had acknowledged them in some way last night. Another couple of the names she recognized as associates of Eric’s. She recalled a few other guests she had noticed in the same boxes.
“But I can’t imagine any of them behaving in such a way or writing that letter,” she finished. “I cannot believe it is someone I already know.” Can’t I? Was Gunning not someone I already knew? Did I not misjudge him?
Discontented, she pushed herself back from the table. “It needn’t have been any of them, anyway. Someone could have come from anywhere in the theatre without waiting for the play to end first. The only man I know to have a grudge against me is Gunning, who was in Lord Darchett’s box last night, though fortunately, he came nowhere near us. I told you about him, Griz. I poured tea on him.”
“I’ll look into him,” Dragan said. “Do you know where he lives? We would just need to compare his handwriting with your letter.”
Azalea’s eyes widened. “Then you think it might be him?”
Dragan’s smile was crooked. “No. But at this stage, just eliminating somebody is a step forward.”
“I could be bled dry in hundred-pound installments before we discover this rat of a man.”
“Nonsense,” Griz said bracingly. “Are you staying for luncheon, Azalea?”
“If I may.”
Griz bustled off, and Dragan pushed back his chair. He seemed lost in thought while she continued down the list of names once more, trying to dredge up some memory that might help. So she was taken by surprise when he said, “Griz is worried about you. So is Trench.”
Her gaze flew involuntarily to his. “Eric? Why is he worried about me?”
“I think he senses your…anxiety and fears it has a physical cause.”
“Grizelda told you,” she said flatly. “About my memory…gaps.”
“But you did not tell Lord Trench.”
“Did you?” she countered.
“It is not my memory to discuss.”
“Meaning you think I should? Did Griz also tell you that I saw a doctor yesterday who says it is merely my nerves and I need rest? If we can solve this wretched blackmail problem, I mean to go to Trenchard next week and rest extremely well.”
“Good,” Dragan said. He seemed to struggle for a few moments with what to say next. “I have heard doctors say that before. It is merely nerves. Particularly to women, though men can suffer similarly. In my experience, there is no merely in nervous conditions.”
“Meaning what?” she asked with a touch of aggression.
“Meaning…did Dr. Gibson talk to you about the cause?”
Azalea shrugged. “Gadding about town and burning the candle at both ends.”
“Did he ask you? Or is that what he told you?”
“He implied it,” she admitted. “And it’s true I live something of a hectic life in town. Perhaps it is catching up with me now I am older.”
He blinked. “Twenty-eight?”
“You think he is wrong,” Azalea said uneasily.
“No, as far as it goes, I think he is probably right. I presume he discussed injuries and headaches with you, examined you physically?”
“Yes, he said I was fit and well. I have had no injuries—that I can recall—and suffer no pains. He assures me everyone is forgetful.” She smiled with difficulty. “So, you see, I am merely a hysterical woman.”
“There is that word merely again. There is usually a reason behind hysteria, too. Would it surprise you to know, for example, that I, too, have a nervous condition? It turns me into a helpless, shivering wreck. In my case, the reason is easily found. It happens when I hear sudden, loud noises that make the earth shake, and I am reminded of a particularly nasty battle.”
She frowned. “You think something happened to me that caused my blank memories?”
“I think it is possible. Look, I am not yet a qualified physician. Worse, I am your sister’s husband. But I would like to know how you became aware of the gaps, where they start and finish. You don’t have to talk to me,” he added quickly, perhaps seeing the dread in her eyes. “Talk to Griz if it is easier. Or another physician. I can recommend one more understanding than most toward women.”
She searched his dark, intense eyes. “Do you think it might relate to this blackmail business?”
“I think it’s possible, considering you can remember nothing referred to in the letter.”
“If the things in the letter are true, I’m not sure I want to remember.”
“That,” Dragan said quietly, “could be your problem in a nutshell.”
“I don’t remember because I don’t want to?”
“Perhaps.”
She dragged her gaze free. Griz came in and paused, looking from one to the other.
“Griz can stay if you wish or go,” Dragan said. “Either way, what you say goes no further. Think about it.”
He rose, but Azalea reached up and caught at his sleeve. “No. I don’t need to think. I would like your help. And Grizelda’s.”
“Well, luncheon will be half an hour,” Griz said practically.
“It doesn’t have to be now,” Dragan assured her.
“Why wait?” Azalea countered.
“Then come and sit somewhere more comfortable.”
When Griz and Azalea had arranged themselves on the sofa, and Dragan in an armchair, with his notebook on his knee, he asked, “When did you first realize there was a definite blank in your memory, rather than just something like a forgotten appointment, which popped back as soon as you were reminded?”
“A little over a week ago,” she replied promptly. “We were at a dinner party, and a woman—Mrs. Carston—came up and greeted me like an old acquaintance. A lot of people pretend acquaintance with me for their own ambitions, but I don’t usually meet them at friends’ houses. So I merely smiled, hoping I hadn’t forgotten her face. I certainly didn’t want to be rude. But she must have noticed my blank expression, for she began to look embarrassed. We met at Lady Royston’s, she said. But it was such a crush. I’m not surprised you don’t recall everyone. And she moved on, leaving me feeling I had been unnecessarily rude to a perfectly pleasant woman.”
“Have you remembered her since?” Dragan asked.
“No. Not only that, I don’t remember going to any event at Lady Royston’s. I checked my correspondence, though, and the invitation to her ball was marked as accepted. I had even written it in my engagement diary.”
“Perhaps you did not go in the end.”
“No, I was there, for I asked Morris. My maid,” she explained to Dragan. “I didn’t want to admit I couldn’t remember it, so I asked her what I wore to it, and she told me. I even asked Eric if he had been there. He said no, I had gone alone while he escorted his mother somewhere else that evening.” She drew in a breath. “Lord and Lady Royston are friends of Their G.races. I know their house. I have been there before, several times over the years. But I have no recollection of a ball this Season. I don’t remember dressing for it, traveling there, or coming home again. That was the first blank.”
“And when did this ball take place?” Dragan asked, his pencil poised.
“Friday, the twenty-third of May.”
He wrote that down. “And this is Thursday, so almost two weeks ago, now. Can you remember what else you did that day?”
“I have pieced it together.” From a mixture of her diary entries and subtle questioning of her staff and family. “Her Grace called because she had a letter from you, Griz, and she wanted me to read it, though you were already home ahead of it. The children were paraded before her, and Michael offended her by racing around the room and knocking over a table when my back was turned. But after that, I don’t seem to remember anything.”
“And after the ball? Do you remember going to bed?”
Azalea shook her head. She gazed at her hands in her lap, fighting with her habit of glossing over things she didn’t wish to think about, let alone discuss with other people. But if Dragan was to help her with this or with the blackmail, then she had to tell.
“But I think I remember waking the following day,” she said in a rush. “At least I think it was that day. I felt…odd. And my wrist felt bruised. And when I tried to remember why, I felt dizzy. Panicked. So I didn’t think about it until that meeting with Mrs. Carston a few days later.”
“Which wrist?” Dragan asked.
Azalea dragged her gaze away from her sister’s shocked expression and held up her right hand.
“May I see it?” He sat forward on the edge of his chair, reaching out, and she showed him the wrist. He held her hand, bending it gently at the wrist, turning it, pressing his fingers lightly into the skin.
“There was no damage,” she said hastily. “Not even an actual bruise. It just felt as if I had knocked it on something.”
“How big an area was sore? This size?” He placed his fingertip against it, then replaced it with his thumb. “Or this?”
“Finger-sized maybe.” She was relieved when he released her hand, which she placed back in her lap. “It faded quickly.”
“Did you notice any other injuries, any other pains?” he asked neutrally.
“No,” she said firmly. “I know what you are imagining, and there were no signs of it. Whatever happened or did not happen, I was not forced.”
He inclined his head without obvious embarrassment or relief. His steady, unjudging attention made it much easier than she had imagined to talk.
“Moving on, when was your next memory gap?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. But a couple of days after I became aware of the Lady Royston gap, I was at the Exhibition in Hyde Park. I had taken the children, and afterward, outside the exhibition, we ran into a group of men I knew. Well, I knew some of them. Timothy Worth was among them, and Gordon. Brother-in-law Gordon,” she added for Dragan’s benefit. “Rosemary’s husband. And young Lord Darchett. But one man I didn’t know. He hovered at the back, avoiding my gaze, as though embarrassed to come across me. I had no idea who he was, but everyone seemed to think we were acquainted, for no one introduced him to me. I exchanged a few pleasantries with Gordon and left them in order to help Elsie with the children, who naturally wanted to run all over the place.
“But the man I didn’t know followed me, as though he wanted to speak. And then, Lord Darchett, of all unlikely people, almost jumped out of nowhere in front of me. The unknown man melted away. And Darchett said to me in a low, urgent voice, I hope that we may both count on your discretion. Talking of it benefits neither of us. Talking of what? I asked him, being completely baffled. He smiled as though I’d said something clever, bowed, and ran back to the others. I still have no idea what Darchett was talking about or who the other man was.”
