by Amy Corwin
“I cannot understand it,” Mrs. Stedman replied. A frown pinched her mouth.
John rubbed his temple absently. “I can’t help but wonder if anyone expressed an interest in the jewels? Perhaps someone wanted to take a closer look at the workmanship?”
“Lady Victoria was the only one who said anything about it, and she was most insistent that I remove it,” Mrs. Stedman admitted. “Though at the time, I thought she was only concerned that the piece was giving me a terrible headache. She seemed so kind.” She addressed the last statement to Lady Longmoor, and patted her ladyship’s gloved wrist.
Lady Longmoor sighed. “I don’t think she realizes what she is doing. It is so distressing—you cannot imagine.”
“Oh, I am convinced it was not deliberate,” Mrs. Stedman hastened to add. “I simply wish she would return it—I assure you I would not make a fuss or rebuke her.”
“I don’t suppose either of you noticed if anyone was missing from the drawing room during your card game?” John lounged back in the chair, gazing into the crackling flames.
Two logs and numerous smaller branches had been arranged on the fire irons, and a great deal of the wood had turned to white ash, interspersed with crimson embers. The two logs, however, supplied enough fuel to create low flames that sparked when a damp pocket beneath the bark burst. The fire was so mesmerizing and his concentration on the few facts he had so complete, that he didn’t immediately catch Mrs. Stedman’s reply.
“I beg your pardon?” He looked at her.
“A great many guests were moving around,” Mrs. Stedman repeated. “Why, we even had to pause our game when the colonel went to refresh himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if others did not disappear for brief periods, as well.”
“Refresh himself?” John leaned back and crossed his legs.
Mrs. Stedman nodded, an earnest expression on her face. “It was about the time Miss Urick stumbled—oh, but I assure you it was the slightest mistake only, and even the most accomplished musicians may make the occasional error.”
“So, the colonel was not in the drawing room the entire time?” His interest quickened.
“No—but he was not gone that long. We resumed our game quite soon, did we not, Lady Longmoor?”
Lady Longmoor nodded, her gaze moving from Mrs. Stedman to John. “I do not see how it can matter in the least. He was not missing for a lengthy period, and I cannot imagine a man stealing Mrs. Stedman’s tiara. Can you?”
“I can imagine all sorts of things, Lady Longmoor,” John replied absently as his mind raced. “Do either of you remember how long he was absent?”
Once again, Lady Longmoor and Mrs. Stedman exchanged glances. Shrugging, Lady Longmoor’s gaze fell on the fireplace, a dismissive look smoothing her features.
“Fifteen minutes, perhaps?” Mrs. Stedman replied at last. “I did not notice the time, you see. It is only a guess. And the colonel—I am quite sure the colonel could have had nothing to do with this.”
“The idea is absurd,” Lady Longmoor stated. “A man like that?”
And yet you are perfectly willing to believe it of your own daughter. John’s jaw tightened.
Families had such odd notions of loyalty. If her son had been accused, John was sure that Lady Longmoor would not have been so willing to believe her child was involved, even if he were caught with the tiara in his pocket. Some excuse would have been made, and the entire matter swept away.
He was quite familiar with the twin concepts of scapegoats and the unimpeachable reputations of heirs.
Despite the sour thought, a brief assessment of Mrs. Stedman’s information only left him with more questions. The list of those who might have stolen the headdress only grew longer and more puzzling.
Thus far, he knew for certain that the colonel, Mrs. Grisdale, Wickson, Sir Arnold, and Lady Victoria had all been absent at one point or another, during the critical time between Mrs. Stedman’s removal of her tiara and Lady Victoria’s discovery of the empty box. Furthermore, it appeared that Lady Victoria’s maid might have been waltzing around the street in front of the townhouse during the same period.
Had the maid been there to receive stolen goods, as suspected by Lady Longmoor? Why the girl had been there was anyone’s guess until she arrived, and even then, she might decide to hide the truth if she really were involved in theft.
And he remained uneasy about the truthfulness of the other young ladies, as well. Although from Miss Grace Owsley’s criticism of Miss Urick’s performance, it seemed that at least Miss Grace was in the drawing room during the time in question.
To sum up what he knew without a doubt, Miss Urick was torturing the pianoforte, with Mr. Fitton at her shoulder. Miss Grace was present—or close enough—to hear the entire discordant concert, Lord and Lady Longmoor were at the card table, along with Mrs. Stedman, and Wickson was loitering on the balcony with Sir Arnold, where he saw someone in a puce pelisse stroll by.
What of Miss Grisdale? He examined her from across the room, his crossed leg swinging gently.
The dark-haired girl sat in a shadowy corner, clasping her mother’s hands and leaning forward to speak to her. She flicked a glance in his direction, shifted even closer to her mother, and whispered more urgently, her hand held next to her mouth.
Frowning, he stood wearily and strode over to the Grisdale ladies. “Good evening, Mrs. Grisdale. Miss Grisdale. Sir Arnold’s supper has not gone as well as could be hoped.”
“I should think not!” Mrs. Grisdale exclaimed, fixing her steely gaze on Lady Victoria. “I cannot understand why the authorities have not been sent for. I, for one, grow weary and wish to return home, as does my daughter. It is most inappropriate to expose innocent young ladies to such corrupting influences. Why, Lady Victoria must be at least two-and-twenty if she is a day—it is ridiculous for her parents to continue parading her every Season as if she were a debutante! At her age! It is nothing short of scandalous, and even they are aware of it, for her own mother agreed that her daughter’s morals were not what they ought to be—her own mother!”
“Oh, Mama, please.” Miss Grisdale flashed him an anguished look of mortification before hanging her head to stare steadfastly at her clasped hands. Although she wore evening gloves, it was clear that her twisting grip was white-knuckled.
At barely eighteen, she was young enough to still suffer from embarrassment at the behavior of her parents. Or at least her sanctimonious mother.
John could certainly sympathize with her. “Did you enjoy Miss Urick’s performance at the pianoforte?” he asked in an apparent change of subject.
Miss Grisdale glanced up, a grateful smile curving her lips. “Oh, yes. I adore music, and Mr. Haydn is so lovely.”
“Yes, although I am not much of a critic.” John studied a button on the cuff of his jacket. “I am told one of the notes was wrong, though I didn’t hear it, myself.”
“Oh, well…” Blushing, Miss Grisdale’s voice trailed off. She cast an uneasy glance at her mother. “I, well, I do not wish to criticize, of course. I’m sure Miss Urick was simply distracted. Or perhaps Mr. Fitton failed to turn the page at the proper point.”
Her mother smiled with approval at her daughter, and patted her clasped hands. “Very true, my dear. Although I doubt you would have made the same error, even if Mr. Fitton did fail to turn the page. If you had been given the opportunity at the pianoforte instead of that Miss Urick—not that she isn’t the most delightful girl—I’m sure the results would have been much more satisfactory.”
“Oh, Mama.” Her sallow cheeks growing even brighter crimson, Miss Grisdale’s shoulders curved inward as she fixed her stare on her clasped hands again. Clearly, her mother’s efforts to push her daughter forward were not appreciated by the shy young lady. “I’m sure I would probably have made precisely the same error. It is not easy to play in front of a room full of strangers, you know.”
“Hardly strangers,” her mother corrected her sharply. “And there are only fifteen of us. Yo
u must not be so modest, my dear.” Mrs. Grisdale smiled complacently at John before the hard, censorious look returned to her hazel eyes, making them appear a muddy brown in the candlelight.
He could almost hear her asking herself why she was wasting valuable time talking to someone like John, who had no social standing to speak of, and must therefore be entirely inappropriate for her daughter.
Mrs. Grisdale shifted to block her daughter from John’s view with her thin shoulder. When he remained standing where he was, Mrs. Grisdale inhaled sharply and rose to her feet.
“I believe I will speak to Sir Arnold and insist that the proper authorities be called so that we may all go home.” Mrs. Grisdale shook out her heavy gray silk skirt and looked around in search of their host.
“If one of the guests picked up the tiara—” John said.
“You mean stole,” Mrs. Grisdale corrected him.
“Then it must still be here,” he concluded, clasping his hands behind his back as he eyed her.
“Unless that creature gave it to her maid,” Mrs. Grisdale pointed out.
“She has been sent for. It should not be long before we discover if the maid was indeed here.”
“As if a maid would tell the truth,” Mrs. Grisdale scoffed. “That is precisely why the authorities must be called. They will get the truth out of the girl—both of them.”
“Beat it out of them?” John asked languidly, his brows rising.
Mrs. Grisdale’s hazel eyes flashed and her thin mouth tightened. Grasping the beaded reticule hanging by a black ribbon from her left wrist, her right hand tightened, grinding the beads together. “If they must, then certainly.” Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “What other solution is there? You cannot propose to have us all searched—why, the Marquess of Longmoor is here, as well as the colonel—who is the Earl of Parmar. It simply cannot be done.”
“If you will recall, Lady Victoria is the daughter of the marquess.” John’s tone grew even blander. “You can hardly propose to allow the authorities to beat a confession out of her.”
“Her own mother condemned her—we all heard her,” Mrs. Grisdale replied triumphantly. “And I daresay that maid of hers will confess readily enough.” She turned to look at her daughter with a swish of her skirts. “It is no concern of mine.”
Before John could reply, the butler stepped through the doorway and cleared his throat. The slight form of a girl, her face pale and eyes wide with terror, stood behind him, wearing a puce pelisse.
He searched out and found Lady Victoria. As he watched, she turned to face the door, her hands clasped at her waist, her shoulders straight. Her beautiful face was composed and calm, and once again, his admiration for her soared. Despite her obvious strength, he wished he stood closer to her to lend her a bit more strength for what lay ahead.
No matter what the maid said, it was bound to be upsetting.
Chapter Fourteen
Lady Victoria looked at her maid, Rose, standing in the doorway in her puce pelisse, and her pounding heart sank. She blinked, trying to compose her thoughts and not give in to the dizzy, sick feeling threatening to knock her into a heap on the thick carpet.
“Miss Redding, Sir Arnold,” the gaunt butler intoned, his eyes hooded and his nose in the air.
He stepped aside, waved the girl forward, and then closed the doors behind her as if to prevent her escape.
With jerky movements, Rose glanced around, for all the world like a rabbit, frantically searching for a way out of a walled garden when confronted by an irate gardener.
“Lady Victoria?” Rose asked, her voice shaking. “You sent for me?”
“Yes, Rose,” Victoria replied in a soft, calm voice. She stepped forward and smiled encouragingly. “Please don’t worry—you are not in trouble. We simply have a few questions, an issue I am sure you can assist us with.”
Rose nodded, though her brown eyes remained wide. Her mouth trembled as she licked her lower lip.
Giving a small laugh to prove she was not upset, Victoria gestured first to Mr. Wickson and then to their host, Sir Arnold. “We have a small matter you can assist us with. And again, Rose, I must assure you that you are not in any sort of trouble. All we ask is that you be honest. Do you understand?”
The maid nodded vigorously.
“You know this townhouse sits at the corner, and earlier this evening, Mr. Wickson was out on the balcony at the side of the house.” She waved at the French doors. The glass glittered with reflected lights, mirrored against the darkness of the night. Smiling, she laughed again and shook her head. “He swore that he saw you pass by, wearing the exact same pelisse as you wear now. Is that not ridiculous? In any event, you must settle the matter for us. Did you pass by earlier this evening?”
Instead of her face clearing with relief, Rose’s pale skin grew even more pallid. The whites of her brown eyes showed as she glanced around. For a moment, Victoria thought the girl would faint. Her mouth worked, and she cleared her throat before licking her lips again.
Sir Arnold drew closer, concern crumpling his face. As he neared Victoria, she couldn’t help but notice the faint odor of boiled chicken that seemed to cling to him. For the first time, the slick dampness of his receding hair caught her attention. Dismay shivered through her. She swallowed several times, resolutely thrusting away her reaction.
He was a kind man, after all. A sweet man, and she was simply being ridiculous.
“Oh, Lady Victoria,” Rose croaked in a hoarse voice. The maid’s thin fingers played with a button at the neck of the pelisse. “I—it is n-not my night off!” she stammered.
Victoria closed the gap between them and placed a reassuring arm around her. “I am not angry—you have nothing to fear as long as you admit the truth.”
“Oh—I—I can’t!” Rose moaned and covered her face with her hands, trembling under the weight of Victoria’s arm. “You’ll turn me off!”
“I will not—truly!”
“You will!” Rose’s voice rose shrilly. “You’ll turn me off, and I’ll be left on the street, alone. How will I support my babe, then—oh!” She broke off with a sobbing cry.
“You will not be turned off, Rose! Don’t be ridiculous.” Victoria hugged her and then gave her a little shake, although she felt sick inside.
Had her maid just admitted to being with child? Her stomach twisted. It had to be one of the other servants. It couldn’t have been—no, she wouldn’t believe it of her father. Nonetheless, the room tilted as the world around her spun. Whoever it was, he would just have to marry Rose. So it couldn’t be Victoria’s father.
With a deep breath, she thrust her feelings aside and focused on the one, important question. “Just tell us the truth, Rose. Were you passing by Sir Arnold’s townhouse earlier this evening?”
“Stop badgering the girl!” Colonel Lord Parmar strode forward and wrenched Rose out of Victoria’s arms. “Here, you! Wickson! A little of that brandy, if you please!” He waved at the sideboard where a silver tray rested, supporting a decanter of the rich, deep gold liquor and several small crystal glasses. With a stern glance under beetling brows, he frowned at Victoria and dragged Rose away by the wrist to a nearby chair where he thrust her down. “Sit, girl!”
I never imagined he was that soft-hearted! Victoria couldn’t help staring at the colonel. Really—what had gotten into him?
Wickson hurriedly slurped a great deal of brandy into one of the glasses and raced over to hand it to the colonel, watching the older man with concern. “Just the thing, eh? Feeling a bit under the weather?” His already protuberant blue eyes opened even wider when, instead of the colonel downing the drink, he handed it to the maid. “I say—what? What?” Wickson reached out and nearly grabbed the glass from the girl’s hand before he realized it was hardly polite to do so. “I say…” he sputtered. “Good brandy for a maid? Hardly decent…”
The colonel faced him, a thunderous expression on his face, and his hands in tight fists.
Stepping backward, W
ickson raised his hands, palms out. “Never mind. Daresay she needs it. I need it, myself.” He hurried back to the decanter, poured himself an even larger portion, and gulped it down in one swallow. Gasping, he returned the crystal glass to the tray with a clatter that shook the glassware, making the glasses and decanter reel toward the edge of the sideboard. With nervous hands, he held the glassware in place on the tray until the tumult subsided.
When he glanced up to see all the other guests staring at him, he turned beet-red, gulped, and poured himself a second brandy. This time, he managed to drain the glass and replace it without any undue excitement.
Still feeling muzzy-headed, Victoria returned her gaze to the colonel. And Rose.
Her maid was delicately sipping the brandy, distaste twisting her face at each small taste. The colonel awkwardly patted her shoulder and mumbled soothing remarks in a low voice.
“Colonel,” Victoria said, unsure precisely what to ask. “That is—”
He heaved a deep sigh and straightened to face her. “I suppose I should explain—should never have let it reach this juncture.” Exhaustion dragged across his features, deepening the lines and turning his skin gray. “There was no need to send for Rose.”
“You took the tiara?” Victoria asked, aghast. She couldn’t believe it—the colonel? Why would he do such a thing?
Exasperation tightened his mouth. “This is not about that ridiculous tiara, young lady. I certainly did not take it, and I can assure you, neither did Rose—Miss Redding. She had nothing to do with this matter.”
“Then—em—why? That is, was she here?” Victoria asked.
“Yes.” The colonel’s ramrod straight shoulders sagged. “It seemed harmless enough, a brief moment when we knew she would not be missed from your household. We have so few such moments.” His left hand found its way to Rose’s shoulder again, and he squeezed it gently.
Rose reached up to touch his hand, though she kept her gaze fixed on the floor at her feet.