A Most Discreet Inquiry (The Regent Mysteries Book 2)

by Cheryl Bolen

  Daphne practically bit her tongue to prevent herself from informing him that Lord Wellesley was now the Duke of Wellington—a man she had actually met! She still could scarcely believe she had taken dinner with the field marshal, that she had actually been to Spain! She could almost forget the wretched sea voyage that had taken her there.

  Almost.

  “Yes,” Jack said.

  “Won't you sit down?” the surgeon asked. Mrs. Billingsley by then had removed the clean laundry from the sofa before scooping up the baby, who'd started crying.

  “I'll be putting the children to bed now,” she said.

  Daphne thanked the woman for her hospitality. She was relieved that the children were being taken away. Children, in Daphne's opinion, did not need to hear about dying men and tavern brawls.

  “Can you explain to me what kind of wounds Mr. Prufoy suffered?” Jack asked.

  “Lacerations. All over the poor man's body.”

  Jack's brows lowered. “Is this, do you think, consistent with injuries from fisticuffs—most particularly from men in their cups?”

  The surgeon pursed his lips. “I had no reason to think otherwise. There were a number of eyewitnesses present who had observed the fight.”

  “Was the tavern well lit?”

  If, on April 11, it looked as it had earlier that evening, Daphne thought, it had to have been quite dark.

  “No, it wasn't,” the surgeon said.

  “Do you think it's possible Mr. Prufoy could have been killed with a knife?” Jack inquired.

  “It certainly is. Actually, that was my assumption when I initially viewed the man's injuries. He appeared to have suffered puncture wounds to the abdomen and chest. There was a great deal of blood loss. But when I queried the observers, no one claims to have seen a knife.”

  “Which could be explained, given the lack of light in the establishment,” Daphne said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Had the man or men who had fought with Prufoy left the premises by the time of your arrival?”

  “That's what those who were present said. I believe Mr. Prufoy had been overmanned by a pair of men, and it's my understanding these man had not previously been to the Cock & Stalk.”

  Oh, dear. That must mean poor Eli Prufoy had been murdered—which, apparently, her husband had apparently already deduced.

  Jack stood. “I'm indebted to you for answering my questions.”

  Daphne remained seated. She was not about to leave yet, not when there was more to be learned. “I believe the proprietor of the Cock & Stalk told us you were with the unfortunate Mr. Prufoy when he drew his last breath.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Did he try to speak?” she asked.

  The surgeon nodded.

  Jack looked skeptical. “But surely you couldn't hear him.”

  “You could have heard a pin drop in the room that night as dozens of sobering men gathered around the wretched man lying in a pool of his own blood.”

  Daphne's pulse galloped. “Can you tell us what he said?”

  “He called for his wife.”

  “I don't believe he was married,” Daphne said.

  Jack nodded. “According to the neighbors, he lived alone, and the war office has no record of any payments being made to any Mrs. Prufoy. I checked there just today.”

  “Then it must have been his ladybird.” Mr. Billingsley tossed an apologetic glance at Daphne. “Forgive me, my lady, for discussing such matters.”

  “Think nothing of it. I am a married woman.” She rather enjoyed saying that, even if she had yet to truly understand exactly what occurred in a marriage bed. Her heartbeat accelerated. By tomorrow morning she would have learned all there was to know about that particularly intriguing subject.

  She leaned closer. “Did he call her by name?”

  “Yes. Her name was Fanny.”

  Daphne personally knew at least two dozen ladies named Fanny. “Did he, perchance, use a last name as well?”

  The surgeon pursed his lips as he nodded. “I believe he did. I thought he was asking for ale. He would say Fanny. Ale. Finally, I realized her name must be Fanny Hale, and in his dying breath he confirmed it.”

  Daphne's glittering eyes met Jack's. “Oh, Mr. Billingsley, you have been extraordinarily helpful!”

  They took their leave of the surgeon, and as they were walking down the dark stairway to the pavement below, she said, “Why did you not tell me you knew Mr. Prufoy had been murdered?”

  “I didn't know it.”

  “But we do now.”

  “It does seem so.”

  This particular stretch of the Strand had come alive at night. Most of the shop windows were still lighted, and a steady stream of men was funneling into the Cock & Stalk.

  “Dearest?” She casually peered through a window into the linen draper's where a few matrons were casting about selecting what looked to be sensible woolens.

  “Yes?”

  “Where in London would a lonely soldier go to find a woman to . . ."

  “You're not going there.”

  “But we must. The very future of England could depend upon it.”

  She eyed a queue of men winding from a shop and wondered what was being sold there that could attract so many customers. She and Jack snaked around the line, and she cast a glance at the shop window. A print shop. She paused to gape at the print which was prominently displayed in the window. Then she quickly looked away from the lewd print, her cheeks hot. “A shocking waste of pence, it seems to me.”

  When they arrived at their awaiting carriage near the entrance to Cotton Lane, Jack grudgingly told Andy to take them to Covent Garden.

  Chapter 8

  It wasn't as if she had not been to the Covent Garden area at night before. The theatre and the opera were located near the huge flower market. She had not, though, actually walked the pavement there at night. Lord and Lady Sidworth made certain their daughters were immediately whisked into an awaiting carriage as soon as they left the theatre.

  Now that she was strolling along with Jack, who was doing his best to ignore the dozens of pleas to purchase nosegays, she was seeing for the first time things she had never before seen. That these flower sellers were decked out in dress upon tattered dress indicated to Daphne that they wore everything they possessed, likely because they had no permanent home.

  She noticed, too, the proliferation of bagnios along both sides of the street and was able to observe uncommonly indecent-looking women lasciviously entering these questionable establishments rather too intimately on the arms of men they had likely just met.

  Jack was not in a good humor. “I don't like your being here,” he grumbled.

  “I will remind you that I am a married woman.” Which she would rather enjoy shouting from the spire of Westminster Abbey.

  “You are a complete innocent.”

  She paused right there on the pavement beneath the moonlit sky, looked up into his smoldering black eyes, and lowered her voice to a husky purr. “I won't be by tomorrow morning.”

  Jack drew a deep breath and pushed forward without responding. Even though he would not articulate it, she knew he desired her.

  They were coming abreast of a woman who looked perfectly the sort who would give physical comfort to a lonely soldier. As they came closer, Daphne realized the dark-haired female was not a woman, after all. She could not be more than eighteen. If she was that old. The rosy cheeked girl stood at the apex where Chandos and another street Daphne could not name came together. The bodice of her scarlet dress barely contained the two large spheres of her breasts.

  Daphne strode up to the girl, despite that Jack was attempting to tug his wife in the opposite direction. “Pardon me, but I was wondering if you know a lady by the name of Fanny Hale.” Daphne could see beneath the lantern light that a thick coat of rouge covered the girl's smooth cheeks. From this close an examination, it was also evident this girl was far younger than eighteen.

  Her p
ale blue eyes swept over Daphne from the top of her velvet pelisse to the tips of her expensive satin slippers. “What's it worth?”

  Daphne's quizzing gaze darted to Jack.

  “Five pence,” he said.

  “Let me see yer money.”

  Jack produced the coins.

  The girl snatched them up, dropped them into the snug bodice of her faded brown dress, then met Daphne's gaze. “So ye asks me if I knows a woman what goes by the name of Fanny 'ale? Well, me answer is no!” She spun away and raced toward the Strand as if her skirts were on fire.

  Jack smirked. “A most enterprising girl.”

  “Quite true. My consolation must be that she has need of the money.”

  “May I suggest you allow me to handle the next query?”

  “You may suggest anything you like, but me answer is no.”

  Their gazes locked, and they both broke out laughing.

  “I know how to interrogate, madam. I was merely being a polite gentleman with the lady to whom I am wed.”

  “I adore the sound of that: to whom I am wed. It will be such great fun being married to you.” She linked her arm through his. “You see, if I weren't married to you, I wouldn't be able to be here right now.”

  “Enlighten me, please, on why it is a good thing Lady Daphne Dryden is here right now strolling alongside the Covent Garden prostitutes.”

  “Daphne Dryden! I never thought of myself quite like that before. It's so wonderfully alliterative, is it not?”

  “It is, but I shouldn't like our children saddled with names like Dorcus Dryden. Sounds much too forced.”

  Our children. She could positively melt into the pavement at the thought. She squeezed her husband's hand but, wishing for his words to linger in the air, said nothing.

  “Since Eli Prufoy was in his forties, I thought perhaps his Fannie Hale might not be a young woman, might perhaps be a woman he's known for years.”

  Daphne looked puzzled. “Then you don't think she'll be in this area?”

  “I did not say that. Take a look around. The women here span all ages.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. It occurred to her that most of the pedestrians they passed were men. She found herself wondering if Jack had ever come there looking for a woman with whom to slake his manly hunger. As curious a being as she normally was and as much as she wanted to know most everything about Jack's life before he met her, that particular kind of intimacy was a matter she did not want to know about.

  Was she afraid to learn he might have been in love before? If he had, the lady would have been a beauty, and Daphne positively did not want to know anything about it. Better to delude herself that their lives began on the day they met.

  He gritted his teeth. “This would be easier were you not with me.”

  “Initially, yes, I can see where it would be. But what if you find Fanny Hale? I must be present during your interrogation, as you call it. I can think of things to ask that you do not. Remember, at Mr. Billingsley's you were ready to leave after asking questions about the wounds. It was I who thought to ask about dying words.”

  “I will give you that. Finding the woman who was in Prufoy's confidence is our strongest hope of learning what happened to Heffington's list.”

  “If there was a list.”

  They both grew solemn.

  Over the next half hour, Jack politely asked several of the older women of the night if they knew Fanny Hale. None of the women either knew a woman by that name, nor did they have a suggestion for another place Jack and Daphne might look.

  Despite their discouraging lack of progress, Daphne brightened. “If we don't find the woman tonight we can put an advertisement in the newspapers asking for her to come forward.”

  “Finding her tonight has rather the same odds as running into the Regent's daughter walking the streets in Covent Garden." He paused. "The newspaper suggestion would be a good one, save for two drawbacks.”

  She looked up at him. “What drawbacks?”

  “First, not many women who ply their wares in this neighborhood read newspapers. I daresay most of them cannot even read. And . . . if they could read and did have the opportunity to get their hands on a seven pence newspaper—which is highly unlikely—more precious time will lapse.”

  She knew the wisdom of her husband's words. Even more sobering was the sudden realization that she might have been completely wrong in thinking Fanny Hale was a prostitute. “Has it occurred to you that our Fanny may be a perfectly respectable woman?”

  “Regrettably.”

  But he continued to question perfectly unrespectable women in a most respectful manner.

  Long after the theatres had emptied of their finely dressed patrons and after midnight had passed, he finally got a lead.

  On a much quieter street a few blocks north of Covent Garden Jack approached a woman carrying a basket of fresh vegetables. Despite having looked at demireps all night, Daphne still did not possess a discerning enough eye to determine if a woman was . . . or wasn't. This one dressed more respectably because she wore only one dress—of sensible dark bombazine—and its neckline was not terribly low. She must actually have a residence and must be heading there now.

  Jack stepped slightly into the woman's path. “I beg your pardon, madam. I am looking for a woman named Fanny Hale, and I was wondering if you might be acquainted with her.”

  The woman, who looked to be nearing forty, flicked her gaze to Daphne, then back to Jack. Daphne found herself wondering if this woman was going home to a husband or to children. “That I am. She's me neighbor.”

  “I would be much obliged,” Jack said, “if you could direct us to her.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Poor dear, she 'asn't been the same since---”

  “Since her soldier was killed,” Jack finished.

  The lady's eyes rounded, then trailed along Jack's regimental jacket. “You must 'ave served with Prufoy.”

  Jack inclined his head. “We both served in the Peninsula for many years.”

  Daphne noticed how her husband had answered the woman's question without telling a direct falsehood. He hated it when the code of honor and honesty which guided his life had to be compromised sometimes in the course of his clandestine duties.

  “Mrs. 'ale, lives right across the hall from me.”

  Daphne stepped up to stand beside Jack. “My husband and I will be ever so grateful to you for directing us to Mrs. Hale.” Daphne believed that the fact they were a husband and wife gave them a certain credibility, even trustworthiness.

  “I can do better 'n that. Ye can follow me 'ome.”

  “How very kind of you,” Jack said. “Here, allow me to carry your basket.”

  “I must caution you,” she said as she handed the basket to Jack and lowered her voice, “that the lady what owns our building don't tolerate noisemaking on the stairs none late at night.”

  “We will be as quiet as mice,” Daphne promised.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” Jack said. “I am Captain Jack Dryden, and this is my wife, Lady Daphne.”

  The woman's head whirled to peer at Daphne. “A real lady?”

  “Indeed,” Jack answered.

  “Won't Fanny be bowled over? I wish our landlady was awake so I could introduce her to our friend, Lady Daphne.” As she spoke, she started up the steps to a tall, narrow brick building. “Me name's Bess. I goes by Mrs. Johnson.”

  Though Daphne's knowledge of the demimonde was minute, she did know that women who subsisted by selling their bodies typically adopted the name Mrs. even though many of them had never married. She suspected that practice might have been started to give an unmarried mother a sense of respectability.

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Johnson,” Jack said. He and Daphne followed her up the steps into the dark building. They quietly began to climb the unlit stairs. Mrs. Johnson came to a stop on the top floor, held her index finger to her lips, and whispered, “This be my room.” She glanced across the dark hall. “F
anny be there.”

  Jack gave her a shilling. “We are most indebted to you, madam.”

  “Oh, thank you, Captain!” In her excitement, she had inadvertently raised her voice.

  Daphne had already begun to rap softly at Fanny's door. When a minute had passed and still there was no response, she shrugged, then began to rap more loudly.

  Another minute passed, and Daphne's knock sharpened. This time it resulted in stirring behind the closed door.

  The door opened slightly, and a woman's face appeared in the narrow opening. “Yes?”

  “Hello,” Daphne said brightly. “I am Lady Daphne Dryden, and my husband and I seek Mrs. Fanny Hale.”

  “That'd be me.”

  “We're frightfully sorry for disturbing you at such a late hour,” Daphne said, “but we wished to speak to you about Eli Prufoy.”

  The sleepy woman did not say anything for a moment. Then she uttered, “I'm not dressed properly.”

  “Oh,” Daphne said, “we don't mind waiting while you slip into your clothing. We can stay right here in the corridor.”

  A few minutes later, a candle in hand, Mrs. Hale opened the door and asked them to come in. Even after Daphne and Jack followed her into the chambers, she kept her voice low.

  The rust-colored head of a sleeping boy lying on a pallet just inside the adjacent room indicated to Daphne that children were sleeping there. “Please be seated, my lady.” Mrs. Hale indicated a sofa. Then her eyes met Jack's. “Ye must 'ave served with me Mr. Prufoy.”

  “Indeed I did.”

  “He was as fine a man as ever lived,” said Mrs. Hale as she dabbed at her face with the sleeve of her woolen gown. “I don't believe he would ever have started no tavern brawl. He was the most kind and gentle man.” She shook her head. “And he was sick of fighting and killin'.”

  Daphne judged the woman to be in her late twenties or possibly early thirties. There was a wholesomeness about her lightly freckled appearance that made it difficult to believe this woman with warm brown hair could ever have been a prostitute. Perhaps it was her modest woolen dress that leant her respectability, or perhaps it was the children sleeping in the next room. It could even have been the way she had a propensity to smile shyly, even though everything in her countenance demonstrated her grief. She had about her the look of a rounded favored aunt.