by D. M. Quincy
After a few minutes, Lilliana paused and addressed the young lady in a more serious manner. “As I mentioned to you previously, Mr. Catesby is looking into Mr. Davis’s death.”
The girl lost some of her pluck. “It’s so very sad. Gordon was the most agreeable footman we’ve ever had.”
“Anything you share with me will be held in the strictest confidence,” Atlas reassured her. “I care only about finding out how Davis died.”
She leaned closer, totally enrapt. “Do you think someone killed him?”
“We cannot be certain,” he answered, “but I do believe it’s a possibility.”
“I shall be pleased to tell you anything I know.”
He decided Lavinia was a young lady who would appreciate directness. “Why did Davis give you those books?”
“Because I asked him to.”
He and Lilliana exchanged a startled look. “Were the two of you very close?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Not particularly, no.”
“Then why would you ask for books of that nature from your footman?”
“I wanted to show them to my friends.”
“Friends?” Lilliana echoed.
“Yes,” she said pertly. “You see, I found similar books hidden in my brother Wade’s bedchamber. They were ever so enlightening, and I wanted to share them with my friends, but Wade removed them before I had a chance to show them to anyone.”
If Atlas had initially worried about getting the girl to disclose what she knew about Davis, he needn’t have concerned himself. Lavinia Fenton was a bold piece who spoke plainly.
“Is that why you asked Davis to procure similar material for you?”
“Yes, because Adora and Frances didn’t believe dirty books like the one I’d seen in Wade’s chamber existed. So I asked Davis to help me prove that they do.”
“Adora and Frances?” Lilliana’s brows drew together. “Adora Bradford?”
“Yes, do you know her?”
Lilliana blinked. “Somewhat.”
Atlas wondered what it was about this Adora Bradford that prompted Lilliana’s obvious consternation. He directed his attention back to Lavinia. “You asked Davis to buy the . . . erm . . . books to show to your friends.”
“Exactly.” She smiled smugly. “And then Adora and Frances had to believe me, didn’t they now? I had the proof right there.”
“What made you feel so comfortable asking Davis to procure these books for you?” he asked. “What kind of relationship did you have with him?”
She wrinkled her pert little nose. “What do you mean?”
He was grateful when Lilliana interjected. “Were you perhaps drawn to him,” she prompted, “in the way men and women are sometimes drawn to each other?”
Lavinia’s eyes widened. “Of course not! I’m a viscount’s daughter. I expect to marry no lower than an earl.” She cast an appreciative look in Atlas’s direction. “Unless it is a love match and the man is of noble blood. In that event, titles are unnecessary.”
Ignoring the way Lilliana’s mouth trembled with suppressed laughter, Atlas resisted the urge to loosen his cravat, which suddenly felt uncomfortably tight. “Did Davis ever behave inappropriately with you?”
“He was a flirt and very handsome. But I would never become enamored of a footman. Imagine that.” Lavinia laughed as if truly amused. “Besides, he was engaged in a liaison with a married lady.”
Atlas blinked. “I beg your pardon? Did Davis tell you that himself?”
She shook her head, her artful curls bouncing. “No, I heard it from my lady’s maid. She said all of the servants were gossiping about it. No one knew who it was, but they say she was a grand lady in Mayfair and that theirs was a long-standing affair that preceded the lady’s marriage.”
Her words made Atlas recall that Henry Buller, the clerk at the dye factory, had told him Davis had claimed to be betrothed to a wealthy young lady who’d jilted him to marry a title. He wondered if it was the same lady.
“I would never have run away with a footman,” Lavinia was saying, “but Davis was convenient to have about. For a little bit of coin, he would do or get whatever I wanted.”
Atlas still wasn’t certain he believed Lavinia’s relationship with Davis had solely been that of mistress and servant. “Why did your father let Davis go without so much as a letter of recommendation?”
He saw the moment she decided to lie to him. Her gaze slipped away before coming back to meet his. “I’m afraid I have no idea.”
“Can you think of any reason?” he prompted.
“No.” She gave him a bold look. “Is there a Mrs. Catesby?”
Atlas’s eyes widened. He hadn’t spent a great deal of time in the company of gently bred young women, but he never imagined one could be as forward as the dark-eyed prostitutes he’d encountered upon arrival at Constantinople’s Galata docks. “There is not.”
Lilliana decided to rescue him. “Mr. Catesby is wed to the world. Travel is his passion. Affairs of the heart will never compare to the romantic embrace of foreign lands.”
Lavinia’s eyes lit up. “The stories Mr. Catesby must have to tell.” She fluttered her long lashes in Atlas’s direction. “Perhaps you will call upon me one day soon and share tales of your exotic adventures.”
Atlas remained silent. A gallant reply was in order, but he had no intention of giving this child even the slightest hope that he might consider courting her. Yet his tepid reaction did not seem to deter the girl.
With a brazen we-shall-see-about-that smile, she said, “I really must go. I promised Papa I’d have the carriage back by midday.”
He watched the girl waltz away with her maid scurrying in her wake.
“You could do worse.” Lilliana fought a smile. “I’m told she has a sizable dowry.”
“That child doesn’t need a husband,” he grumbled. “She needs to be sent to bed without supper. She cannot possibly be a day over seventeen.”
“She is eighteen. Surely you haven’t forgotten that I was two years younger than Lavinia when I wed.”
And she had certainly suffered for it. “Those were extraordinary circumstances.”
“Indeed,” she said mildly as she turned back on the path to continue strolling. “Do you think Lavinia could be our mysterious Lady L?”
He fell in step beside her. “Before meeting her, I would have said no. I could not have imagined a sheltered viscount’s daughter being so brazen as to take a lover.” He exhaled through his mouth. “However, with Davis employed as a footman in Merton’s household, engaging in a liaison would not have been difficult. A minx as forward and artless as Lady Lavinia might be capable of anything.”
She cast him a sidelong glance. “Even murder?”
His mouth twisted as he considered the possibility. “We’ve no proof that the mysterious Lady L is the killer.”
“But we cannot rule Lavinia out as Lady L.”
“True. Nor can we rule her out as our killer.” He paused, filtering through what they’d learned so far. “Then there is the matter of the married lady Davis was supposedly involved with.”
“How do we find her?”
“I’m not certain. But perhaps you might be able to ferret something out from the ladies of Mayfair at these many social functions you attend during the Season.”
She seemed skeptical. “I suppose I could try, but I have formed no close associations since my return.” She shot him a wry look. “However, perhaps it is time I started.”
He did not doubt she would succeed at anything she attempted. “If she is well born and they were acquainted before her marriage, perhaps she was a daughter of the house where Davis was in service before he joined Merton’s household.”
She nodded. “I’ll ask Tacy about her brother’s past employers.” She paused as if ready to turn back. “Now I really must get back to join the children for their midday meal.”
“May I escort you home?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent,” he said briskly, offering his arm to accompany her back to near Stanhope Gate, where one of Somerville’s coaches awaited to return her to the duke’s residence. “I’d like to get that book Lavinia gave you, if I may.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Should I ask why?”
His cheeks warmed. “So that I may see if it offers any clues, such as where the book was purchased.”
“What would that signify?”
He twisted his lips. “We won’t know until we explore this particular avenue.”
A few minutes later, as they settled into the ornate chariot’s cerulean-blue tufted seats with a lush patterned carpet under their feet, he asked about her children. “How are Peter and Robin?”
“They are very well.” Sitting opposite her, he could easily see Lilliana’s face soften at the mention of her sons. “You should come and see them.”
“I would very much like to.” The invitation pleased him. In the aftermath of their father’s untimely death—and before he’d learned who she really was—Lilliana had insisted Atlas maintain his distance in order to keep the boys from forming an attachment to him.
“You cannot imagine how well they bowl hoops now.” She referred to the game he had taught the boys shortly after meeting them. “I daresay they might be able to best you.”
He laughed, thinking of the two energetic boys he’d run with in the park. “I do not doubt it.” He slid a hand along the smooth damask wall of the carriage, over the gold-and-red silk embroidery of the Somerville family crest. “The duke says you plan to send Peter to Eton in the fall.”
Her smile faltered. “Somerville is most determined that the boys be given every opportunity to succeed in society despite their sire’s low birth.”
“That’s commendable of him.” Godfrey Warwick hadn’t exactly been common, but he had been a minor member of the gentry, far below where a duke’s daughter would normally marry. But Lilliana’s circumstances had been unique. She’d needed protection, and wedding the detestable Warwick had provided it. “How do you feel about sending the boy away?”
She looked away, out the window, which was only partially covered by the silk shade. “He is only eight.”
He knew her to be very attached to her children. She had not relegated them to a nursery during her marriage. They had not been looked after by nursemaids and only presented to their noble parents for an hour or so before bedtime. “Is Somerville firm in his decision?”
“He can be dissuaded.” She turned from the window, her gaze troubled. “But I must do what is right for the boys’ future.”
“Perhaps it is best for young children to be with a loving mother. You certainly fought hard enough for them.” Before his death, Lilliana’s husband had kept the boys from her.
She exhaled, and he sensed how heavily the decision weighed on her. “Yes, but I mustn’t be selfish. I must think of the boys first, above all else.”
“I’ve never known you to do otherwise.” The carriage came to a stop, and the footman opened the door and laid out the step. Atlas alighted and turned to help Lilliana down.
She placed her gloved hand in his. “Will you stay and have luncheon with me and the boys?”
He closed his large hand around her delicate fingers. “I would be delighted.”
Chapter Nine
Even without its questionable reputation, Holywell could barely be considered a proper street. It was a narrow rambling lane, a dark alley beset by foul smells emanating from shadowy corners along the way. Grimy, timber-framed houses teetered over the stone street, blocking any daylight that might otherwise illuminate the crooked buildings, with their high gables and overhanging eaves perched over the lane.
Shops selling used books abounded in this shabby stretch of London, which ran parallel to the Strand. The tomes were crowded into filmy shop windows and piled up on trestles in front of the shops.
The hackney let Atlas off in front of one of these dilapidated buildings. Pain arrowed through his left foot when he alighted. Atlas suppressed a grimace and shifted the weight to his right foot. The discomfort was the price to be paid for having spent the previous afternoon bowling hoops with Lilliana’s young sons. Both boys had grown a great deal since he’d last seen them, and he’d foolishly acquiesced when they’d begged him to race.
He began to walk, taking care not to limp. The injury from the accident, which had occurred well over a year ago when he’d jumped clear of an overturning hackney, continued to plague him. He hadn’t realized that a single foot contained so many bones. Surely the occasional distress he still experienced signaled that at least one of those bones had not healed properly.
He surveyed his surroundings as he walked. He’d been let off opposite the bookshops, on the side of the street dominated by secondhand clothes sellers, mostly Jewish immigrants. The cries of these merchants—“Old clothes!”—resonated through the crowded lane, which was also known as Rag Street. A gray-bearded man in flowing robes sat on a hard chair watching the happenings on the street.
“Good day,” Atlas said to the ragman when he drew near enough.
The man responded with a polite nod and waited for Atlas to state his business.
“I am looking for a bookseller by the name of Saunders. I was hoping you could direct me to his place of business.” He’d found a stamp bearing the name Saunders in the back of Lavinia Fenton’s dirty book.
The merchant looked almost apologetic. “A man minds his own business on this street.”
Atlas understood the man’s reticence. Aside from being the place to procure low publications, Holywell was a hotbed of radical activity where government spies abounded. The merchant knew to be cautious when speaking out of turn about one of his neighbors.
Atlas attempted to reassure the man. “I am not interested in causing Mr. Saunders any trouble.”
The man shrugged both shoulders. “I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
A portly, wrinkle-faced woman in black bustled up, carrying baskets overflowing with fruits and vegetables. Atlas acknowledged her with the tip of his hat. She spoke a few rapid-fire utterances to the older man. Atlas recognized some of the Yiddish words. He’d met a Russian Jewish scholar on one of his journeys and had passed the long ship voyage amusing himself by learning some Yiddish words and phrases.
Appearing satisfied with Gray Beard’s response, the woman rushed into the shop. Atlas missed most of the old man’s answer, but he picked up enough to make out something about “the neighbor beside the moon.” Having no idea what that could mean, Atlas thanked the man and continued on his way.
A few minutes later, as he stepped around a man unloading used books from a horse-drawn cart, the old clothes seller’s words suddenly made sense. Up ahead, on the bookseller side of the street, a carved crescent moon sign hung above a shop. The ragman had mentioned one of the neighbors by the moon. Perhaps he’d referred to Saunders. Atlas headed first to the nearside shop to the right of the crescent sign.
He entered a dark cluttered space that smelled of dust and old books. The merchandise was piled up in the window and on wooden lean-to shelves stacked against the walls. He paused by a table littered with books and saw most of the titles were old used tomes. Nothing scandalous.
“May I help you?” A bespectacled man—tall, slender, and serious looking despite his shaggy brown hair and rumpled clothing—emerged from the back carrying a crate of books.
Atlas decided to be direct. “I’m looking for a publisher named Saunders.”
“You found him. I’m Isaac Saunders.”
“You’re Saunders?” This man in no way fit Atlas’s idea of what a purveyor of low publications might look like. He’d expected someone tawdry, a person far less respectable in appearance than this mild-mannered man, who brought to mind some of the more eccentric professors he’d studied with at Cambridge.
“In the flesh.” The bookseller set the box on the scarred counter with a loud thud. “What can I do for you?”
Atlas i
ntroduced himself. “I . . . erm . . . a friend of mine purchased some books here.” Saunders began unpacking the box, stacking the books on the counter. “Books of a certain nature,” Atlas added.
Saunders paused, shifting his attention from his task to settle a probing look on his visitor. “And you are interested in procuring such a book for yourself?”
“Not exactly. I’d like to learn a little bit more about the man who purchased the book.” He shifted subtly, so that his right foot bore most of his body weight. “I was wondering if he might have had a long-term association with you, either as a friend or as a patron.”
Saunders rested an elbow on the edge of the crate. “I thought you said this man was a friend.”
“He wasn’t exactly. His name was Gordon Davis, and I am looking into the circumstances surrounding his death.”
Saunders ran an assessing gaze over Atlas. “You don’t look like a runner.”
“Nor am I.” Considering the illegal political activity that abounded on this narrow lane, no runner would be welcome on Holywell Street. “I don’t work for Bow Street. I am here because Davis’s sister is naturally distraught about his suspicious passing and is eager to know the truth regarding how he died.”
“Never heard of a Gordon Davis.” Saunders resumed unpacking the crate. “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t buy books from me. I don’t know the names of all the people who patronize my establishment. And those who procure the sorts of publications I believe you are referring to don’t necessarily wish for me to know their names.”
Atlas glanced over at a nearby lean-to where a familiar name caught his attention. It was emblazoned on the faded cover of a well-worn book. He reached for the tome and paged through it, momentarily caught up in a wave of nostalgia.
“An admirer of Silas Catesby, are you?” Saunders asked.