Mr. Thanos stared at me without embarrassment, his mouth agape. “Jove, Mrs. Holloway, I’d never know you were the same person. Or that you could make such excellent tea cakes.” The packet of them was open on his desk, one already reduced to crumbs.
“I have decided I’d rather be known for skill in cooking than for being a dressmaker’s doll,” I told him. “Having nothing to do all day but keep my clothes clean would be tedious.”
“Now you know what I face, Mrs. H.,” Cynthia said wryly. “Lord save me from it.”
Mr. Thanos’s gaze went to Cynthia and remained there, his expression thoughtful. I wondered if he’d approached her yet about her acting as his assistant. I hoped he would, and also hoped that, when they were thrown together day after day, he’d ask her an even more important question.
Daniel offered his arm. “Shall we adjourn to Berkeley Square?”
I slid my hand through the crook of his elbow, trying not to like the feeling of his strong arm beneath the cashmere sleeve. “We may as well. I do hope Mr. Lancaster’s inanities will not make me too ill.”
Daniel chuckled. “I will endeavor to spare your digestion.”
I allowed Daniel to escort me out. Mr. Fielding bustled past us to keep his word to distract the landlady if necessary. That left Mr. Thanos and Cynthia alone on the landing.
“Suppose I should go,” I heard Cynthia say.
Mr. Thanos paused a long while before he spoke. “I suppose it is best.” He sounded regretful. “But, erm . . . Would you—that is, would you be so kind as to visit me tomorrow? At the Polytechnic,” he added hastily. “At my office. To talk about my lectures.”
“Of course,” Cynthia said, making her voice extra breezy. “Sounds a treat. Good night, Mr. Thanos.”
* * *
* * *
I was pleased to find when we arrived at the mansion in Berkeley Square that I would not have to sit down to a formal supper at all. Because of the late hour, and the fact that the duke and duchess had traveled from Surrey that afternoon, a light meal was set on the dining room sideboard for us to partake of as we wished. The staff, who’d been given a holiday for the weekend, was reduced to one footman in the dining room and a maid to take our wraps. Fortunately, I knew neither of them.
Mr. Fielding, acting the solicitous gentleman, offered to fill my plate while I seated myself at the table, as my negligent fiancé seemed unable to remember to assist me. Daniel piled a mountain of cold meat, soft rolls, and gooseberry pudding onto his plate and sat town to tackle it.
The duchess, with lines of tiredness about her eyes, sent me an understanding smile as Mr. Fielding, instead of Daniel, served me. Her flick of gaze at Daniel held even more amusement. She must be wondering why I’d chosen to marry this rather thick gentleman.
“I am sorry if the sun was too much for you on Thursday, Mrs. Holtmann,” the duchess said as we ate. “I hope you feel better.”
“Oh yes,” I said, recalling the excuse for my retreat. “I needed only a little rest.”
Daniel chewed robustly through his food and pretended to ignore me.
The meal was not one that would win the cook any praises, even if it was warmed-over leavings from the week. The slices of veal and mutton were dry, and the lobster sauce over the equally dry salmon was too salty. As Mr. Fielding had put a dab of everything on my plate, I could tell that the cook had no talent in any area. The gooseberry pudding was watery, the jam tart sour.
I could charitably believe the meal had been thrown together by a harried underling instead of the cook herself, but the first round of these dishes must have been less than satisfactory. Well-prepared food will taste as good, and in some cases even better, after a day or two.
I ate carefully, happy to see there were only a few pieces of cutlery to navigate. While Mr. Davis would have known the names of each fork and spoon in an eight-piece place setting and when they were to be used, I had never before found myself on this side of the culinary system.
The footman poured wine, a crisp white and a robust red—Mr. Davis would have approved of both. I deduced the house had a good butler but a mediocre cook.
I was not called upon to offer opinions of any kind on any subject, I soon understood. The duke seemed to be of the mind that ladies were to silently adorn and inspire while gentlemen talked about any inanity they liked. The duchess, who must have been long accustomed to her husband, ate, drank, smiled, and occasionally nodded or interjected a “Yes, of course, dear,” when called upon to do so.
I said not a word. No one mentioned necklaces or the purchase of them, or anarchists, or Ireland.
I had not quite finished my meal when the duchess set aside her napkin, said, “Mrs. Holtmann, shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?” rose, and glided out of the dining room.
I could only lay down my fork, surreptitiously chew my last mouthful, nod at the gentlemen, and follow her. Mr. Fielding caught my eye and sent me an encouraging smile, while Daniel, true to his character, pretended not to notice my leaving.
The duke’s house was enormous, an older mansion built when this area had begun developing more than a hundred years before. The ground floor hall held a long staircase, with rooms opening on either side of it. Most London town houses were one room wide plus the staircase hall, though the houses could run deep into the property. This two-room wide home flaunted its vastness. The hall was paneled with old-fashioned mahogany wainscoting below a mural of ladies and gentlemen dressed in clothes of the last century wandering through an idyllic park.
I contrasted this abode to Lady Covington’s as I followed the duchess to the drawing room. The Park Lane house was much more modern with its lavishly carved staircase, thick carpets that absorbed all sound, and domed skylight of stained glass. I thought I preferred this house, whose bare wood floors and tasteful Oriental rugs were understated and graceful.
In the drawing room, the duchess settled herself on a gilded chair upholstered in salmon and cream stripes and gestured for me to relax on the matching settee.
“They’ll be some time, my dear,” she warned. “My husband can go on a bit, and the vicar is as long-winded.”
I hid my smile at her assessment of Mr. Fielding. “It is no matter.”
The duchess lifted one thin finger to signal the maid who hovered outside the door. The maid curtsied and disappeared. “Now, then, His Grace will dance around a point,” the duchess said to me in her gentle tones, “but I am certain you are anxious to view this necklace.”
I started, then stifled my surprise at her bluntness. “Mr. Fielding has told me about it,” I said carefully.
“It is a nice little bauble. Though not a style I wear, I am certain it will suit you. When Mr. Fielding said you might be interested, I thought it a perfect solution. The duke bought it from Lord Clifford as a favor.”
I saw the flicker of annoyance at her husband in the duchess’s eyes, and I wondered if she was the financial negotiator of the family, as some women were when the husband had no head for it. Lord Clifford had easily talked the duke out of two hundred guineas, so perhaps that was the case here.
“I am interested,” I said. “I like to find the exact piece to match a gown.” I hoped I sounded like the vain, frivolous creature I pretended to be.
“You are wearing no jewels tonight.” The duchess broke off as the maid carried in a full tea tray, set it on the low table between us, and swiftly departed. The duchess paid her less attention than she would a fly, and I remembered Mr. Fielding grumbling that the upper classes saw only a pair of hands bringing them what they wished.
“I left most of my jewelry behind at home, of course,” I said to explain my lack of it. “Safer for traveling.”
“Very wise. And that gown is pretty with all the lace. No need for further adornment, is there?”
“I thought so,” I said sincerely.
The duche
ss poured tea into a dainty cup decorated with sprays of purple flowers with gold leaf on the rim and handle. She handed the cup and saucer to me before she poured tea for herself. She did not offer sugar or cream, and I did not mention them. Excellent tea needed no embellishment, and this tea was quite good, I found as I sipped. The duchess might not have hired a talented cook, but she could choose a tea.
“Tell me, my dear,” the duchess said, cup in hand. “Are you from Ireland?”
I blinked, stilling myself before a drop of tea could fall on the beautiful gown. “No,” I said. “Amsterdam. Did Mr. Lancaster not tell you this?”
“Ah, yes, so he did. Where in Amsterdam? I am curious.”
Her tone held only vague interest, as though she made polite conversation, but my heart beat faster in worry.
Fortunately, Daniel, on our train ride to Esher, had instructed me on what to say if questioned. He’d prepared a thorough story for the traveling Mrs. Holtmann.
“On the Amstel,” I said. “A house, left by my husband.” The Amstel was a long canal and river, Daniel had told me, so a safe answer. He’d also told me what lanes to name if pressed, but to never give up more information than exactly what was asked.
The duchess nodded as though she did not care one way or the other. “A lovely city, is Amsterdam. Or can be. Rather smelly.”
“Indeed,” I murmured.
“Ireland can be a dirty place as well. Cities with lanes of filth. And then one turns and beholds fields so green they will break your heart.”
“That sounds very nice.” I took another sip of tea to cover my unease.
“I lived in Ireland as a girl.” The duchess had finished half her tea and lifted the pot to pour more. “It is where I met the duke. I resided near Dublin, on a grand estate. My mother passed away when I was very young, and my father and I looked after each other.” She smiled in fond memory.
“I am sorry to hear of your loss,” I said, as she seemed to wait for my answer.
The duchess nodded her acknowledgment, set down the teapot, and carried on. “When I was twenty years old, in 1830, my father was accused of siding with farmers who were rioting over having to tithe to the Church of Ireland—they were devout Catholics, you see, and being forced to support the Protestant church was anathema to them. My father did have sympathy and tried to help by paying most of the tithes of his tenants himself, only requiring that they give him a small amount so the officials wouldn’t investigate. But he was found out.”
She paused to take a sip of tea. My mouth was too dry to comment, but the duchess did not note my silence.
“Too many men in high places detested my father,” she went on. “And so he was tried, found guilty, and stripped of his wealth and estate. He killed himself while under house arrest. I found him. Then the English turned me out and burned the house around his dead body.”
25
I sat very still. The duchess spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, but I saw the fires of rage deep in her eyes. The smiling, sweet lady was the facade, while a fierce dragon burned inside.
“How dreadful,” I said when I could find my voice. I set down my teacup, hands shaking.
“So you see why we need your four thousand guineas. My husband will not ask you directly, but I am more to the point than he is. We ladies usually are. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, of course,” I said breathlessly. Had she seen through me? Through Daniel?
My heart banged as the elegant parlor took on a new menace. The door we’d entered through led to the hall, and another door stood in the rear of the room, nearer to the sofa. Was it locked? Could I reach it before she . . . what? I could not picture this small, elderly woman tackling me to the floor.
The duchess calmly sipped tea, not at all behaving as though she’d have a go at me.
“Mr. Lancaster, I beg your pardon for saying, is a bit thick-witted,” she said with a weary air. “But he let slip a few things that told my husband you would be sympathetic. Are you? Though you’ve never set foot in Ireland, you say.”
I thought rapidly. How did I feign sympathy for those who banded together to organize the murders of other gentlemen?
“I do understand their plight,” I said tentatively. “They work very hard for English landlords who grow rich and spend all their money here in London. When there is no food, they have nowhere to turn. Their faith, which is a comfort, is denied them, or at least highly discouraged.” So I understood from all I’d read of Ireland plus conversations I’d had with servants who hailed from there.
“Exactly. Are you a Catholic, Mrs. Holtmann?”
“Oh, I . . .” I glanced nervously at the door behind her.
“I understand. It’s a risky thing to be, even these days. It’s no longer forbidden to be of the true faith, but it can be a social death knell. I advise you to keep it to yourself, as I do.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“My mother was Catholic, you see. My father attended the Church of Ireland, but my mother secretly converted him. She was the daughter of one of my grandfather’s tenants, and she and my father married when they fell madly in love. Do you know how she died? An English soldier came upon her one evening as she walked and, mistaking her for a peasant, tried to force himself upon her. When she fought him, very hard by the look of things, he killed her. She had her revenge though. When she was dying, she wrested his pistol from him and shot him through the heart.”
The duchess smiled proudly and drank more tea.
“I am so sorry, Your Grace,” I said in a near whisper. To live through such things would unhinge my mind. I had the feeling it had unhinged hers.
“The duke met me after my home was burned. I was rather frenzied, as you can imagine. He nursed me, fell in love with me, and I married him. He is a rather weak man, John is. But I am not weak.”
I saw in a flash what she meant. The kind-looking, tiny woman with the warm smile had her iron fist around the duke. Instead of being a deliberate traitor to his country, he was under the thrall of this woman and could not resist her.
“I found my revenge,” the duchess continued. “I had won the heart of a duke, one of the highest men in Britain, prominent in their government. He had plenty of money and influence and no idea what to do with either. I told him. He knew my story and sympathized, as you do, and he has helped men and women in Ireland plan and act for the day we throw off our shackles. It won’t be long now.” She heaved a sigh and set down her tea, the wild light in her eyes fading.
“Thank you for letting me unburden myself to you, my dear. You are very easy to speak to. Give me the four thousand guineas now, please—less embarrassing than negotiating with my husband, who will prevaricate and say everything but what he means. So tiresome.” She leaned to me conspiratorially. “I will tell you that the necklace is worthless, but it is a good pretense as to why you are giving us the money. The vicar has no idea it’s only paste, but that’s the English clergy for you. Fools, the lot of them, and they are supposed to lead us to salvation.”
I picked up my tea and took a casual sip. I certainly did not have four thousand guineas in my pocket, and I cast about for what to tell her.
“The money is at my hotel,” I said carefully. “I wanted a look at the necklace first.”
“Ah well.” The duchess waved her hand. “We can send for it.” She rose to reach for a bell sitting on a table near the fireplace.
Blast. If she summoned her footman, what would I tell him? There was no hotel, no cash for him to run for. I toyed with the idea of directing an errand runner to Miss Townsend’s house instead. She was a quick thinker and could decide what to do.
Before the duchess reached the bell, she glanced behind her and saw my face. She stilled.
This woman had lived her entire life with subterfuge, secretly funding societies through her husband to take her vengeance on those who’d murdered her m
other and destroyed her father. She had believed my story and Daniel’s thus far, but my indecisiveness must have shown in my expression in one unguarded moment.
“You bloody . . .” The duchess broke off her snarl and ran for the door at the back of the room.
If she got through it, if she summoned her husband and whatever servants were within shouting distance, she’d expose me, and through me, Daniel and Mr. Fielding.
At best, the duke and duchess would slip Daniel’s net, and he’d be blamed for their escape. I shuddered to think what Mr. Monaghan would do to Daniel for that.
At worst, Daniel and Mr. Fielding could be in very great danger. The men the duchess assisted thought nothing of stabbing important aristocrats to death—she’d not care about the lives of a pair of Englishmen from London’s backstreets.
I leapt at the duchess and seized her before she could reach the door. She struggled, spitting language that no genteel lady should know.
Quick as a snake, she whipped from my grasp and came at me, a slender knife in her hand.
I sidestepped and spun away, my lace shawl fluttering to the carpet. I decided to make for the hall and scream for someone to help me with this madwoman.
Somehow, the duchess was in front of me, skirts bunched in one hand, the other competently wielding the knife. I had a flash of vision of this woman in her younger years. Angry, nurturing hatred, in the midst of a mob, shouting her fury, fighting. Someone had taught her to brawl like a child of darkest London.
She was much older now, but wiry and quick. Elderly does not equal feeble, in my experience.
She came at me until I had to retreat to the window. The thick velvet drapes were closed, so no one on the square would notice me battling a crazed woman with a knife.
“Daniel!” I shouted at the top of my voice.
If the name confused her, the duchess made no sign. I caught her knife hand, but the knife jerked upward, the blade slashing across the neckband of my pretty peach gown and across my upper chest and shoulder.
Death at the Crystal Palace Page 25