by Amanda Quick
“Therefore they get very little experience in that sort of thing,” Hannah added.
Ambrose reached for his cup. “You are all quite certain that Miss Glade does not know how to deal with gentlemen?”
“Miss Glade has spent her entire career working as a governess and teaching in girls’ schools,” Phoebe said flatly. “That is why we can be sure that she has had very little practical experience in that direction.”
Ambrose put down his cup. “This is about the events of last night, isn’t it?”
Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora exchanged somber glances with one another and then turned back to him. He found himself facing four extremely determined pairs of eyes.
“I see we must be blunt, sir,” Edwina said ominously. “Last night we were obliged to rescue Miss Glade because she is too lacking in experience to perceive the dangers of the situation in which she found herself.”
“What dangers, precisely, would those be?” Ambrose queried.
They all blushed and exchanged another round of anxious glances. But no one backed down. He wondered if they realized that they were all angling their chins and shoulders in the same determined manner that Concordia did when she was intent upon a goal. They had learned more from her in the past few weeks than they even knew, he mused. Concordia had become a model of feminine behavior for them.
“We are talking about the risks a lady takes when she is alone with a gentleman in the middle of the night,” Phoebe said in a quick little rush of words.
“When she is alone with him in her robe and nightgown,” Hannah elaborated.
“When the gentleman in question is also dressed in only a robe,” Edwina said.
“We do realize,” Theodora added, not unkindly, “that because Miss Glade is so clever and because she holds such advanced views, a man of the world might assume that she possesses more experience in certain matters than is actually the case.”
He inclined his head. “I comprehend your concerns.”
Hannah, at least, appeared satisfied. “We would not want Miss Glade to suffer the fate of Lucinda Rosewood.”
“Who is Lucinda Rosewood?” he asked.
“She is the heroine of The Rose and the Thorns,” Hannah said. “It is an excellent new novel by one of my favorite authors. In chapter seven Lucinda Rosewood is seduced by Mr. Thorne, who takes advantage of her naïve and trusting nature. Afterward, she realizes that she has been ruined, so she flees into the night.”
“Then what happens?” he asked, reluctantly fascinated.
“I don’t know,” Hannah admitted. “I brought it with me when we left the castle, but I have not had time to finish it.”
“I see.” Ambrose pondered that briefly. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. I expect when you get the opportunity to finish the book, you will discover that Mr. Thorne races after Lucinda Rosewood, apologizes for taking advantage of her and asks her to marry him.”
“Do you really think so?” Hannah asked eagerly.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Phoebe said in a thoroughly squelching manner. “Gentlemen never marry ladies they have ruined unless the lady in question happens to be an heiress. Everyone knows that.”
“Quite right,” Edwina agreed. “Impoverished ladies who are ruined always come to a bad end in novels just as they do in real life.”
Theodora scowled. “It isn’t fair. It is the gentlemen who should come to bad ends, just as Miss Glade says.”
“She may be correct in the highest moral and philosophical sense, but the fact is, that is not the way of the world,” Edwina declared. She fixed Ambrose with a forceful expression. “But it is precisely because she holds such advanced views that Miss Glade may inadvertently give a worldly gentleman a false impression.”
“You have made your point,” Ambrose said.
Edwina seemed satisfied with that. She looked around at the others. “We had best be off to the library before Miss Glade comes in search of us.”
“I cannot wait to see the Cabinet of Curiosities,” Phoebe declared.
“And the books of poetry,” Theodora exclaimed.
Ambrose rose and reached for the nearest chair, but the girls were already on their feet and dashing toward the door.
“One moment, if you don’t mind,” he said quietly.
They halted obediently in the doorway and turned with inquiring expressions.
“Yes, sir?” Edwina asked.
“You were all living in an orphanage before you were sent to the castle, I believe.”
It was as if a cloud had materialized overhead in the previously sunny breakfast room. All the light went out of the girls’ faces.
“That is correct, sir,” Theodora said in a very small voice.
“Did you all come from the same institution?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Phoebe whispered.
“Please, don’t send us back to that dreadful place, sir.” Hannah’s hands clenched at her sides. Her eyes filled with tears. “We will be very, very good.”
Theodora’s mouth trembled. Phoebe blinked several times. Edwina sniffed.
Ambrose felt like an ogre in a fairy tale. “Of all the damnable nonsense.”
That produced a round of startled expressions. He reminded himself that one did not swear in front of ladies, especially young ones.
“My apologies.” He yanked out a handkerchief and shoved it into Hannah’s fingers. “Dry your eyes, girl. No one is contemplating sending you back to the orphanage.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hannah bobbed an elegant little curtsy and hastily turned back toward the door.
Theodora, Phoebe and Edwina made to follow in her wake.
“One more question,” he said.
All four girls froze like so many rabbits confronting a wolf.
Theodora swallowed heavily. “What is the question, sir?”
“I would like to know the name of the charity school where you resided before you were sent to the castle.”
They gave that a moment’s careful consideration, clearly still wary of his intentions.
Edwina finally faced him. “It is called the Winslow Charity School for Girls.”
“And the address?” he prompted.
“Number six, Rexbridge Street,” Phoebe said. She looked as though the words had been dragged out of her by force. “It is a terrible place, sir.”
Hannah was beyond tears now. She had turned quite pale. “Miss Pratt, the headmistress, punishes anyone who does not obey the Golden Rules for Grateful Girls by locking them in the cellar. Sometimes they have to stay down there in the darkness for days. It is . . . very frightening.”
The cellar was the source of her nightmares, Ambrose realized.
“Enough,” he said. “None of you will be sent to any institution against your will.”
The cloud that had darkened the breakfast room miraculously vanished. Sunlight returned.
The girls dashed off down the hallway. Their lilting voices echoed cheerfully in the big house.
Finding himself alone at last, Ambrose sat down. He looked at the stack of newspapers for a moment and then reached for The Times.
After a while he realized that the breakfast room, the place that had always been his early morning sanctuary, felt strangely empty.
17
Shortly after three o’clock that afternoon Concordia felt the now familiar frisson of awareness. She looked up from the menus she had been preparing to give to Mrs. Oates and saw Ambrose standing in the doorway of the library. He carried a box under one arm.
“There you are, sir.” She set her notes aside and surveyed him from the depths of the wingback chair. “I was just making out a list of fresh fruits and vegetables that I would like to see included in Mrs. Oates’s menus. What kept you? You said you were going out to conduct a few inquiries, but you have been gone for several hours.”
“I thought you would be occupied with the girls and their lessons until I returned.” He walked across the library and
sat down behind his desk. “Where are your students?”
“I sent them off on a tour of the conservatory with Mr. Oates. I suspect that he will do a far more expert job of instructing them in botany than I ever could.”
“He will certainly enjoy the task.” Ambrose set the box on top of the desk. “Oates has a great passion for his gardening.”
“That is obvious.” She watched him sit down behind his desk. “Well? Are you going to tell me what you have been about while you were out?”
“Among other things, I made some inquiries in the street where Mrs. Jervis lived.”
She caught his use of the past tense instantly. “She is dead, then?”
“Her body was pulled out of the river nearly six weeks ago. Suicide was the verdict.”
“If it was, indeed, murder, it occurred very close to the time that Miss Bartlett disappeared.”
“Larkin or his partner probably used Jervis’s files to find a replacement for Bartlett.”
Concordia tightened her grip on the arm of her chair. “Me.”
“Yes. After I got that information I paid a visit to a certain institution located on Rexbridge Street.”
“The charity school where my students lived? Why did you go there?” Alarm stiffened her entire body. “Surely you are not thinking of sending the girls back to that dreadful place. Because if that is the case, I must tell you it is out of the question. If my young ladies have become a nuisance to you and you would prefer that we leave this house, we will, of course, do so. But I cannot allow—”
“Not again, I beg you.” He held up a hand to ward off the lecture. “I went through this with your four pupils this morning. No one will be returning to the Winslow Charity School for Girls against her will. You have my word on it.”
She relaxed. “I know it cannot be convenient having all of us here.”
“This is a big house,” he said. “There is plenty of room.”
“Thank you. Winslow is such an unhappy place, by all accounts. I gather that the headmistress, Miss Pratt, was not the least bit modern in her approach to instruction, and the employees of the school were very unkind. That is where Hannah started having nightmares.”
“I heard all about the cellar.”
“Such a cruel punishment. Every time I think about it, I want to strangle Miss Pratt.”
“I don’t blame you. Now, if you don’t mind, may we return to the subject at hand?”
“Yes, of course.” She clasped her hands in her lap and assumed an attentive expression.
“Concerning my expedition to Rexbridge Street.” He leaned back in his chair, extended his legs and laced his fingers behind his head. “It occurred to me this morning that the charity school was the one thing all four girls had in common.”
“You’re right. It is a connection, of sorts, isn’t it?”
“Yes. With that in mind I walked through the neighborhood today to study the place.”
“Did you go inside?”
“No. I could see no convenient way to do so without calling attention to myself. I would prefer not to do that at this point.”
“I understand. But surely you cannot mean to go in at night as you did when you searched Mrs. Jervis’s offices?”
“It is a possibility,” he conceded, looking thoughtful. “But with so many people living in the building, there is a very high risk of wandering down the wrong hall and accidentally awakening one of the girls or blundering into a member of the staff who happens to be up and about for some reason.”
“Quite true.”
He looked at her with a considering expression. “You said you wished to be involved in this investigation. Did you mean that in the literal sense?”
“Certainly.” Excitement made her catch her breath. “You want me to go into the school?”
“Only if you feel comfortable with the notion of playing the spy.”
“It sounds quite thrilling.”
He frowned. “It is my fondest hope that there will be nothing the least bit thrilling about this venture. You are to go there on a matter of routine business. You will not say or do anything that refers to Edwina, Hannah, Phoebe or Theodora. Nor will you make any mention of Aldwick Castle or other recent events. Is that quite clear?”
“Yes, absolutely. No one at Winslow knows me so there should be no problem.”
“True. Nevertheless, there is no point taking chances. I do not want anyone, especially Miss Pratt, to get a close look at your face.”
“I am to wear a disguise?”
“Of a sort.” He unlaced his fingers, sat forward and reached for the box he had put on the desk. “I picked this up on the way back here this afternoon. It is the reason that I was late.”
He removed the lid of the box, reached inside and took out a large, wide-brimmed hat fashioned of black straw. It was trimmed with black silk flowers and a long fall of heavy black netting.
“A widow’s veil.” Delighted, she sprang from her chair and hurried to the desk. She picked up the hat and turned it slowly in her hands, noting the circular sweep of the netting. “Very clever, sir. No one who sees me will be able to view my face.”
“There are black gloves to match. Wear your dark gray cloak. You will look like any other fashionable widow.”
18
Alexander Larkin looked at his business partner seated across from him on the carved marble bench and felt his back teeth grind together. The temperature in the private hot room was high enough to make any normal man sweat, but Edward Trimley appeared as cool and elegant as if he were ensconced in a chair in his club.
But, then, Trimley was a gentleman, Larkin reminded himself. The bastard had not been born in the stews. He spoke with cultured accents and carried himself with the refined arrogance that only those in the upper classes could successfully achieve.
Trimley had never had to steal food to survive, Larkin thought. He had never learned to sweat the way you sweated when you faced another man who held a knife and you knew in your vitals that the cove would cheerfully cut your throat just to take your boots.
“Are you certain that the fire was not the result of an accident?” he asked. “The kitchens at the castle were old, after all.”
“Trust me, it was no kitchen fire,” Trimley said.
Trimley’s certainty irritated him. At the start of their arrangement, he had been eager enough to learn everything Larkin could teach him. But lately he had begun to act as if he were the senior partner.
They were both draped in large, white linen sheets. Larkin felt awkward and faintly ridiculous in his. He had to keep a firm hold on the front of the damned thing in order to prevent it from sliding off. But Trimley somehow managed to resemble one of those statues of ancient Romans that the wealthy used to decorate their mansions. Larkin had made certain that a vast number of them were installed in the front hall of the fine, big house that he, himself, had purchased a few years ago.
“What about that gas geyser in the bath in the new wing?” He rose and began to prowl the small, tiled chamber. “Everyone knows they’re unpredictable.”
“The fire did not start in the bath.” Trimley sounded impatient. “I talked to every member of the staff who was there that night. They all agreed that there were two explosions and both occurred in the vicinity of the dining room.”
Larkin grunted. “Part of a scheme designed to steal the girls?”
“So it appears.”
“Bloody hell.” Larkin reached the tiled wall, turned and started back in the other direction. “No one even saw the girls and the teacher leave?”
Trimley shook his head. “It was the middle of the night and there was a great deal of smoke and confusion. A couple of men told me that they heard the sound of horses’ hooves at one point, but they both assumed that someone had freed the animals so that they could escape the flames.”
“Why in hell didn’t anyone see to the girls as soon as the fire started?” Larkin demanded. “My men knew that I considered them valuabl
e.”
“Evidently Rimpton did tell the others that he was going to take care of the young ladies.” Trimley moved one hand in a dismissive gesture. “But he disappeared and never returned that night. The next day his body was found near some old storage sheds.”
“And no one even considered the possibility that the teacher and the girls had escaped until the following day?”
“At first it was assumed that they had all perished in the blaze.” Trimley shifted slightly on the bench, making himself more comfortable. “It was a reasonable enough conclusion under the circumstances. Given the enormous amount of smoking rubble and fallen timbers, it wasn’t easy to conduct a thorough search of the ashes.”
“Bloody hell.” Larkin felt the old, familiar hot bubbling sensation deep inside him. “All that careful planning wasted. The auction was only days off. I can’t believe it’s come to this.”
The old rage suddenly boiled up, threatening to choke him. He slammed a fist against the gleaming white-tiled wall. “Bloody damn hell.”
That did not satisfy, so he picked up the jug of water that sat on a small table and hurled it into the corner.
The ceramic container exploded. The bits and pieces of broken pottery danced and rang on the tiles.
Instantly he felt calmer, back in control. But he was already regretting the outburst.
He took a deep breath and released it slowly, letting his blood cool. The occasional raw flashes of fury had afflicted him all his life. He could control them now when he chose to do so, but sometimes he let them sweep over him. Generally speaking, they made others nervous. He considered that a good thing. It never paid to have one’s employees and business associates get too comfortable.
But the elegant Mr. Trimley did not respond to such showy exhibitions of power the way others did. Larkin sensed that the outbursts elicited nothing but amused disdain in the arrogant bastard.
He tightened his grip on the sheet and swung around quite suddenly, trying to catch Trimley off guard, wanting to see if he could surprise a little fear in the man. But, as usual, there was nothing to be deciphered in his partner’s veiled expression.