Lie by Moonlight

by Amanda Quick

  They turned and walked toward the corner.

  “I trust you enjoyed yourself back there in the drawing room,” Ambrose said. He sounded wryly amused.

  She concentrated on maintaining an air of aloof, fashionable dignity. “Whatever do you mean by that? I thought I did a very creditable job of acting.”

  “You did. In fact, I got the distinct impression that you rather fancied playing the role of arrogant employer to my humble man of affairs.”

  “If it is any comfort to you, sir, you were excellent in your part. Indeed, I do not think I have ever seen a man of affairs who looked more like a man of affairs.”

  “Thank you.” He hailed a passing cab. “Over the years I have become quite expert at receding into the wallpaper.”

  She smiled behind her veil and gave him her hand so that he could assist her into the cab. “You do possess the most astonishing array of skills, Ambrose.”

  “So do you, Concordia.” He closed the door and dropped down onto the seat across from her. “My admiration for the teaching profession increases every day.”

  “Well?” She looked at him through the veil. “I assume the next step is to find out more about this mysterious Mr. Trimley?”

  “I think so, yes.” Ambrose turned his attention to the window. “He seems to be an important figure in this affair. Perhaps he will prove to be Larkin’s gentleman partner.”

  “I think it is safe to say that Mrs. Hoxton is not one of the conspirators. She obviously views the charity school strictly as a means of enhancing her image in the eyes of Society.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you,” Ambrose said. “I suspect that her very good friend Mr. Trimley is manipulating her. It would certainly not be the first time that a gentleman scoundrel has latched on to a wealthy woman in Society and used her for his own purposes. He appears to have been equally successful convincing Edith Pratt to cooperate in the scheme.”

  Concordia wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I suspect that obtaining Miss Pratt’s assistance would merely require a suitable bribe.”

  “You have her measure.”

  “How will you go about finding Trimley?” she asked, very curious now. “Will you keep a watch on Mrs. Hoxton’s town house to see if he visits her?”

  “That is certainly one way of handling the matter,” he said. “But it is very likely that I would waste a considerable amount of time lurking in doorways waiting for him to put in an appearance. I think there is an easier approach.”

  “What is that?”

  “Mrs. Hoxton mentioned that Trimley would be escorting her to the Gresham ball tomorrow night. I will also attend. There will be a great many people around. It should prove relatively easy to observe Trimley in the crowd.”

  She stared at him, astonished. “You’re joking.”

  He frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “You cannot be serious about attending a fashionable ball.”

  “Why not?”

  “For starters, there is the little matter of an invitation.”

  “Easy enough to forge, were it necessary,” he said. “But in this instance I see no need to go to the trouble. Lady Gresham’s affairs are always crushes. No one will take any notice of an extra person.”

  “I wish I could go with you,” she said. “I could help you make observations.”

  He gave her a long, thoughtful look.

  “Hmm,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Impossible, I’m afraid, but I thank you for considering it.”

  “I don’t see why you cannot come with me. As a woman you might be in a position to learn things that I could not.”

  “There is the little matter of the proper gown, sir,” she reminded him. “The dresses that you had made up for me are quite lovely but none of them is suitable for a ball.”

  “The gown will not be a problem.”

  “Are you certain?”

  He smiled. “Quite certain.”

  Excitement spiraled through her. “It sounds very exciting. I’ve never been to a ball. I shall feel just like Cinderella.”

  “Nothing like a good fairy tale, I always say.” Ambrose stretched out his legs and folded his arms. “On another topic, I have been meaning to tell you that I took a close look at the little book that I found in Cuthbert’s desk last night. I thought it might be a journal of accounts, and it is, in a way.”

  “What sort of accounts? Do they relate to the charity school?”

  “No. I think the entries are actually a running tally of his gaming losses.” Ambrose paused. “Evidently Cuthbert was not a particularly lucky player. He owed someone a great deal of money at the time of his death.”

  “Alexander Larkin?”

  “I suspect that was the case, yes.”

  She reflected for a moment. “Do you suppose Larkin and Trimley used the gaming debts as a way of forcing Cuthbert to assist them in their scheme?”

  “It seems very probable, yes.”

  She shivered. “And now Cuthbert is dead.”

  “People who get involved with Alexander Larkin often end up that way. But in the past most of his victims have been other villains or members of the less respectable classes. It is safe to say that, in general, they were the sort of crimes that did not make sensations in the press. Nor did they inspire the forces of the law to conduct serious, in-depth investigations. But now Larkin and his new partner seem willing to take more risks.”

  “I see what you mean. The recent murders have included a professional educator, the proprietor of an agency that supplies teachers to girls’ schools and a man of affairs.”

  “None of them moved in Society, of course, but they were all considered to be more or less respectable. Unlike the case of my client’s sister, such murders do draw attention.”

  “But only when they are discovered,” Concordia reminded him. “Miss Bartlett simply disappeared. Mrs. Jervis supposedly committed suicide. And Cuthbert’s body has yet to turn up.”

  “True. Nevertheless, it strikes me that Larkin and his associate must consider your four students very valuable, indeed.”

  32

  Concordia grasped the sides of the ladder and looked up at the top of the brick wall that she was about to ascend.

  “You will never believe this, Ambrose, but when you told me that we would attend the Gresham ball tonight, I pictured myself in a slightly different style of gown.”

  He clamped both hands around the rails of the ladder to steady it for her. “Rest assured, you look very fetching as a ladies’ maid. The cap and apron suit you.”

  “At least I am spared the indignity of that flashy footman’s costume that you chose to wear.”

  “I thought I explained the logic behind these disguises. A hostess of Lady Gresham’s rank will have taken on extra staff for tonight’s affair. No one will notice one additional maid and a spare footman.”

  She started up the ladder, aware that he had brought it along solely for her convenience. He could have scaled the wall quite easily without one.

  “Now I understand why you were not concerned with obtaining an engraved invitation,” she said.

  “Why bother with trivial details when one can simply climb a garden wall?”

  “I suppose that is a very practical way of looking at things.”

  She reached the last rung on the ladder and paused to hoist the folds of her gray cloak and her skirts out of the way.

  Gingerly she swung first one leg and then the other over the top of the wall. The heavy linen drawers she wore beneath the plain servant’s dress protected the skin of her thighs from the rough bricks.

  When she was safely seated atop the wall, she found herself looking into a vast moonlit garden. The lights of the Gresham mansion glowed in the distance. Music drifted out into the night from the ballroom.

  She had a fleeting image of herself, dressed in a fairy-tale gown, waltzing in Ambrose’s arms. In her private fantasy her hair was fastened in an elegant chignon studded with jeweled flowe
rs. Ambrose, of course, looked spectacularly handsome in formal black and white.

  She smiled to herself.

  “What the devil are you thinking?” Ambrose asked from the top of the ladder.

  She jumped a little at the sound of his voice right next to her ear. She had not heard him come up beside her.

  “Nothing important,” she said lightly.

  “Try to pay attention. I don’t want any mistakes this evening.”

  “There is no need to lecture me, Ambrose. I am well aware of what I am to do tonight.”

  “I certainly hope so.” He hauled the ladder up and lowered it on the garden side of the wall. “Remember, you are not to take any chances. If you run into any difficulties or feel uneasy for any reason, signal me immediately.”

  “That makes the tenth time you have given me those instructions since we left the house, Ambrose. Do you know what your problem is?”

  “Which one?” He went down the ladder with the agility of a cat. “I seem to have quite a variety lately.”

  That hurt but she was careful not to let her reaction show in her voice. She moved cautiously onto the ladder and descended with what she feared was considerably less grace than he had exhibited.

  He was waiting for her at the bottom. When she was standing in front of him again, she reached up to adjust her spectacles.

  “Your problem is that you do not appreciate initiative in a partner,” she said.

  “Perhaps that is because I am not accustomed to working with one. Haven’t had a partner in years.”

  That piqued her interest. “You once had a partner?”

  “Back at the beginning,” he said absently. He removed his coat. “How do I look?”

  She peered at him closely, but the only aspect of his footman’s livery that she could make out in the dark shadows was the pale wig. “I can’t say for certain. It is too dark.”

  “Your cap is askew.” He raised his hands to her hair. “Here, I’ll adjust it.”

  “I vow, you have the eyes of a cat, Ambrose.”

  “That’s what Stoner always said.” He took her hand. “Come along, my dear, we’re off to the ball. After tonight you will not be able to say that I do not take you into elevated social circles.”

  TWO HOURS LATER, Concordia darted down a darkened hall and opened a narrow door. A shaft of light from the hall revealed a large closet filled with mops, brooms, buckets and brushes.

  She slipped inside and closed the door. Alone at last, she thought, slumping wearily against the closet door.

  Who would have thought that playing the part of a maid for one evening would prove to be so exhausting? She had not had a moment’s respite since she had snuck into the ladies’ withdrawing room.

  Together with two other equally harried servants, she had assisted an endless series of demanding female guests. Most of the time had been spent on her knees, helping ladies into their dancing slippers and hooking up the elaborate trains of their sumptuous gowns so that they could waltz without tripping over their skirts. In addition there were a number of small disasters involving spilled champagne and torn petticoats. There had also been one or two instances in which she had been called upon to clean some suspicious grass stains on satin skirts.

  At least there had been no fear of discovery, she thought ruefully. A maid’s white cap and apron had proved to be as good as a weeping veil when it came to a disguise. None of the elegant ladies who had passed through the withdrawing room had taken any notice of the hardworking servants.

  The other maids had accepted her presence without question. Everyone was far too busy to be anything other than grateful for the additional help. Furthermore, no one expected a servant who had been taken on just for the evening to know her way around the mansion.

  The only truly unsettling moment had occurred when Mrs. Hoxton, resplendent in a heavily flounced and frilled gown of pink and purple satin, had swept through the door of the withdrawing room.

  But the gracious benefactress of the Winslow Charity School for Girls had barely spoken to, let alone glanced at, the maid who had crouched on the carpet to hook up the long, frothy train of the dress.

  Reluctantly she raised her hands to her cap to make certain it still sat properly on her head and then opened the door.

  She slipped back out into the quiet hall, wondering if Ambrose had spotted the elusive Mr. Trimley in the ballroom.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here? Hiding to avoid your duties, I see.”

  The voice behind her was male and badly slurred from the effects of too much champagne. Concordia pretended not to hear. She hurried on down the hall toward the safety of the ladies’ withdrawing room.

  Footsteps sounded heavily behind her. She picked up her skirts, preparing to break into a run.

  A beefy male hand clamped around her upper arm, halting her in her tracks.

  “Now just where do you think you’re off to in such a hurry?”

  The hand on her arm forced her to turn around. She found herself confronting a large, stout gentleman dressed in expensively tailored black-and-white formal attire. There was enough light in the dim hall to make out his features. She could see that at one time he had probably been quite handsome. But his face had taken on the coarseness that was the hallmark of too much heavy drinking, rich food and a dissolute lifestyle.

  He leered at her. “Spectacles, eh? Don’t believe I’ve ever tumbled a maid who wore eyeglasses. A first time for everything, I always say.”

  The urge to slap his face was almost overwhelming. She reminded herself that she was supposed to be a maid. Servants did not smack gentlemen guests. Neither did teachers, come to that, not if they wished to remain in their posts.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said, working very hard to keep her voice cool, calm and ever so respectful. “I am expected back in the ladies’ withdrawing room.”

  He made a wet, chuckling sound. “No need to be concerned about the time. I’ll be quick about it.”

  “Please let me go, sir. They will send someone to look for me if I do not return to my duties immediately.”

  “Doubt anyone will miss one little maid for a few minutes. Got plenty of them running about the house tonight.” He started to haul her back toward the storage closet. “Come along now, let’s have some fun. I’ll make it worth your while, never fear.”

  Outrage swept over her. She cast aside her humble maid’s accents and launched into her schoolroom voice.

  “How dare you, sir?” she snapped. “Is this the way you treat those whose station in life is not equal to your own? Have you no manners? No breeding? No sense of decency?”

  The lecherous drunk stopped and stared in astonishment, as though some inanimate object had spoken to him.

  “What’s this?” he said, somewhat blankly.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself. You have no right whatsoever to take advantage of females who are obliged to go into service to make an honest living. Indeed, a true gentleman would see it as his duty to protect such women.”

  She tried to take advantage of his surprise to free her arm. But his big hand tightened painfully around her. His sickening leer twisted into an expression of righteous indignation.

  “And just who in blazes do you think you are to take that tone of voice with your betters?” He used his grip on her arm to give her a violent shake. “I’ll teach you your place. Damned, if I won’t.”

  He yanked hard, hauling her toward the closet.

  For the first time, Concordia felt a wave of real fear. Matters were escalating out of control. Hoping that there were other servants nearby who might be willing to come to her aid, she opened her mouth to yell for assistance.

  The drunken gentleman clamped a massive hand over her lips. “Keep quiet or it will go all the harder for you and that’s a promise. You can bloody well forget about a tip, too.”

  He got the door of the storage closet open and started to pull her into the darkness. His palm covered her nose as well as her mout
h. It was all she could do to breathe. Her rising panic was infused with fury.

  She reached up and raked her nails across his cheek.

  He roared with pain and released her to put a hand to his injured face. “What the devil have you done to me, you stupid bitch?”

  She planted both hands against his chest and shoved with all her strength.

  The drunken man lost his balance, stumbled backward and went down hard on his rear on the floor of the closet.

  She slammed the door closed and turned the key in the lock.

  “There you are,” Ambrose said from somewhere in the corridor behind her. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Just what she needed, she thought, adjusting her spectacles. If Ambrose knew that she had very nearly been assaulted he would no doubt send her straight back to the mansion in a cab.

  “I was just taking a little rest,” she assured him, straightening her cap and apron. “Being a ladies’ maid is really quite exhausting, you know.”

  There was a furious pounding on the door behind her. An irate, albeit muffled voice boomed through the wood panels.

  “Let me out of here, you bitch. How dare you treat your betters in this disrespectful manner! I’ll see to it you’re turned off without a reference this very night. You’ll be on the streets before dawn.”

  Ambrose contemplated the door.

  “Was there a problem?” he asked neutrally.

  “No, not at all.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “Nothing I could not handle. Why were you looking for me?”

  The door behind her shuddered beneath another series of blows. “Open this door at once.”

  “Stand aside,” Ambrose said to Concordia.

  A fresh wave of panic slammed through her. “Ambrose, you must not do anything rash. You cannot afford to engage in a brawl with a gentleman tonight. It will put your entire scheme at risk.”

  “Hold these.” He tossed his topcoat and her cloak into her arms.

  “Ambrose, please, we have more serious matters to concern us tonight. This is no time to get distracted.”

  “This will only take a moment.” He unlocked the door, opened it and stepped inside.