The Richmond Thief

by Lisa Boero

  “Did she have family in town?”

  “I don’t know, she never mentioned no one.”

  “Well, please spread the word that if anyone hears of her, I should like to make her an offer of employment.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “And it was Langley she thought she saw?”

  “Yes, she was sure—dragged me all the way out to the yard to see.”

  Althea shook her head. “Very strange.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “And Mary did not seem like the sort of girl who would make up fantastic stories, but then again, you might know better about that.”

  “She wasn’t, as far as I know. Seemed like a proper brought up girl. Your ladyship wouldn’t have to worry about giving her a position. She gave no trouble before the diamonds went missing.”

  “Yes, those diamonds are a problem. And there wasn’t anyone who disliked Mary for some reason, was there? A large house can often foment disagreement.”

  “Not as I know, milady. She kept to herself, she did.”

  “I’ve heard that she’s not the first maid turned off from the house. Is that true?”

  Bridgett thought a moment and then decided to answer. “I do not know, but there have been other maids that ran off before. Several since I came here, gone without a word to nobody. But Mrs. Buxton told me they was lazy girls, so no loss to anyone.”

  Althea sat at her dressing table to allow Bridgett to brush out her hair and twist it up in the simple style Althea favored.

  “And Mrs. Buxton seemed pleased with Mary’s performance? Before the diamonds, I mean.”

  “Begging your pardon, but Mrs. Buxton don’t think nobody does what she ought.”

  Althea smiled. “She is a strict task master?”

  Bridgett nodded. “But she’s as fine an abigail as any in London, so she has a right to be particular.”

  “And is there a Mr. Buxton?”

  “Dead these three years, just as I came on with the Levanwood family.”

  “And he was also employed here?”

  “Valet to Lord Charles.”

  “But not to Lord John? Although I suppose they must have very different requirements for their valets.”

  Bridgett chuckled, and then recalling herself, coughed delicately. “Yes, milady. My Lord John employs a Frenchman. Calls himself d’Orsay.”

  “I take it Mr. d’Orsay does not make himself popular?”

  “We don’t hold with foreigners,” Bridgett replied simply. She secured Althea’s hair with several long pins and then said, “And your cap, milady?”

  “I have several tucked away in the wardrobe.” Bridgett went to retrieve one, and Althea added, “I suppose Lord John may hire whom he chooses. He is a dashing young man, after all, and we cannot pretend to understand all the intricacies of masculine fashion.”

  Bridgett came back to the dressing table with a very pretty lace confection Althea hadn’t been able to resist. “As Mrs. Buxton says, a proper English gentleman should not be at the dressing table more than a girl in her first season.”

  “I had not thought it could be so long.”

  “Much longer, from what Mrs. Buxton says.”

  “He is such a fine gentleman, at least the effort is worth the end result.”

  “He is very handsome,” she agreed warily.

  “But with some unusual habits? I have often seen him out in the garden at night.”

  “I’m told he sleeps but little and very poorly.”

  “That would account for it, I’m sure.” Althea paused, and then her eyes met Bridgett’s in the mirror. She lowered her voice. “I shouldn’t pry, of course, but anything you might feel free to tell me, I would be glad to know. Although I am technically a member of the family, I’m afraid I do not know the Levanwoods as I should.”

  Bridgett responded with a measuring look. Althea’s easy concourse with the kitchen staff must have weighed in her favor, because Bridgett sighed and then said, “He’s a strange gentleman. Not caring for no one and nothing but himself. There’s not a servant in this household but will give him a bad name. That’s why he had to bring that Frenchie here. Couldn’t get no proper English servant who would take him. Gives me the chills, Lord Bingham does.”

  “Is he physically abusive to the staff?”

  “No, but I hear that there isn’t a day where he’s not in his cups by midday.”

  Althea thought about her rides in his high phaeton. “Really? I must say he covers it quite well.”

  “He would. His mother meaning to have you married.”

  “Me? Ridiculous.”

  “Not since your ladyship rejected Lord Charles.”

  “So the servants know that too? I should have expected as much.”

  “Yes, milady.” Bridgett finished adjusting the cap. “There, milady.”

  Althea stood. “Thank you. If you wouldn’t mind, I will ask to have you come to me always. I find your assistance invaluable.”

  Bridgett curtsied low. “As you wish, milady.”

  Althea joined Jane in the blue salon. They had agreed to accompany Cousin Bella on a shopping excursion, but Bella was habitually tardy. Jane sat by the fire actively working a needlepoint that demonstrated both her skill and her tenacious attention to detail. Althea picked up her own indifferent cross-stitch and settled into a chair and easy conversation. They were soon interrupted by the announcement of the arrival of Sir Neville.

  That voluble gentleman clapped his hands together as he entered the room. “How charming a picture. Such industry and loveliness! Lady Trent, Miss Trent, you must be complimented on dexterous fingers. I swear I don’t know how you ladies do it.”

  The ladies rose to receive his profuse compliments and then sat again, Althea in her chair and Jane on the settee next to Sir Neville, whose corset creaked happily as he sank down.

  “And to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” Althea said.

  “My dear Lady Trent, I have come on a mission of great importance. With your permission, I have taken a box for this evening at Covent Garden. Only think, the divine Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth, and I have some hope, with the inducement of your charming presence, that His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, may favor us at intermission. At the very least, his dear brother, the Duke of York, is sure to make his presence felt.”

  “A delightful scheme, to be sure.” Althea looked over at Jane, seeking some sign of complicity, but Jane resolutely kept to her needlepoint. “Although I cannot speak for Lady Levanwood, I think you may have hit on the only evening this week we are not otherwise engaged.”

  Sir Neville smiled, his cheeks suddenly pink with happiness. “Then it is settled.” He clapped his hands again. “Delightful!”

  But just as he pronounced those words, the door opened again. “Beg your pardon”—the butler looked at Althea—“but there is a gentleman come to see your ladyship.”

  “Indeed?” Althea said. “Show him in, please.” Jane looked at her with brows raised.

  The butler bowed out and then returned shortly with a stout gentleman of five and twenty, dressed plainly but neatly, with thinning sandy hair and an air of consequence.

  “Squire Pettigrew!” Althea and Jane said at once. Sir Neville looked at Jane and then put his ornate quizzing glass up to his eye.

  The ladies rose to meet the squire, as did Sir Neville, who levered himself nosily from the settee.

  “I did not know you would be in town, sir,” Althea said.

  “My dear Lady Trent, Miss Trent, I hope I find you well. I have just arrived, you see, and hastened to make my way here to pay respects.” He then seemed to notice Sir Neville, who dropped the glass.

  Jane said, “May I present Sir Neville Tabard. Sir Neville, this is Mr. Lawrence Pettigrew of Pettigrew Manor in Somerset.”

  “Quite delighted to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  Squire Pettigrew replied in kind, but it was clear from his affect that he didn’t know what to make of the
middle-aged dandy.

  Althea invited them all to sit down and noticed that Squire Pettigrew hesitated, waiting to see where she sat. She resumed her prior seat, and he selected the chair next to her.

  “May I ring for some refreshment? You must be fatigued from the journey,” Althea said.

  “No indeed. I brought the carriage, you know, and took it in slow stages. There is nothing fatiguing about that sort of journey, provided the inns are adequate. Although one must always be on the lookout for shifty innkeepers. And there was no need to change horses, so I was happily spared that expense. My horses are steady as they come and can be counted on to take me wherever I need to go. Not that I have reason to travel that much, but still, it is a comfort to have a pair of horses one can count upon not to throw a shoe or sprain a fetlock or some such nonsense.”

  “And what brings you to London?” Jane said. “For I don’t believe you mentioned a journey the last time we had the pleasure of seeing you.”

  “I have some business with the lawyers that I thought should be attended to in person, matters related to Pettigrew Manor.”

  “Will your sojourn be of long duration?” Althea asked.

  He looked at her intently. “I cannot say.”

  There was a lull in the conversation, and Althea was just about to remark on the weather or another equally fatuous subject when the door flew open and Lady Levanwood fluttered in. “Oh my dears, sorry to keep you waiting, but I had one of my headaches this morning and you know how low they make me feel. I swear I should never have got up at all, but Buxton had me imbibe some tea and toast and that set me to rights eventually.” She stopped, suddenly aware of the gentlemen. “Oh dear, Sir Neville, what a pleasure. And—” She looked inquiringly at Squire Pettigrew.

  Althea made the introductions.

  “Oh,” Lady Levanwood said with a certain elevated hauteur, “and come all the way from Somerset too! Very happy to make your acquaintance.”

  Pettigrew bowed low. “The pleasure is all mine.” Then there was another awkward silence until Sir Neville jumped gallantly into the breach with a description of his theater scheme and a general extension of the invitation to all parties present, including Squire Pettigrew.

  The squire seemed to warm to Sir Neville upon the receipt of such a gracious invitation and said to Althea as he left, “Although his appearance is not what one would like to see in a man of such advanced years, still he acts the part of a true gentleman. My mother always said that one should never judge by appearances no matter how one is tempted, and while I find that maxim to be true on most occasions, I am still pleasantly surprised by the affability and condescension of one whom I must otherwise condemn most strenuously as a dandy.“

  Althea cut in with, “So true,” and then thanked heaven that she had the excuse of Cousin Bella’s errands to end the interview. Lady Levanwood whisked them off for the express purpose of finding new kid gloves and an ivory fan that she had seen several weeks prior and was now determined to buy.

  When Bella was suitably distracted examining a pair of long kid-leather gloves dyed the palest shade of pink, Jane took the opportunity of saying to Althea, “At least in London I thought we might be safe from Pettigrew!”

  “Apparently not,” Althea replied.

  “It’s not like him to do anything on a whim.”

  “Perhaps he sought to keep the visit a surprise.”

  “Not a very pleasant one,” Jane said, “to you or to Cousin Bella. She looked daggers at him, hoping, I suppose, to warn him away.”

  If that was the case, then Lady Levanwood was sure of disappointment, for Squire Pettigrew arrived punctually and managed to secure a seat next to Althea in the carriage. He took full advantage of this position, speaking to her in a low voice. “I had thought to have private speech with you, Lady Trent, but I find that may be difficult while you are in residence at Levanwood House. I have been informed that persons of fashion parade in Hyde Park, so, once I have had an opportunity to hire a suitable curricle, would you favor me with your company?”

  “Why certainly, sir, if I am not otherwise engaged. For you must know that Lady Levanwood has a wide circle of friends, and I am quite at her disposal.”

  “Of course,” he replied, not very well pleased. “One must always place duty above all things. One’s word is one’s bond, my mother always said, and you know how wise dear mother was. You were a great favorite with her, I assure you Lady Trent. If I could but have such a lady for my dear son, she’d often say. Of course, that was before the death of Sir Arthur, which, however melancholy an event, must at least have renewed mother’s hopes for the future.”

  Charles, who was seated opposite Althea, called her attention with some remark about the Scottish Play, and Althea gratefully responded, determined, at least for one evening, to keep conversation with Pettigrew at a minimum.

  The carriage pulled up in front of the theater, which bore very little resemblance to the sad edifice Althea had previously seen. The building was ablaze with light, and there were carriages of every description jostling with one another to secure a prime location in order to disgorge a bevy of brightly dressed men and women. The drunks and the urchins were nowhere to be seen. All was artifice and pleasure.

  Sir Neville met the Levanwood family in the large foyer, under the glittering lights of the chandeliers. He immediately hustled the party, which was complete except for John and the marquess, to his box, on the off chance that the Duke of York or his illustrious brother had come early to the play. Sadly, this was not the case.

  Undaunted, Sir Neville entertained his guests with a steady flow of ton anecdotes and gossip. The conversation was interspersed with brief visits from Lady Levanwood’s friends, who popped in and out like small brightly colored birds, chirping endlessly about nothing in loud voices. Sir Neville’s own wide acquaintance also paid court to the party, and sometimes the box was so filled with noise Althea could barely hear the superficial conversation of the person next to her.

  From behind her strategically placed fan, Althea also watched the other theatergoers settle into their seats. Truly, the theater buzzed with human activity. There was Lady Lamb, dressed that evening in a more demure blue silk, seated beside her husband, and the elderly Viscount Rothingham, a great friend of the marquess, ogling the women of lesser morals parading down in the pit, their garish silks and satins shimmering in the flickering light of the chandeliers.

  The women’s movements reminded Althea of the dance of the honey bees she had observed, back and forth, wiggling their charms for the world to see. Althea noted with a certain detachment that Rothingham wasn’t the only gentleman attending the ladies’ movements. Quite a number of quizzing glasses were poised to better capture the finer details of the beauties’ attributes.

  The constant flow of persons in and out of Sir Neville’s box did not escape the public’s notice either, and Althea observed many heads turned in their direction. She smiled to herself. And here I am, she thought, like the conquering bee queen, surveying my new hive kingdom. Veni, vidi, vici.

  She looked up, shaking off her reverie, and encountered the eyes of the Duke of Norwich staring back at her from the opposite side of the theater. She blinked. He bowed slightly, and she responded with a bob of a curtsey. Then he motioned to another man, who stood beside him. Althea recognized Lord George Verlyn. That gentleman smiled as he bowed. If they had ideas of joining the throng already attendant on the Levanwood party, she did not discern it, because the house lights dimmed, the visitors returned to their positions, and Althea turned her concentration toward the stage.

  She had never seen a professional theater production, contenting herself with such amateur theatricals as a confined neighborhood could produce. Needless to say, Mrs. Siddons in her most celebrated role bore no relationship to anything Althea had ever experienced. She found herself gripping the front of the box as the tale of murder and madness unfolded, so lost in the story that it was a shock when the lamps were relit at in
termission. She sat back in her chair, disoriented.

  The box filled again with other members of the Levanwood and Tabard set, including the very welcome addition of the Duke of York. The Regent’s brother was a portly gentleman with a ruddy complexion and engaging, easy manners. Although Lady Levanwood had promised to use her connections to secure Althea’s presentation at St. James, the momentous event was delayed indefinitely due to the lack of drawing rooms. Despite this lapse, Althea had been privileged to make the Duke of York’s acquaintance at the Norwich ball, where he was so kind as to speak with her for several moments.

  This he proceeded to do again, commenting favorably on the deep blue of her evening dress and asking affably how she liked the play. Her impassioned answer made him chuckle ruefully. “Aye, Mrs. Siddons is in fine form tonight. Not that I’m terribly fond of the play. Devilish plot what with witches and whatnot. Turns a man’s blood to ice watching that horrible woman wring her bloody hands. Mind you, Shakespeare had the right of it—women are more clever and deadly than ever we men suspect.”

  Althea smiled. “Should I take that as a compliment to my sex?”

  The duke laughed. “Most certainly. Since the time of Eve, women have been our undoing.”

  “But surely we have all felt the nurturing balm of a mother’s love. For that alone, we must forgive all else.”

  “Spoken like a true mother.”

  Althea nodded. “I have a son and would gladly sacrifice anything for him.”

  “Nobly said. However, there are mothers aplenty who would not stand such a test. Why, history is replete with them. Medea comes first to mind.”

  “I am sure that a thorough search would find examples aplenty on both sides of the argument. I simply meant to illustrate that we are neither so bad nor so good, but merely indispensable.”

  The duke laughed again. “That you are.”

  Squire Pettigrew edged closer to the royal personage. He looked at Althea timidly, and Althea, secretly amused at the awe and fear written across his pudgy face, made the proper introduction.

  The duke eyed Pettigrew sternly and then, rightly concluding that conversation with him would be tedious, turned away to Sir Neville.