Lady Victoria's Mistake

by Amy Corwin

  “Father!” Victoria said in anguished tones, wringing her hands together. “Please believe me, I had nothing to do with this. I discovered the box on the floor—empty!” She pulled her pocket out from the slit in her evening dress and frantically removed the contents, spilling them onto the white tablecloth. A silver-chased bottle of smelling salts, a lace-edged handkerchief, a small tortoiseshell comb, and a tiny mirror clattered together, followed by the wooden cylinder of a needle case.

  Her gaze bounced from her father’s face to her mother’s, taking in their disappointed expressions. They didn’t believe her, even after she’d emptied her pocket. Her chest tightened until she could barely breathe. Looking around, she focused on John, who sat slumped in a chair by the fire, his eyes closed.

  As if sensing her stare, he straightened and turned his head in her direction. The firelight played over the hollows under his cheekbones and the pallor of his skin, but his brown eyes were sharp as he returned Victoria’s gaze. Placing his hands on the armrests, he pushed himself up, took a deep breath, and sauntered over to join her.

  Although he didn’t touch her, a sudden flush of warmth cascaded through her. Some of the tension tightening her shoulders relaxed.

  “What has happened?” he asked in a mild, almost disinterested voice, as if he believed that whatever it was, it was clearly nonsense.

  “Mrs. Stedman’s tiara is missing,” Victoria said before anyone else could speak. “I found her jewel box empty on the floor upstairs.”

  Before he could respond, Mr. Wickson hurried up and caught John’s arm. “I say—you’ll never guess who I saw hurrying down the street in that bloody puce pelisse—Lady Victoria! Saw her pass under the streetlamp at the corner. Wonder why she left.” He frowned and shook his head.

  John pried Mr. Wickson’s fingers off his arm and cleared his throat.

  “Eh?” Mr. Wickson’s brows rose. He looked around, his eyes widening when he realized he was standing not four feet away from Victoria. “I say—back again, are you? How the devil did you manage that when I saw you on the street with my own eyes not two minutes ago?”

  Feeling strangled, Victoria coughed and shook her head. “I assure you, I have not stepped foot outside since we arrived.”

  “Then it was some other chit wearing your puce pelisse,” Mr. Wickson stated with a frown. “No mistaking that ugly—er—delightful garment.”

  “Oh, Victoria—you were going to give that girl, Rose, your pelisse,” her mother murmured. She stared up at Victoria with sad eyes, her lovely mouth drooping at the corners.

  Victoria could only shake her head. Warm tears burned in her eyes, and she blinked furiously. She would not cry—she absolutely refused to cry.

  “You didn’t corrupt her as well, did you?” her mother asked in her soft, mournful voice.

  “Rose?” Her father eyed her. “You didn’t give it to your maid, did you?”

  “No—I swear to you—I didn’t do anything! I didn’t take it—I haven’t seen Rose!” Her voice rose tremulously.

  Panic rising to choke her, her gaze rushed from one suspicious face to the other. Everyone was staring at her with accusing eyes, disappointment and anger tightening their features. A thoughtful V creased the colonel’s brow, and he tapped the edge of the cards he held against the table as he studied first Victoria and then her father. She could almost hear him considering how best to withdraw his offer.

  The only one who seemed ready to believe her was John Archer.

  She gripped his arm, and looked up at him, searching his face. “I swear to you, I didn’t take that tiara!”

  Patting her wrist, he nodded.

  Chapter Eleven

  So, someone had taken Mrs. Stedman’s tiara. John studied the condemning expressions worn by the other guests and couldn’t help but think they were all idiots. Every last one of them.

  Even her parents, shame that it was.

  Clearly, Lady Victoria was innocent. Any fool could see that.

  “What about that chit on the street?” Wickson wailed, gesturing wildly at the bow window behind them. “I tell you—I saw her running down the street!”

  “Did you not give your pelisse to Rose, dear?” Lady Longmoor asked plaintively, her eyes fixed upon her daughter’s strained face.

  “I told her she could have it—I don’t know whether she took it or not,” Lady Victoria replied, her grip on John’s arm tightening.

  Her beautiful, delicate face was pale with tension, and her eyes shadowed. The urge to throw his arm around her was so strong that he took a step closer before he could stop himself. The wound in his side pulled, and a dull twinge of pain made him suck in a quick breath. Ignoring his own discomfort, he focused on the scene playing out in front of him like one of Shakespeare’s more melodramatic moments.

  Lady Victoria’s silken gown brushed against his leg as he pressed a steadying palm against the hollow of her back. Slowly, her rigid muscles relaxed.

  “Steady on,” he murmured softly. Glancing around, he said, “There is no need to make foolish accusations. I am sure if we permit cooler heads to prevail, we can discover what has happened to Mrs. Stedman’s headdress.”

  “Indeed,” Sir Arnold agreed heartily, relief wreathing his round face with a smile as he joined them. “No need for a fuss. Send for this Rose and request her to bring back the tiara. No need to discuss it further. Forgive and forget—that’s what I say. No need for all this bother.” He glanced around as if he’d never been in his drawing room before. “Ring for paper and whatnot, shall I?” His brown brows rose expectantly, and he ran a hand through the curls his valet had so carefully arranged earlier to disguise Sir Arnold’s receding hairline. His brown hair sprung up in response, forming a tangled crown across the top of his shiny head.

  Next to John, Lady Victoria sighed, released his forearm, and folded her arms protectively against her waist. “Perhaps it is just as well to request her presence. She will be able to tell you that I did not send for her, or arrange for her to take away anything from this house.”

  She sounded so tired, so discouraged, that John wanted to call a carriage and take her away. There was no reason for her to be treated so cruelly by those who loved her best and ought to defend her. Grinding his teeth together, he kept his coiling anger well-hidden behind a bland expression.

  “Certainly, we may send for your maid,” he agreed. “However, in the meantime, I suggest we do a bit of investigating of our own.”

  Sir Arnold clasped his hands behind his back and glared at the doorway. “The servants first, I suppose, though they have all been with me the last five years or more. Never caused a whit of bother before.” He strode over to the bell pull and gave it a strong jerk.

  When his butler appeared in the doorway, Sir Arnold gave him a series of orders.

  With a reassuring glance at Lady Victoria, John joined him. “Your name is?” he asked the butler.

  “Hankinson, sir,” the tall, almost cadaver-thin butler replied with a bow. His black jacket flapped around him when he moved, like the wings of a raven.

  “Well, Mr. Hankinson,” John said. “Can you account for the whereabouts of the other servants during the last hour or so?”

  “I believe we can, sir, between Mrs. Gascoyne and myself.” Hankinson bowed again.

  “Mrs. Gascoyne is the housekeeper?” John asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell him, man,” Sir Arnold said impatiently. “Give us an account, then. Where were you?”

  “Has there been an issue, Sir Arnold?” Hankinson asked instead.

  When Sir Arnold opened his mouth to answer, John interrupted. “Not an issue, no, not per se. We are simply trying to ascertain the whereabouts of those in the household for a matter with which you need not concern yourself.”

  “Very good, sir.” Hankinson fixed his black eyes on the doorframe above John’s head as a thoughtful expression smoothed over his long face. “The footmen and myself were clearing away the supper dishes, of
course, while the maids cleaned the room.”

  “Mrs. Stedman’s maid?” John asked.

  “She was partaking of a small cordial with Mrs. Gascoyne.”

  “Sir Arnold’s valet?”

  “He was in the washroom with a pair of Sir Arnold’s boots.” His brows rose toward his bald dome. “Once Sir Arnold’s supper was cleared away, Mrs. Gascoyne and I felt it best to hold our own supper, and of course, all of the servants were present during that time. We had not quite finished when Sir Arnold rang.” His long, narrow face revealed nothing about his feelings concerning his interrupted meal, but his rigid posture and firm gaze planted on a point just above their heads indicated that whatever he felt, it wasn’t pleasure.

  Nonetheless, if the butler were to be believed, all the servants had been accounted for during the last hour or so.

  The guests had been in the drawing room, listening to Miss Urick’s attempts to play the pianoforte from approximately fifteen minutes after ten until half past, when many started drifting away. During that time, Mrs. Stedman had disappeared and reappeared later without her tiara. Which meant that the tiara had to have been stolen sometime between half past ten and eleven, since it was just a few minutes shy of that hour now.

  Frowning thoughtfully, John rubbed his right arm. Even though the wound was on his side and not his arm, the limb still ached and felt as heavy as lead. The bandage around his middle constricted his breathing in the manner of a corset, and a drop of sweat eeled its way down the side of his face before saturating his collar. Taking as deep a breath as he could, he focused on the problem at hand, rather than the discomfort plaguing him.

  “It must have been one of the guests,” a light voice said, echoing his own thoughts.

  “So it appears,” he agreed.

  He turned to find Lady Victoria at his side. Although anguish still darkened her lovely gray eyes, the gleam of intelligence shown, as well, fine and clear. A grin twisted his mouth.

  She had shaken off her initial despair at being named a foul thief and, pushing her emotions aside, had applied her mind to the problem instead. His admiration for her increased. Many men, as well as women, of his acquaintance would allow their passions to rule them under similar circumstances, melting them into a puddle of tearful incomprehension. It took backbone and courage to face a roomful of condemning faces, particularly when her own parents had unaccountably arrayed against her.

  The thought strengthened the deep bond he felt toward her, the sense that they were kindred spirits. He knew what it meant to be an outsider, without a family willing to acknowledge or support him.

  “We must try to determine where everyone was after Mrs. Stedman retired to remove her jewelry at half past ten,” Lady Victoria said, her gray eyes fixed upon his face. She glanced over her shoulder at the other guests, who were watching them curiously. “It will not be easy—it is so indelicate—as if I were trying to absolve myself by thrusting the blame onto someone else’s shoulders.”

  “If you were not innocent, I would agree. But as that is not the case, then it is the only course open to us.”

  She nodded slowly in agreement, although her mouth drooped. “Perhaps I should question the ladies and you the men?”

  “The reverse, I believe,” he replied with a jaunty smile. “And I shall start with our dear Mrs. Grisdale, since it seems she was wandering about the hallways, herself, during that time.”

  “I wish you luck, then.” A rueful grimace twisted her mouth. She pulled her plump lower lip between her teeth to chew on it while she studied the other guests. “At least we can leave Miss Urick and Mr. Fitton in peace. They were at the piano. At least I think they were, weren’t they?”

  “Yes.” A wince tightened his face. “Unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately?”

  “I was unable to avoid hearing her attempt to butcher poor Mr. Haydn. If I hadn’t known the piece was in G major, I doubt I should have guessed it from her playing,” John said with an amused glance at the pair still infesting the area around the pianoforte.

  Lady Victoria’s hastily suppressed giggle rewarded John, and he was pleased to see her gray eyes sparkling with bright laughter. “She is not that unskilled.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d been in the room to witness her torturing that helpless instrument.”

  Her second attempt to stifle her giggles resulted in a soft snort. His grin widened as he gazed at her softly flushed cheeks and happy expression.

  She quickly sobered, though, when he said, “We must make a start of it, however, before some idiot sends for the authorities. It will not do to let this go too far.”

  “No, it will not.” Placing a hand lightly on his arm, she glanced up at him, her eyes filled with sudden concern. “You must wonder—that is—my parents… Well, you see once, when I was a child, I absentmindedly caught a ribbon in my sleeve. I was going to return it as soon as I realized, but my mother caught me first and was sure that I was trying to steal it.” Her blush deepened, and she dropped her gaze to stare at one of the gold buttons on his jacket. “It was terribly embarrassing. I didn’t know what to do. When I tried to explain, no one would believe me.”

  “Never mind.” John gave her hand a pat before facing the room. “I have never doubted your innocence.” He grinned at her. “And frankly, I have no concern over your parents’ behavior. Parents, in my experience, know even less about their children than a chance-met stranger.”

  Before he could walk away, her grip on his arm tightened. “Were you in the drawing room the entire time? I thought Mr. Wickson wanted you to join him outside on the balcony.”

  “I decided to stay by the fire,” he admitted, straightening his shoulders as he gazed into her face. The bloody wound had weakened him to the point where he’d decided to remain inside, after all, and stare into the flames like an old, doddering man reliving youthful memories.

  “Your friend, Mr. Wickson?” she asked.

  “He was headed toward the balcony—but you must ask him if he reached his destination.” He shrugged. “I paid little attention to the others, though I heard that racket made by Miss Urick pretending to play the pianoforte. One of her attempts at improvisation brought tears to my eyes.”

  “One?” Lady Victoria’s gaze sharpened.

  “Of many.”

  “But there was one in particular?”

  “Yes—at least.”

  “What time was that? Do you recall?”

  The purpose of her quick questions flashed before him like the brilliant beam from a lighthouse on a stormy night. “As it happens, I glanced at the clock on the mantle in the forlorn hope that the musical portion of the evening would soon end. It was fifty minutes past ten.”

  “Then we can use that, can we not? To know for certain if someone was in the room at that time or not.”

  Her words echoed his thoughts perfectly.

  “Indeed,” he remarked with a grin. “If one were present to hear it, the moment would be unforgettable. Your conclusion is inescapable—you see? You have little to fear, now shall we determine what manner of diversion occupied the others while our little thief went to work upstairs?”

  Returning his grin with a calm smile, Lady Victoria faced the room. She looked around once, lifted her chin, and with a nod to him, strode determinedly toward Mr. Fitton.

  Eliminate the obvious, first, John thought as he followed her, heading for Miss Urick.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Mr. Fitton, would you assist me in a small matter?” Lady Victoria asked, drawing the man a few yards away from the pianoforte.

  Mr. Fitton gave an uneasy glance at Miss Urick, his mouth tightening as John escorted the young lady away. Victoria touched Mr. Fitton’s arm, to bring his attention to her.

  Although he turned more directly toward her, he kept casting frowning glances over his shoulder at Miss Urick and John. “Yes, Lady Victoria? What is it?” His lips thinned more when he looked at her. “What was that nonsense at the car
d tables?”

  “A mere misunderstanding.” Victoria smiled and clasped her hands at her waist. “I was hoping you might remember if anyone left the room while Miss Urick was playing?”

  “Left the room? Why should anyone leave the room? And what should it matter if they had?”

  Swallowing a spurt of irritation, Victoria managed to keep her tone unconcerned as she said, “Just a matter of a…” Inspiration cleansed away her annoyance. Then a familiar sense of nausea hit her at the notion, but once she thought of it, she couldn’t think of any other way to explain her questions without a great deal of embarrassment. “A matter of a wager, you see.” She could hardly say the word, wager, but she managed it. She pressed her crossed arms more tightly against her stomach. “With Mr. Archer. I wagered that Miss Urick’s playing was so, er, angelic, that no one could possibly leave the room while she was at the pianoforte. So I wagered that fewer than four were absent.”

  A hard gleam in Mr. Fitton’s blue eyes indicated that he was neither amused nor deluded by Victoria’s question. “And yet you saw fit to leave, as did a number of others.”

  “Well, yes. I left—hence my question—but it was quite against my will, I assure you.”

  “Against your will?”

  She blushed and modestly cast her gaze down to the carpet. “It was necessary—I am sure you understand.”

  “I see,” he said, though his hard gaze showed no sympathy—or embarrassment at what she had so delicately hinted. “Well, I noticed Mrs. Stedman left, though that was a while before you disappeared.”

  “Anyone else? You see, the wager concerns that period between Mrs. Stedman’s return and now, while Miss Urick was playing that beautiful Haydn piece.”

  “Everyone was milling around,” he replied, running an impatient hand through his dark hair. “I had no reason to notice anyone in particular. Several of the gentlemen went out to smoke, and others may have left the room, as well.”

  “Do you remember who went out to the balcony?”

  “That fellow, Wickson, I believe. And his friend—that person with whom you made this ridiculous wager—vanished.”