by Annis Bell
Devereaux flinched, then laughed heartily and looked at Jane. “Do you think she would turn me down, like you?”
“I didn’t turn you down. I only asked for some time to think.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“For me, yes, but it doesn’t always have to be like that.”
Devereaux smiled. “You’re a quick-witted woman, Lady Jane, and you like to play with fire. Have you ever burned your fingers?”
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, and she felt the tip of his tongue touch her skin. That was going too far! Jane, outraged, inhaled sharply, but Devereaux spoke first, a whisper in her ear.
“When the masks come down at midnight, my lady, the barriers come down with them. Fantasies you’ve never dared to dream will be within reach. Are you happy?”
His final question came so unexpectedly that Jane stared at him agape. “I’m thirsty.”
“Of course. How could I forget that? But you will have to forgive me. I regret deeply that your choice did not fall in my favor. You could have accompanied me to India. Didn’t you grow up there?” He waved a servant over and took two glasses of champagne from a tray.
Jane would have preferred water, but she took a swallow of the cool, bubbly liquid and decided to enjoy this unusual evening. “Yes. Sadly, my parents died there. But I have many memories of the land. The colors and smells, and the stories that my Indian nanny told me.”
They were standing by a marble pillar close to the dance floor. Jane noticed they were being observed by several pairs of masked eyes. Jealous debutantes or yearning wives?
Devereaux seemed unimpressed and kept his entire attention on Jane. “Beneath all of its exotic colors, India is a dark continent, a land full of tragic legends and traditions. Have you ever heard of the custom of burning widows? We English will never manage to quash that particular tradition, let alone drive out their gods. They have cruel gods and secret societies we only think we’ve done away with.”
“Are you talking about the Thugs?”
Devereaux frowned. “A gruesome story. They are said to have murdered more than a million people. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”
Jane felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise. There was something in the way he talked about the Thugs, a kind of cynical appreciation. “Have you ever seen one?”
His eyes narrowed. “No, my lady. And I can assure you that no one would survive such an encounter.”
The orchestra launched into the first bars of a mazurka, and Jane drank the last of her champagne. Devereaux watched her finish her champagne, took the glass from her hand, and led her onto the dance floor. He was an elegant dancer and led her effortlessly through the complicated forms of the dance, which involved jumps and fast turns and quickened her breathing. She was relieved when the music died and she could put a little distance between herself and Devereaux again. There was something demanding in the way the man conducted himself that repelled her.
Just like that evening at Rosewood Hall, thought Jane as she scanned the crowd of guests. When she saw Wescott, she gave him a sign.
“You mean to leave me in the lurch again, I see,” Devereaux complained jokingly. Then he leaned close to her and whispered, “You are curious and courageous. Pain can be sweet, my lady.”
Then he drifted away into the crowd.
When Wescott reached her, she was fanning her face energetically. “I want to leave. Right now.”
“Did he come too close?” Wescott asked, and his eyes were grim as he followed the slim departing figure of the businessman.
“No, but I’ve had enough of this company for today.”
“Good. Wait out in the hall for me. I have to talk to Argyll for another minute.”
When they were sitting outside in the carriage, Jane sighed. “One should never overestimate one’s abilities,” she muttered.
Wescott smiled and pointed out the window at the mansion they were passing. “That’s Charles Devereaux’s place. He must really have earned a fortune in India.” They were driving alongside a high wall, the top of which bristled with sharpened iron spikes. They could see the outline of a huge, many-winged edifice behind the trees. Only someone with enormous wealth at his disposal could afford an estate like that in the heart of London.
“He proposed to me, the night I met you,” said Jane, without taking her eyes off the magnificent gate adorned with a crest. Pretentious for someone with no title, she thought. Wescott said nothing, and Jane added, “I am glad I did not accept.”
Then she told Wescott about their conversation, but her husband only said, “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Someone like Devereaux has no need to muddy his fingers.”
33.
The following morning, Jane was surprised to receive a letter from Cornwall. Floyd had written, and his news was completely unexpected.
“Listen to this,” Jane said to Wescott, who was sitting with her at the breakfast table. That, too, was unexpected, but Jane was silently pleased that he was there.
Wescott, who had also received a letter, put his aside and refilled his cup with tea, which he drank black.
“Floyd is well. He can get around without a stick, Rufus is chasing the ducks, and, ah, here, this is incredible!”
My lady, we were all quite speechless, but Fred Thomas, the miller’s brother, kept a girl locked up for several weeks in his hut in the woods and was having his way with her. It seems the girl finally managed to escape. She came from Foxhole, not far from St. Austell. She has several brothers and uncles in her family, and they took Fred to task, to put it mildly. What was left of him was hauled off to Bodmin, where he’s to face court. After his arrest, he admitted to holding that girl from St. Winnow captive, and also to her murder. Indeed, he claims that he did not mean to kill her, but that won’t change anything. It is the rope for him.
Jane looked up. “Isn’t that terrible? I would not have believed it possible.”
“It certainly is food for thought. But the Thomas clan apparently has a number of black sheep. Does he mention your former cook?”
“No. He’s checked the books and found a few small peccadillos, but he says that, by and large, he’s satisfied with Mr. and Mrs. Roche. The gamekeeper seems to be making an extra effort. Sales of partridges and pheasants to hunting clubs in the region have brought in a good profit.” She set the letter on the table and looked at Wescott, who was eyeing his own missive thoughtfully.
“You remember I told you someone was making some inquiries for me?” Wescott drummed his fingers on the paper. “The teacher, Gaunt. His name isn’t on any passenger lists. I’ve had all of them checked, including those of ships still in port. Nothing.”
“Which can only mean that Mr. Ledford was lying. And Miss Fannigan?”
“Her name turned up in an agency that found a position for her as a private teacher in Glasgow.”
Jane sighed with relief. “Then she’s still alive.”
“Do you fear that Mr. Gaunt is dead?”
“Yes, as terrible as it sounds. I’m certain something is rotten there. Why would Ledford go to such trouble to lie about Gaunt? Why come up with a complicated story about migrating to America? I’ll tell you why: because he’s got something to hide! You haven’t seen Cooper, the custodian at Newbridge. A brutal man. I wouldn’t put anything past him. The children seemed extremely intimidated by him, and the red-haired girl wanted to tell me something, but they locked her up. I’m sure of it. Can’t the place be searched?”
“With a little pressure from above . . .” He grinned. “This is where my long sojourns in the clubs might pay off. No doubt a search and provisional detainment of Ledford can be arranged. Sometimes an arrest can work wonders. People start talking like a waterfall. It all depends on what kind of stuff Ledford’s made of.”
“Didn’t you say that he’d already lost one post
in Manchester? It occurs to me that he could not afford a second misconduct charge.”
“Let’s just hope that his fear of prison is greater than his fear of his patron. He is still a mystery, and therefore untouchable. The trade in children is almost impossible to get under control.” Wescott wiped a hand over his cheek. His scar was barely visible this morning.
“There’s no real duty to school the children, and the Poor Law Union has no laws that allow strong action to be taken against child labor,” said Jane.
“It’s the poverty. As long as people are hungry and have no work, they will continue to trade their children for cash. No one can stop it. We can investigate this or that orphanage when it’s obvious that morals are being ignored and laws broken, but what about the children living on the streets? Not to mention the brothels.”
“Are you trying to say that doing anything at all is pointless?” Jane glared at him, ready for a fight.
“No,” Wescott replied gently. “I just don’t want you getting your hopes up too high when it comes to making changes to the system. Ledford is just one of many.”
“But you yourself talked about his patron, right? If we can find him, then many children will be better off.”
Wescott hesitated. “The churches and other charitable organizations have been organizing the transport of children to the empire’s colonies for more than a hundred years. British children for British colonies.”
“The Children’s Friend Society. Although not everything they do is really for the benefit of the children. I know, it’s in the papers all the time. But then it comes down to the conditions they’re sailing into. Wasn’t it just recently that they sent a commissioner to Canada to check on how the children there are provided for?”
“Some of what he found was good, but many families treat the children like slaves, and that’s apart from the cases of rape.” Wescott laid his hand on the letter in front of him. “We can’t affect what happens over there. We can only act here, where people like Ledford are manifestly exploiting the situation for themselves. It’s not only orphans being sent abroad. Ledford has also been giving false promises to mothers who spend the night in the workhouse and leave their children in his care.”
“They believe their children are better off in the orphanage, and if they come back to collect them . . . ,” Jane mused.
Wescott continued the thought, “. . . then Ledford tells them a sad tale of sickness and death. He gets paid for every child, that much is certain, but what I don’t yet know is who is buying them from him.”
“Gaunt found that out and they silenced him,” speculated Jane.
“It would seem so. But without proof, we can’t keep Ledford locked up for very long. We are so close to him, Jane! Damn it!”
“Would you have even latched on to Ledford without me sniffing around?” Jane asked with a sweet smile.
“I doubt it, although I was already looking into the case of the girl at Rosewood Hall.”
“Feel free to admit that my inquiries bore fruit. My little excursions with Violet were not in vain.”
“What do you want to hear, Jane? We have neither Ledford nor Mary.”
“Not yet, not yet . . .” Because he was not prepared to admit that she had a good detective’s nose and investigative talent, she stood up. “I have a few things to take care of. First, I’m off to visit Alison. I don’t think Blount will be needed to escort me there.”
Lady Alison, wearing a scented, rose-colored day dress, embraced Jane fondly, kissing her cheek.
“Darling! So lovely to see you! There’s so much to tell.” Alison grasped Jane’s hand and led her into a prettily decorated salon with huge, blooming planters and a Madagascar palm. On a table stood fruit, tea, and cakes.
“Sit, sit! Try some of the almond cake. Bertha made it, oh, and there I am already on the subject,” said Alison animatedly.
“Are the children all right?” Jane inquired.
“In the clear, thank God. The doctor was afraid they had scarlet fever, but it was only a slight temperature. Scarlet fever! My cousin’s son died of scarlet fever just last year. I thought I would lose my mind when the doctor said that. Callous man. He should be sure of his diagnosis before he scares a mother half to death.” Alison sent a young maid out of the room and sank onto an armchair. “I would have sent you a message if you weren’t already on your way.”
“You have my undivided attention. And if you don’t tell me what’s going on this instant . . . ,” Jane said in mock threat, taking a piece of almond cake.
“Well, you asked me about Mary, the orphan girl?”
Jane nodded.
“And I knew from Bertha that two girls named Mary work for Hargrave.” Alison let a pregnant pause settle.
“Ally!”
“I want to savor the moment, it’s so exciting. Listen, Hargrave’s two Marys are over twenty and full of life. A new kitchen maid was also taken on, but she’s from Leeds and has a family.”
Disappointed, Jane bit into the moist cake.
“But my dear Bertha has a niece who works for Mr. Devereaux.”
Jane set the cake aside instantly and stared at her friend. “And?”
“Bertha’s niece, Jenny, is on good terms with the cook, who is the only other nice person there. Jenny says the only reason the cook stays is because Devereaux pays so well. The head of housekeeping is supposed to be a real witch and everyone’s afraid of her. I’m sorry, I’m rambling! In any case, Jenny told Bertha about a girl named Mary who worked there until recently. Jenny said that Mary actually did her work very well and was also very pretty. Long, blond hair.”
“That has to be her,” Jane whispered. “Until recently?”
“Mary was not very happy there and talked to Jenny about a friend of hers who she missed very much and who might have run away from a similar job. However that may be, one morning Mary simply didn’t show up for work, and no one knows what happened to her. When Jenny asked the housekeeper about her, the woman turned especially nasty and said Jenny should keep her nose in her own business.” Alison poured tea into two gilded porcelain cups.
“Too late again! I was on her trail, and now she’s disappeared.”
But Alison smiled impishly. “I haven’t finished my story yet. Jenny was cleaning up in the master’s rooms when she discovered a locked door that she thinks leads to a hidden suite of rooms. She says that strange things go on in the house, and she’s afraid of the master’s Indian servant . . .”
“Devereaux has an Indian servant?” Jane cried aloud.
“No need to shout about it. Yes. On his last trip to India, he brought back a spooky man with a turban. Thomas has actually seen him once, and found the man inordinately proud. Personally, I’m not in favor of bringing back locals as souvenirs. Not good form, definitely.”
“Ally, do you know what this means? Oh, I can’t believe it. Not Devereaux!”
“What? Jane, what else do you know?”
Jane thought feverishly. What could she do? “It’s something I might have expected of Hargrave, but not Devereaux,” she thought aloud.
“You like him, don’t you? Well, I must say, he’s a charming man. And incredibly rich, as Thomas likes to point out. Thomas says he would have done better to start with the East India Company, then we could also afford a palace on Park Lane, like Devereaux.”
“Ally, that’s not what’s important.” She knew she could not tell her friend everything. Alison would tell Thomas, and if he then went to a club and ran into . . . no, that could not be allowed.
“Not important? Devereaux doesn’t have a title, but there’s a rumor going around that he’s to be ennobled at the next Royal Audience at Ascot. Only because he’s rich and has supposedly set up important business relationships for the empire. Something about a monopoly on tea or something, I don’t know. But I do know that if you have eno
ugh money, you can buy anything.” Alison paused. “Somehow I don’t think that’s right. I mean, where will it lead if any old upstart can become a peer just because he’s done a few lucrative business deals? He’s not the Bayard of India, is he?”
“Bayard of India” was the honorable epithet earned by General James Outram for his military and diplomatic successes in Gujarat and Hyderabad. Jane loved her friend, but Alison had a tendency to open her mouth before thinking things through. She would heedlessly blather away about whatever was in her head at the moment. But perhaps Jane was doing Alison an injustice. She herself had seen too much misery in recent months, and had been forced to face the hopelessness of many people. And she had discovered that she felt it was her duty to help wherever she could.
“Ally, can I talk to Bertha?”
“Why?” Alison looked at her with large, blue eyes. “I’ve told you everything.”
“Even so. I promise, I’m not trying to steal her away from you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Jane grinned.
Lady Alison sighed and reached for a silver bell that stood on the table. “You have no idea what it means to have an excellent cook. I honestly fear that you waste far too much time on orphans and such. It’s not that I don’t admire you for it, but as a wife, one has to worry about having a presentable home. Then one’s husband has no need to look elsewhere.”
The maid entered and Alison said, “Tell Bertha that she’s to come here.”
Jane frowned. “Elsewhere? Have you seen Wescott with another woman again?”
“Not me. But Thomas has. Oh, Jane.” Alison took Jane’s hand in hers. “I want to see you happy, and I don’t think you are. It doesn’t matter how many girls you rescue or meals you distribute or schools you pay for.”
Jane squeezed Alison’s hand. “You mean well, I know. But right now, it’s about Mary.”
The door opened, and a plump woman stepped tentatively into the room. Her pale-blue dress was clean, but the white apron over it was covered in spots of grease. “Pardon, ma’am, but I’m in the middle of the roast for this evening. I don’t want to get anything mucky.”