Eloise laughed broadly. “Imagine my Harold, a banker! He’d surely burst a vein in his neck if he ever found out that I’ve been putting aside money every week in my own secret account. And that it’s not even in his bank.”
Using Barnes’s bank to house Eloise’s account would have been foolhardy in the extreme.
“He’d do worse than that, Mrs. Barnes,” Justine Knox said, “if the poor man learned that we’d been making fifteen percent on our money. All thanks to Elizabeth’s guidance.”
“No, no, ladies!” Elizabeth shook her head fiercely. The point here was independent thought. Taking credit for one’s personal successes. “You mean thanks to the research you’ve all been doing into our target companies.”
Who knew that the ladies of the Abigail Adams Tatting Consortium would set out upon London’s financial district like a band of highly trained detectives and bring back such pertinent trading information as cotton embargos, coal futures, shipping contracts?
“You taught us the ropes, Miss Elizabeth.”
Making her feel suddenly like a Fagin with her wily band of pickpockets.
“Speaking of an abundance of profits,” Elizabeth said, purposely changing the subject, “I don’t need to remind you of how important it is for all of us to attend Lady Maxton’s Charity Ball at the end of the month, and to be conspicuously generous to her dear orphans.”
“And if I might add something else about the ball, Miss Elizabeth,” Lady Maxton said, rising from her chair to fully face the rest of the meeting, a bright twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “Something I’ve been hatching in my brain …”
“Of course, my lady.” Though Elizabeth hadn’t a clue what the woman was going to add.
“Well, then, I’ve been wondering what could be done to increase the charitable giving during the ball. Something besides the fabulous Turkish theme we’ve chosen. Something exciting that could happen during the dancing, or before, or after. Something possibly even scandalous!”
The rumble that tittered through the group was one of approval and anticipation. The complete opposite of the way the same group would have reacted to the same statement just three months ago.
“What kind of scandal are you thinking of, Lady Maxton?” Elizabeth asked the question because she was vastly curious and the others were still whispering to each other, speculating on their own.
“Just a hint of scandal, really.” Lady Maxton rolled her eyes at Elizabeth. “I was thinking of an auction.”
“Auction of what?” Elizabeth asked, wondering how an auction could ever be considered scandalous.
Mrs. Garrison snorted. “Racehorses would grab my Anderson’s attention.”
“Do you mean like paintings or sculptures, Lady Maxton?”
“Opera tickets?”
“Men,” Lady Maxton said finally, letting the word drop onto the carpet.
The room went utterly silent for a very long time.
“Did you say ‘men,’ Lady Maxton?” Elizabeth finally asked, though she was sure that’s what she heard.
“Bachelors, really. Wouldn’t that be just the best kind of fun? Bidding on a chance to be escorted to the theatre by one of our eligible swains.”
More silence, and then someone said, “For unmarried women only, surely, Lady Maxton.”
“Married ladies as well. I don’t see why not. It would all be perfectly aboveboard, chaperoned by the husband, of course, and in public. And all for a good cause.”
“Isn’t it a little bit indecent? I mean, what if the authorities make a raid on your house right in the middle of the ball?”
“Let them try, Mrs. Barnes.” A twinkle lit up Lady Maxton’s eyes. “I mean, what better publicity for our charity ball, to have Scotland Yard troop into our ballroom, handcuff us all, and drag us off in a paddy wagon like they did to us two days ago? And who wouldn’t bid a thousand pounds to sit beside the Earl of Blakestone in a darkened theatre box?”
Blakestone! Ha! I wouldn’t give a fig for a whole week with the lout!
But that didn’t seem to be the opinion of the other women.
“Two thousand for the man, Lady Maxton!”
“Three!”
Then they were all laughing with anticipation.
“So there you see, ladies!” Lady Maxton said, obviously pleased with herself and her lunatic idea. “We could make bundles of money for the orphanage.”
“Isn’t that in poor taste, though?” Elizabeth asked, telling herself that she had no reason at all to be blushing like she was. “I mean, isn’t our primary intention to present ourselves as independent of men?”
“What could make a modern lady more independent than openly admiring a handsome man, just for the sake of admiring him? Then bidding for him? Like good horseflesh.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with just looking, Miss Elizabeth.” Renata glanced around at her compatriots for approval and got it in spades.
“The Earl of Blakestone is sure easy on the eyes, Miss Elizabeth.” Bonita Deverel’s eyes were wide. “You must have seen that for yourself yesterday afternoon. He’s to absolutely swoon for.”
“And he’ll doubtless agree in a flash. That man is a fool for a hard luck story.”
Blakestone? Now that seemed hard to believe. “What do you mean?”
“If you need a donation for a ragged school fund or to clothe a family after a house fire, he’s your man.”
He couldn’t be her man. Because they couldn’t be talking about the same Earl of Blakestone. The one she knew was hard as steel.
“Well, I suppose the man is civil minded and he’s nice enough to look at.” If one liked them tall and broad-shouldered, with dark, gleaming eyes and a voice that could turn sinew to warm butter. “But that’s beside the p—”
“Your son Benjamin makes quite a fine figure, Mrs. Knox.” The elderly Lady Parker jiggled her gray eyebrows.
“Ooo, and have you met that new member of Parliament from Shelton Copse? He’s been turning heads at all the best parties this season.”
“Too bad Princess Caroline stole away that hunk Wexford.”
“And Hawkesly fell hard too. Pity.”
Still flushing to the top of her head, Elizabeth clapped her hands together and took back the floor. “As you see, Lady Maxton, your idea is chock full of potential donations for the orphanage. I’m sure it will be a great success! All you need is a few eligible bachelors.”
Lady Maxton beamed. “Good, then be prepared, ladies, to bid to the moon.”
For the Earl of Blakestone? Not likely!
Elizabeth took a long breath and brushed the man out of the clutter of her mind. “Next, I’d like to announce a very exciting excursion. To a session of Parliament.”
“Parliament?” Eloise looked as perplexed as the others. “Do you mean another protest?”
“Nothing as distracting, Mrs. Barnes. Now, how many of you have ever attended a session of Parliament?”
Everyone shook their heads, bewildered.
“Why would we ever want to do that? Mr. Knox complains constantly about the heat and the arguments and the long-winded speeches.”
“But, ladies, what is the price of our freedom?” Elizabeth left the podium to walk among the rapt members. “A little uncomfortable heat and a lot of bombast? How can we hope to ever gain the vote if we haven’t the wherewithal to withstand a few hours of discomfort to learn how Parliament operates. Am I not right?”
“Indeed, you are!”
“We also need to know how these men of ours think, and what better way than to listen in as they discuss the laws that govern our lives.”
“Why, you’re so right, Miss Elizabeth!”
“I never thought of it that way!”
“When is our dangerous expedition, Elizabeth?”
“Tuesday afternoon. We’ll meet here in the lobby of the Adams at four o’clock and travel to Westminster as a group and enter the building together. I’ve hired private carriages for twelve, but I can always hi
re more.”
“Oh, dear, Elizabeth, what does one wear to attend a session of Parliament?”
“The very sort of thing you’re wearing right now will do very nicely, Mrs. Osterman. Now if there are no other announcements—”
Coraleigh rocketed to her feet. “I have one! Coraleigh’s Confections of Charing Cross Road is officially open for business!”
“You’ve opened your store already?”
“As of yesterday!” Coraleigh grinned madly to the wild applause of the other members and then began handing out a colorful broadside. “We specialize in creamy chocolates, marzipan and Turkish delight!”
“Ooooo! Yummmm!” And other such mewlings of imagined delight leaped around the room.
“I can’t believe that your husband actually let you open a shop.”
Coraleigh frowned, a blend of trepidation and triumph. “I haven’t told him yet, Miss Elizabeth. He thinks I’ve been doing charity work at the hospital.”
“He’s bound to find out, Cora—”
“Let him, I say. After all, what can he do about it: put me in jail? Lock me in an asylum?”
“We won’t let him do that, Cora.”
“Besides, by my calculations, I’ll soon be making far more money than he brings in as the Undersecretary for Streets and Sewers.”
Elizabeth gave Cora a huge hug. “Congratulations, Coraleigh. I’m sure we’ll all do our sweets shopping at your shop. But speaking of Turkish delight—”
“Oh, dear, have the Russians declared war on that poor little country? It’s in all the papers! I hope we send in our ships right away!”
“I don’t know the current state of war, Mrs. Colfax.” Elizabeth smiled fondly at the woman, a longtime friend of both her aunts. “I just want to remind those of you brave souls who have pledged to wear Turkish trousers to the charity ball to please check with our seamstress for your final fittings.”
Vita Sayles popped up. “The London season has never been so exciting, Miss Elizabeth! Turkish trousers and protest marches and sitting in on Parliament itself!” She grabbed Elizabeth by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead. “How can we possibly thank you?”
Raise up your daughters to take charge of their own lives and destinies.
Don’t force them to marry men like Lord Wallace.
Don’t let them become poor Lydia.
“All I ask is that we make it through the rest of the season without another brush with Scotland Yard.”
Because the last thing she needed was the persistent Earl of Blakestone nosing around the Abigail Adams.
No matter that he had a most handsome nose.
******************
“Gad, Ross,” Drew said as he dropped into a chair at the Factory’s large archive table, “the Lord Mayor promised to send you the files on the missing women, and damned if he hasn’t.”
“Help yourself, Drew.” Ross looked up across the table at his friend who had already snagged one of the Times articles from the Hayden-Cole file.
He’d known the man for twenty-five years. Through the worst of times and the very best. Knew that dark, arching eyebrow, and the derisive snort that always ended in half a laugh. That scowl of concentration, fingers laced through and tugging at his hair.
“Damnation, Ross! I’ve never read anything so utterly bizarre in my life.” He shook the article at Ross. “According to this dithering tour guide at the British Museum, Lady Hayden-Cole disappeared in the midst of a crowded mummy exhibit.”
“You’ll find that the porter at Victoria Station tells the same story about Lady Cladsbury. In both cases leaving a hat, a man’s leather glove, and a handkerchief doused with chloroform.”
Drew picked up a police report. “I take it there’s been no ransom demand in the Wallace case, either?”
“It’s been three days. No one’s contacted the police, or Wallace, or even poor old Biffy Tuckerton.”
Drew sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers in thought. “Any chance that Lord Wallace is involved in his wife’s disappearance?”
“All I can say of my interview with him is that the man has a nasty temper.” A dead end. “But then so do Lord Hayden-Cole and Cladsbury, according to those files. But I doubt any of the men are involved in any way. Because if these three abductions are connected to each other—”
“As they must be, Ross.”
“Then that would mean we have three husbands meeting in secret, conspiring together to have their wives kidnapped and murdered by a third party. Why would they do that?”
“Hell, I don’t know. I doubt they even know each other.” Drew blew an exasperated sigh and leaned back against the chair.
Ross started leafing through the pages from the Cladsbury file, disappointed in the scarcity of information.
A police report, notes from an interview with the porter—who had reported the incident to the police at Victoria Station—three witnesses whose stories conflicted completely, the familiar ramblings of the incensed husband.
“Bloody hell, Ross. The connection is here in this mess somewhere.” Drew put his heels up on the tabletop. “Though right off the stick, not even their ages are similar—”
“Damnation!” His mind a tangle of possibilities, Ross grabbed a sheet of paper and started a list. “The most obvious element the victims have in common is that they are all women.”
“That is brilliant, Ross.”
Ignoring the man, Ross gave the three files a quick sort, laying out items of interest. “Each from a wealthy family.” He stopped and added that to the list. “Each married.”
“Each family titled,” Drew added. “Two viscounts and a baronet.”
“Each of the women taken in broad daylight, and in highly crowded, very public situations.”
“Which is damned strange, for a criminal-minded fiend.”
A thought flitted past Ross’s eyes, escaping him before he could grab it. “As though the abductor knew the victim wouldn’t struggle.”
“Wouldn’t cry out for help.” Drew was watching him, following his intent.
“Or couldn’t.” Ross stared at the list, unseeing, feeling that thought tickling at him again until he was left with a jolt of irritation. “Bloody hell, what does it mean?”
Drew poked at the files. “There’s no mention in the reports of fleeing carriages or a noisy scuffle. We only assumed there was a vehicle waiting to carry off Lady Wallace from the rear of the hat shop.”
Ross was scrabbling through the pages again, certain that he’d seen something important. “No children. At least none who aren’t full-grown and gone from the house.” He checked again and started to write that down when he heard something in the dimness beyond the open door, felt something.
Drew froze. “Did you hear that?”
Ross nodded slightly and listened with him out of a shared instinct for survival, a shiver lodged in his shoulders, the hair at his nape standing on end.
It was late, the Factory closed for the night. They should be alone.
“It’s probably nothing,” Drew finally whispered.
But they both remained still for another long minute, until Ross relaxed his stance and Drew did the same.
“Same thing happened when I was down here a week ago,” Ross said, still quietly, yet suddenly remembering the familiar sensation as he stepped into the corridor, “the night I got back from Constantinople.”
“A stray cat, do you think? God knows, it’s happened before. Or someone working late.”
“Possibly, though I looked last time and found nobody.”
“Perhaps the fiend has taken up residence here at night while he does his evil deeds in broad daylight.”
Ross snorted. “We should be so lucky.”
A thought came to him from nowhere. From out of the dimness? A scent? A sound? Something on his sleeve.
“The Abigail Adams,” Ross said slowly and under his breath, conjuring a pair of wide, thickly lashed green eyes.
“What�
�s that?” Drew had dropped back into his chair and was scanning the list.
“I was just thinking …” About Miss Dunaway. “It’s a long shot, but Lady Wallace belonged to that new ladies’ club. The Abigail Adams. Perhaps they all attended the same ball this season. Or the opera. Ascot?”
“Good thinking!” Drew started rifling through the Wallace file.
“Perhaps the fiend—as you called him—has chosen his victims from the ranks of women who attend social events, and then stalks them until he catches them.”
“The women couldn’t have been together at Ascot; Hayden-Cole and Cladsbury had both been taken by then.”
“Then I’ll have one of the archive clerks comb the social pages for the various soirees and parties and balls from early in the season. We’ll then request guest lists from each of the hostesses. We can see where the intersections are and start from … well, I’ll be damned.”
“What? Have you got something?”
“By the bloody tail, if I’m not mistaken.”
Ross was looking down at the statement the police had taken from Lady Cladsbury’s husband at the time of the abduction.
“Listen to this, Drew,” he said. “It’s Cladsbury’s husband describing her daily routine to the police. Reading to her aunt, fittings, visits to the zoo. All of which the man approved of. And then come the complaints. Apparently Lady Cladsbury had begun to spend entirely too much time at the Abigail Adams.”
“The ladies’ club.”
Certain he was right, Ross grabbed the bulk of the Hayden-Cole file and started flipping through the pages, until his heart ground to a stop.
“Here! Lady Hayden-Cole’s footman, a Mr. Rowley, says, ‘I was supposed to pick her up outside the museum at two-thirty and drive her to afternoon tea at her ladies’ club.’ “
Drew shook his head at Ross, obviously not catching on to the biggest clue of all, where it was plain as day to him. “I don’t understand.”
“Damnation, Drew, the only ladies’ club in London is the Abigail Adams.”
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