by Olivia Drake
The door opened a crack. A hunchbacked woman wearing a white mobcap peered through the slit. “Who ye be?”
“We’ve brought an urgent message for Miss Foster,” Rory invented. “May we see her?”
“Miss Foster, eh? Well, come along in, then!”
They stepped into a tiny foyer with a scuffed wood floor and a narrow staircase. The smell of cabbage soup hung in the air. The old dame held up an oil lamp, its amber light casting her round, wrinkled face into sharp relief.
“I’m Mrs. MacPherson, the proprietress here. Miss Foster’s gone upstairs to say her good-nights. She won’t be long. Ye kin wait fer her here.”
Had the maid walked all this way merely to bid good night to her sick mother? If so, they’d followed her for nothing.
“If it isn’t a bother,” Rory said, “would it be possible for us to go up and deliver the message immediately? It’s quite important.”
“Well, all righty, then. Don’t suppose it can hurt none. Just ye, though. No menfolk allowed. ’Tis the first door on the left. Don’t knock, lest ye wake the little uns.”
Little ones? This must be a boardinghouse for women, then. Besides Foster’s sick mother, there would be women with young children living here.
Dismayed, Rory exchanged a glance with Lucas. He clearly had come to the same conclusion, and she’d probably hear about this wasted visit on their way home. Or worse, he’d say nothing at all. He would let his silence speak volumes to make her feel guilty for accusing a blameless maidservant of nefarious deeds.
As Mrs. MacPherson ushered him into a small parlor, Rory proceeded up the steep stairs to a dark, dingy passageway with several closed doors on each side. She went to the first door on the left and opened it.
Stepping quietly into the room, she found herself in a dimly lit bedchamber with rows of cots along either side. Each one held a sleeping child.
Halfway down, Foster knelt at the bedside of a dark-haired boy. He looked to be about five years old. He was awake, but sleepy-eyed, and snuggled in the curve of her arm as she read to him from a book.
The sweet murmur of her voice held Rory in a spell. She stared, her mind in a whirl. There was only one explanation for the sight in front of her.
Foster had lied, after all. Because she had a son. A son she’d kept secret, quite likely because he’d been born out of wedlock. Of all the scenarios Rory had imagined, this one had not entered her mind.
Just then, Foster glanced up and her eyes widened in fright.
Chapter 21
How like a man to use a woman without benefit of wedlock!
—MISS CELLANY
The maid started to arise, but Rory motioned her back down. “You needn’t rush,” she whispered. “I’ll wait right here for you.”
Foster nodded rather jerkily and returned her attention to the boy. His eyes were drooping as she finished reading the story.
Rory retreated to a stool by the door. She felt like an intruder peeking through a window at a private family scene. It had been a mistake to come here. Although she’d been correct to believe that the woman was hiding something, it had nothing to do with Kitty’s stolen letters.
From the way Foster glanced up from time to time, she clearly was terrified to have been discovered. For that reason alone, Rory couldn’t leave. She needed to reassure the maid that her secret was safe.
Foster tucked the coverlet around the little boy and bent down to kiss his mop of dark curls. His eyes closed the moment his head met the pillow. She picked up the candle and came forward, her steps reluctant and her plain features taut with apprehension.
Rising from the stool, Rory went out into the corridor. Foster cast one last backward glance at her child and then quietly closed the door. Her pale blue eyes held a dull look of resignation to her fate.
“How did you find me, Miss Paxton?”
“Lord Dashell and I followed you.”
“Oh! His lordship is here, too?”
The woman looked near to fainting, and Rory slid an arm around her. “Please, you mustn’t worry. I won’t tell a soul and neither will he. Now, do come downstairs where you can sit for a moment.”
In a stunned state, Foster let herself be led down the steep flight of stairs. She was trembling, and Rory felt terrible for having caused her such alarm. The poor woman probably thought her world had come to an end. Any servant with a bastard child would be dismissed for immorality.
Reaching the foyer, Rory took her into the cramped parlor, where Lucas sat with Mrs. MacPherson by the light of a single lamp. He sprang to his feet, and she suspected by his knowing expression that the proprietress had already informed him about Foster’s young son.
As Rory seated the maid beside her on a lumpy horsehair sofa, Lucas said, “Have you any spirits, Mrs. MacPherson? It appears Miss Foster is in need of a restorative.”
“A wee tot of whisky should do the trick,” the old woman said, bouncing up from her chair and going to a cabinet, which she unlocked with a key from the ring at her thick waist.
In short order, Foster was sipping on a glass, coughing a little from the strong drink. Rory patted the maid’s back. “There now, you’ll feel better in a moment.”
Foster wore a look of quiet desperation. “Will you tell Mrs. Paxton? Please, you mustn’t! I beg of you.”
“Of course I won’t tell. And neither will Lord Dashell. We’ve no wish to cause trouble for you.”
“But … why did you follow me, then?”
Rory racked her mind for a plausible reason. She couldn’t cite the stolen letters or the diamond necklace that had been paid to the blackmailer. Foster likely knew nothing of the matter.
“We were out for a stroll when we noticed you,” Lucas said. “Miss Paxton was worried for your safety walking alone at night.”
Rory sent him a grateful look, and Foster seemed to accept the lame excuse. She turned the glass around in her nervous hands. “Malcolm will have my head! He warned me not to come so often. But I had to see our little boy as often as I could. I miss him so dreadfully!”
“Malcolm?”
A blush spread over her plain features. “Mr. Grimshaw, I mean. Oh! I should not have called him that! Or said what I did!”
The revelation struck Rory like a thunderbolt. She exchanged a shocked glance with Lucas. “Miss Foster, pray excuse me for prying, but are you saying that Grimshaw is the father of your son?”
* * *
Lucas flagged down a hansom cab to drive the three of them back to Mrs. Paxton’s town house. As the maid hopped out and scuttled into the mews, she cast a worried backward glance before disappearing through the garden gate. Then the cab proceeded around to the front of the house where Lucas’s brougham waited to return them to Grosvenor Square.
Before entering the carriage, Rory stopped to glower at the painted green door and gleaming brass fittings of her stepmother’s house. “I’ve a good mind to go straight inside and give that man a deafening lecture!”
“Foster will inform him that he has been found out,” Lucas said. “Best to let Grimshaw stew for a time before you lay into him. He will be in an agony of conscience waiting to see what you will do with the information.”
“Bah! The knave doesn’t have a conscience.”
Once Foster had admitted Grimshaw had fathered her son, the whole story came tumbling out. Six years ago, she had been governess for a family in Bath when Kitty had gone there to take the waters, bringing Grimshaw with her to direct the rented household. During that month, the butler had met Foster and seduced her. When she later realized her delicate condition, she was forced to leave her position. She’d thrown herself on his mercy and he had arranged for her to live with Mrs. MacPherson until the baby was born. Shortly thereafter, Grimshaw had recommended Foster to Kitty as a lady’s maid.
“The fellow could have abandoned her,” Lucas pointed out as the carriage traversed the short distance to his house. “You must give him some credit for lending her assistance.”
“But he should have married her. How like a man to use a woman without benefit of wedlock!”
“I predict a new column in the works for Miss Conduct.”
Rory blew out a breath. “It’s Miss Cellany, and this is no joking matter. And why are you taking Grimshaw’s side, anyway? I suppose all you men stick together.”
“I’m not taking sides. I’m merely being logical. Servants are discouraged from marrying. So perhaps he did the best that he could manage in a difficult situation.”
“That doesn’t excuse him. And to think that ever since I returned to London, he has been sneering at me for being ruined when he himself is guilty of ruining Foster!”
Lucas’s hand came down over hers, warm and reassuring. “Never mind Grimshaw. All that matters is that we have discovered the reason for his odd behavior. Which means that I can now focus my attention on Stefano.”
The brougham came to a halt in front of his palatial house with its soaring columns and the tall, lamp-lit windows. Yanking her hand back, Rory frowned at him through the shadows. “You? May I remind you, we are partners in solving this mystery.”
“I won’t allow you to endanger yourself. You will stay here with my mother. Now, come inside and I’ll tell you what I intend to do tonight.”
* * *
Rory crouched in the bushes alongside an elegant rooming house near the Italian embassy. Lucas was hunkered down beside her, his attention focused on the window across the narrow alley. Clouds obscured the stars and rendered the night pitch-dark. Every now and then, a stray raindrop struck her face. The ground was cold, and she was glad for the warm cloak that Lucas had borrowed for her from his mother.
They had a clear view into Stefano’s rented rooms. All of the windows were black except for one. There, the subject in question sat writing at a desk, the yellow light of a lamp illuminating his dark hair and olive skin. Every now and then, Stefano rose to refill his wine glass from a decanter on a nearby table or to walk around while puffing a cheroot. Then he would return to the desk to write some more.
“This is about as exciting as watching grass grow,” she whispered.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Lucas muttered. “How I ever let you talk me into this has to be one of life’s greatest mysteries.”
“You can’t do this alone, that’s why.”
“I can, indeed. And I should have.”
“Oh? We have been watching here for well over an hour. It seems clear to me that Stefano is not going out tonight. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s waiting for Mrs. Edgerton to call after the theater.”
“Good God, you could be right.” Lucas took out his pocket watch and flipped it open, angling it toward the light from a distant street lamp. “It’s nearly eleven. If that is the case, she may arrive within the hour. And then I will lose my chance to search for the letters tonight.”
“Not if we use my plan.”
Despite the darkness, she could see his grimace. “Absolutely not,” he growled. “It’s far too risky.”
“It’s perfectly safe. I’ll sit at a table in the café over there.” She nodded toward the end of the alley, where lights shone in the windows of a small restaurant on the street across from the rooming house. “There will be plenty of people around. Especially once the theaters begin letting out.”
She sensed his indecision and pressed her point harder. “Let’s go to your carriage. I brought paper and pen to write a note. Your groom can deliver it to Stefano. I know he will come to meet me at the café. It’s the only certain way to lure him out of his rooms so that you can search for the letters.”
Lucas uttered a muffled curse under his breath. “All right, then. But you must promise me you’ll take no chances. He’s a dangerous man.”
“Bah. He has already done his worst to me.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain of that.”
He jumped up, then offered Rory his hand, drawing her to her feet. She was grateful for the chance to stretch her cramped legs. When she would have pulled her fingers free, Lucas held on tightly, hauling her flush against the solid wall of his body. His head swooped down to press a swift, hard kiss to her lips. With an answering moan, she kissed him back, heedless of the chilly raindrops that spattered her face.
She slipped her hands inside his coat to feel the broad muscles of his chest. Her fingers encountered a cold metal object tucked into his waistband.
Shocked, she angled back to stare at him. “You brought a pistol!”
“Of course. You may trust Stefano, but I certainly don’t.”
“I shall be completely safe in a crowd of people.”
He hugged her close, his cheek rubbing against her hair as he said fiercely, “Don’t underestimate him, my darling. Under no circumstances are you to let him talk you into leaving that café. Is that understood?”
She nodded, her face buried in his neck. My darling! Lucas had called her my darling. A heady joy made her spirits soar. She hoped it meant he’d forgiven her for putting his name in that essay. With every breath, she inhaled his pine scent and felt the beating of his heart against her bosom. She was sorely tempted to forget all about their mission and remain right here in the warm circle of his arms … forever.
But Lucas had other plans for his life. She had her own life mapped out, too, a life dedicated to her writing. She must not waste time wishing for things that could never be.
Better she should focus on recovering the stolen billets-doux. Then she would wrest that reward money out of Kitty by hook or by crook. Even if she had to hold the letters for ransom herself.
* * *
The first window that Lucas tried was locked. The sash refused to budge no matter how hard he pushed up on it.
Cursing, he descended the wobbly old ladder he’d found in the garden shed and moved it to the next window. Time was wasting. The note had been delivered, and the ploy had worked like a charm. Stefano had rushed into the bedroom to put something into a drawer, then to preen in front of a mirror, smoothing his abundant black hair and huffing into his hand to check his breath, before hurrying out the door.
That had been no more than five minutes ago. It seemed like five hours.
Lucas repositioned the ladder and climbed the rickety slats again. As he gave the sash of the second window a hard shove, the ladder swayed alarmingly. He grabbed at the sill to steady himself. If he failed to get in through a window, he’d have to try to jimmy the door lock with his pocket knife. Not that he knew such a skill.
It was damn lucky he’d been born to privilege, he thought with grim humor. Clearly, he wasn’t cut out for a life of crime.
He tried again. This time, the sash moved slightly. Heartened, he gave another mighty push and the window opened with a raucous groan.
He hoisted himself through the narrow opening and landed on his feet in a darkened chamber. On the far wall, a pale rectangle of light revealed the outline of a door.
Heading in that direction, he made his way past black lumps of furniture. He could barely see his hand in front of his face. He bumped his shin on a bedpost and let loose another expletive.
Reaching the door, he wrested it open to find himself in a small parlor with a clutter of tables and chairs. The air smelled of smoke from the cheroot stub smoldering on a porcelain saucer. This was the room where Stefano had been writing. Thankfully, he had been in such a hurry to join Rory that he’d left the glass lamp burning on the desk.
Lucas stalked across the room and opened the drawers of the desk, searching through a mess of papers for the packet of letters. All the while, he wondered what that oily Romeo was doing with Rory. Had he tried to kiss her in greeting? Would he grope her beneath the table? Or attempt to entice her back here to his rooms?
Lucas itched to land his fist in the jaw of that too handsome face. The man was a slick operator who had bamboozled Rory once already. Though she was no longer that naïve girl, she might yet be fooled by his smooth charm. The bastard would use any trick to take advant
age of her. She had far too much confidence in her ability to defend herself.
He prayed she would stick to the plan. All she had to do was to keep Stefano occupied for a short time. Then Lucas would fetch her once he’d found the letters. He only wished he knew what the devil she was telling him.
Rory hadn’t gone into much detail, saying only that she would concoct a sob story to explain why she’d been compelled to reach out to Stefano so late in the evening. It was possible that Lucas himself figured into it. Maybe she would beg Stefano for protection because her employer was lusting after her.
God knew, that would be a true statement.
Hunger for her gnawed at him, a living beast clawing at his insides and tearing at his concentration. Life without her didn’t bear contemplating. Yet it must be faced. He had a duty to his family, to his heritage, to the laborers on his four estates. Rory could write as many critical columns as she liked, but a man in his position couldn’t marry merely for love.
He slammed the drawer shut, rattling the pens and inkpots. There was nothing in the desk except for papers written in Italian. Nevertheless, Lucas recognized the penmanship. The blackmail notes had used some of those same fancy curlicues. It only confirmed Stefano’s guilt and made Lucas more determined in his search.
He looked around the parlor. Where would a sleazy diplomat hide a packet of letters? He glanced inside a large vase, checked behind the leather-bound volumes in a bookcase, and even looked beneath the cushions of the chaise and chairs. There were no other obvious places here in the parlor.
Picking up the lamp, he proceeded into the bedroom. The bureau was littered with a silver-backed comb and brush set, jars of hair products, and a collection of cheap stickpins. A wardrobe contained only clothing, but he shook out the boots and shoes just in case.
Stefano had rushed into this room before departing. He had shoved something into the bureau. Lucas opened the top drawer. Instead of the purloined letters, however, a lady’s crumpled chemise lay on top of some folded cravats.