This bleak prospect took such strong possession of his mind that he was stunned upon his return to Bow Street to be met with the information that a letter had come for him in his absence. He recognized the handwriting at once, and broke the seal with trembling hands. It was quite short—almost terse, in fact—but when he reached the end, he could not suppress a rather fatuous smile.
Mr. Pickett, it read, I would be honored. You may call for me at eight. It was signed, Julia Fieldhurst Pickett.
CHAPTER 3
IN WHICH JOHN PICKETT MAKES HIS DEBUT AS A GENTLEMAN
“Thank you, McElwain, that will be all.” As the valet gathered up the tools of his trade and left the room, Mr. Colquhoun bent a rather stern gaze on his protégé. “Well, John, let’s have a look at you.”
Pickett turned away from the looking-glass to face his mentor with a self-conscious smile. “I look a regular popinjay, don’t I, sir?”
In fact, “popinjay” was not the word that sprang to the magistrate’s mind as he regarded the young man he had plucked from the rookeries of London a decade earlier. Pickett’s workaday brown serge was gone, replaced by a dark blue double-breasted tailcoat of Bath superfine, worn over a white waistcoat of silk brocade. Calf-length pantaloons of black stockinette clung to his long legs like a second skin, and kid leather pumps encased his feet. His hair needed no assistance from curling tongs, but was tied at the nape of his neck with a black velvet ribbon fully an inch wide. Mr. Colquhoun scowled all the more fiercely in order to hide the lump forming in his throat.
“You’ll do, John, dashed if you won’t,” he said gruffly, making the tiniest adjustment to Pickett’s snowy white cravat. “Remember, the clothes must be returned to Meyer by noon tomorrow, so for God’s sake, don’t spill anything on them. Any damage will come out of your wages.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, your box should afford an excellent view of the royal party. In order to avoid the crush at the end of the performance, the Prince of Wales and his guests will leave the theatre at the beginning of the last scene of the final act—don’t know how many there are, but you can look it up in the printed program. When you see the royal party preparing to go, you are to slip out and follow them down the stairs—at a discreet distance, mind you, and with her ladyship on your arm for the sake of appearances. The Princess Olga might consider the whole thing a great lark, but I’m taking no chances. If those diamonds are stolen—or worse, if Her Royal Highness comes to any harm—it could spark an international incident at a time when good relations with Russia are crucial.” He sighed. “We need all the help against Boney we can get.”
“Yes, sir.” Pickett was fully alive to the importance of his assignment, but the butterflies cavorting about in his stomach had less to do with the elderly princess than with the beautiful young widow who was to be his companion for the evening.
The magistrate made a shooing motion with his hands. “Be off with you, then. You may report back to me after you deliver her ladyship home, if you wish. I don’t mind waiting up.”
Pickett nodded, and turned to go.
“Oh, and John—”
He paused with one hand on the door. “Sir?”
“Anything that might happen between you and her ladyship afterward is your own affair, but while you are at the theatre, your time and your attention are mine. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir. Perfectly, sir,” said Pickett, flushing a little at having his thoughts so easily read.
Mr. Colquhoun nodded. “Good luck to you, then.”
“Thank you, sir,” Pickett said, and then set off to fetch his lady.
Some distance to the north, in Mayfair, Lady Fieldhurst sat at her dressing table and held her head perfectly still as her lady’s maid fixed an aigrette of dyed ostrich plumes amongst her golden curls.
“I can’t pretend I approve, my lady,” remarked the scowling, black-garbed female standing over her shoulder.
Mistress’s blue eyes locked with maid’s black ones in the looking glass. “Your disapproval has been noted, Smithers,” said Lady Fieldhurst in frigid tones meant to dampen the woman’s presumption.
Alas, subtlety was lost on Smithers. “It’s not decent if you ask me, your wearing that dress scarcely ten months after his lordship’s death.”
“Perhaps not,” Julia conceded. “But then, I didn’t ask you, did I?”
“Why, your ladyship, I’m sure I never meant—” While her abigail sputtered in respectful indignation, Lady Fieldhurst rose from her seat before the mirror.
“That will be all, Smithers. You need not wait up for me.”
“Very good, my lady.” The lady’s maid bobbed a stiff curtsy and left the room, her spine rigid with offended propriety.
Julia sighed, wondering why she had ever agreed to engage the sister of George’s butler as her personal servant. More galling than the woman’s impudence, however, was the knowledge that Smithers was right: she would no doubt provoke more than a few raised eyebrows amongst the ton by wearing colors two months before her year of mourning was complete.
But when she inspected her reflection in the looking glass, it was easy to dismiss all other concerns. She had ordered the dress, a celestial blue satin with an overskirt of Urling’s net, two months earlier so that she might have something ready when she was at last free to wear colors again. She had not had any particular function in mind at the time—or so she had told herself, until she had received Mr. Pickett’s invitation and realized that her new finery had been destined all along for the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, in the hope that he would be seated in the pit below the Fieldhurst box, and would look up . . .
He had only ever seen her in mourning, and she desperately wanted to be seen at her best just once before their acquaintance was ended. It was probably foolish and perhaps even a little cruel, after hearing from his own lips how he felt about her, and knowing, just as he did, that nothing could ever come of it. But she could not help herself, any more than she could explain why it was so important that he should see her thus adorned. She leaned nearer the mirror to affix pearls at her ears and throat, then draped her black velvet evening cloak over her arm and descended the stairs to await her escort’s arrival.
She had quite some time to wait, as she reached the drawing room a full twenty minutes before eight. The fire had not been lit in the room, since she had no plans to linger there, and she allowed the butler, Rogers, to place her cloak about her shoulders in order to ward off the chill. After a quarter-hour delay during which she paced a path in the carpet, she at last heard the knocker on the front door. Faint voices sounded in the hall, and a moment later the drawing room door was flung open to admit Rogers, a stately figure with a most unbutler-like twinkle in his eye.
“Mr. Pickett, my lady,” he announced in his most grandiose manner.
Then John Pickett entered the room, and it was as if, for the first time in three long months, the sun had broken through the clouds.
“Good evening, Mr. Pickett,” she said, suddenly breathless. If she had thought to dazzle him, the joke was surely on her, for she had never seen him like this. If she had not known better, she would have taken him for an aristocrat—and, consequently, a suitable match for herself. The knowledge that it was only an illusion made her want to cry. But there would be time for tears later. For now, she would delight in his company, and if she allowed herself to indulge in a little make-believe, well, no one else would ever be the wiser. She crossed the room to meet him, smiling as she held out her hands in greeting. “I was pleased to receive your invitation.”
“My lady.” He took her hands and bowed over them. “It is good of you to accommodate me in this.”
“It is my pleasure,” she assured him. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
I think of you every minute of every day . . . No, he would not say it. He’d said far too much on the subject already; he would not embarrass either of them further. “Not at all, my lady,” he demurred.
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��But how very fine you look, Mr. Pickett! I am quite overcome!”
“The clothes are hired,” he confessed, grinning sheepishly. “I don’t know what hold Mr. Colquhoun has over his tailor, but he persuaded Mr. Meyer to allow me the use of them for the night. Mr. Colquhoun has promised me that if I spill anything on them, it will be taken from my wages.”
“Then perhaps it is just as well we are going to the theatre, and not to dinner.” She hesitated a moment, then added on a more serious note, “It is good to see you again, Mr. Pickett. I—I’ve missed you.”
“And I you, my lady.” It was a masterpiece of understatement, but it was as far as he was prepared to go; he could not trust himself to say more.
A discreet cough from Rogers served as a reminder that Mr. Colquhoun’s horses were standing.
Pickett realized he still held his lady’s hands, and dropped them abruptly. “If you are ready, my lady, shall we go?”
He offered his arm; she placed her hand on it and allowed him to lead her outside, where Mr. Colquhoun’s carriage stood. The coachman waited to hand Lady Fieldhurst up the step and into the vehicle, but Pickett performed this task himself. Once they were both seated and the carriage had begun to move forward, she turned to regard him in the faint light from the carriage lamps.
“Now, Mr. Pickett, you must tell me about this investigation you are conducting. It sounds most mysterious.”
“Not so mysterious, really, and the investigation is not mine alone. In fact, it involves most of the Bow Street force. You may have heard rumors of a series of jewel thefts taking place in and around the Drury Lane Theatre. The Dowager Lady Oversley was the latest victim—”
“Yes, I know!” exclaimed Lady Fieldhurst. “I was at the theatre that night.”
“Now, why does that not surprise me?” Pickett wondered aloud.
“What do you mean?”
“Only that when there is trouble amongst the aristocracy, you always seem to be in the thick of it—not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
“I wasn’t ‘in the thick of it,’ precisely,” protested Lady Fieldhurst. “I merely suggested to Lady Oversley that she send to Bow Street, and offered to stay with her until a Runner arrived. In fact, Mr. Pickett, I hoped—” She broke off abruptly. “But do you expect there to be another such theft tonight?”
Pickett hardly heard the question, so distracted was he by the words she had not said. I hoped— what? Was it possible that she had wanted to see him again? In fact, he had not been on duty that night, but if he had been . . .
“Mr. Pickett?”
Realizing she was still awaiting an answer, Pickett came down from the clouds, albeit reluctantly. “Mr. Colquhoun thinks there might be an attempt made tonight. Princess Olga Fyodorovna will be there as a guest of the Prince of Wales, and according to Mr. Colquhoun, she’ll be wearing a set of diamonds any jewel thief would be unable to resist. Most of the Bow Street force will be on hand to stop him and, if necessary, to protect Her Royal Highness.”
“I should think so! I wonder the princess should want to wear them, under the circumstances.”
He shrugged. “I suppose she wanted to dazzle all you English ladies with their magnificence. But the woman wearing the diamonds will be one of the princess’s ladies in waiting. She and the Princess Olga are trading places for the evening.”
“What fun for them!”
Pickett’s lips twitched. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
“But what is your responsibility this evening, and what can I do to help?”
“I’ll be watching the royal box from a vantage point on the opposite side of the theatre. If anyone accosts the supposed princess, I’m to get over there as quickly as possible and help apprehend the thief; if not, I am to follow the royal party as they leave their box, in case any attempt should be made between the time the princess leaves the box and the time she enters the carriage.”
“What about me?” Lady Fieldhurst asked eagerly. “What do you want me to do?”
“To tell you the truth, my lady, your biggest task is, well, to lend me consequence, and to prevent me from making any glaring errors. Mr. Colquhoun is persuaded I should be out of my element sitting in a box. I can’t imagine why,” he added, with tongue planted firmly in cheek.
“Nor can I, Mr. Pickett, for in your present guise, you would not disgrace the royal box yourself. But can you not give me some more active way to participate?”
Pickett could not agree to this. “No one admires your pluck more than I, my lady, but I would prefer to keep you well out of harm’s way.”
“What possible harm could come to me in a theatre filled with almost four thousand people?” she insisted.
“If there is one thing I have learned, it is that no one can predict how a criminal will react when faced with arrest. No one is more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose. I will take no chances with your safety, my lady.” He shuddered at an unpleasant memory. “I can’t forget that incident in Scotland.”
She regarded him quizzically. “To which incident do you refer, Mr. Pickett? The episode on the cliff, or the irregular marriage?”
He had been determined not to mention it, but it was almost a relief to have it brought out in the open. “I meant the cliff. As for the marriage, that particular incident, at least, will be over in three more weeks.”
“Indeed, it will.”
This happy prospect had the effect of reducing them both to glum silence.
At last Lady Fieldhurst found her voice. “Mr. Pickett, about the annulment—I wish there had been some other alternative—I am so very sorry—”
Of its own volition, his hand covered hers, and he gave it a little squeeze. “Please, my lady, you need not apologize.”
“I know it is rather embarrassing for both of us, but can we not meet as friends? It has—” The words were scarcely more than a whisper. “—it has been a long winter, Mr. Pickett.”
He sighed. “Yes, it has.” Neither of them was talking about the cold weather, and they both knew it. “Friends, my lady,” he said, and held out his hand.
Even as they shook on the deal, he knew it was a mistake. And yet, if she desired his friendship, he could not deny her. He was, God help him, putty in her hands.
It was perhaps fortunate that at that moment the carriage lurched to a stop before the theatre. Pickett would have risen to open the door, but Lady Fieldhurst clutched his sleeve.
“No, Mr. Pickett, let the footman do it.” As he hesitated, she added, “If you are to appear at ease sitting in a box, you might as well begin by behaving as if you are accustomed to having servants to do for you.”
Thus entreated, he sank back onto the seat beside her. Once the door was opened, however, he sprang down and turned to assist Lady Fieldhurst. He had no idea if this was correct, and he didn’t really care; he had waited three long months to see her again, to touch her, if possible, in socially acceptable ways, and he did not intend to let an opportunity go to waste. Her ladyship having safely disembarked, he offered his arm to his “friend” and led her up the stairs and into the theatre.
Once inside, she excused herself to the cloak room, and when she emerged a few minutes later, having removed her cloak, Pickett beheld her for the first time in colors. The sight took his breath away. Friends? He must be insane. How could one be friends with a powder keg?
“Mr. Pickett?” If Julia had thought—feared?—that his sentiments had undergone a change over the past three months, she saw him standing there staring at her with his heart in his eyes, and had her answer. “Is something the matter?”
He opened his mouth, shut it again, and swallowed hard. There were no words. And even if there were, he would have no right to say them.
“I—I think—” he began, when he could speak at all, “I think I could have saved myself a great deal of trouble by letting you seek an annulment based on mental incompetence.”
Whatever reaction she had expected from him, it was not
that. “I beg your pardon?”
He gave her a sad little smile. “I must be insane to let you go.”
What could she possibly say in answer to that? Fortunately, he did not wait for a reply, but took her elbow and steered her through the crowd toward the stairs leading up to the boxes. As the common areas on the first floor gave way to the more rarified heights reserved for those who could afford to pay five shillings for a seat, the more imposing became the plastered ceilings, marble floors, and polished woodwork.
“You are gawking, Mr. Pickett,” said Lady Fieldhurst, slanting a sideways look at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are gawking,” she said again, hiding a mischievous smile. “If you wish to appear at home in a box, you would do well to act as if you have been there before.”
“I’m afraid it will have to be an act, then, for I’ve never been anywhere except the pit.”
“Of course you have!” she scolded. “I know you have been in a box at least once before, for I summoned you there myself. Or have you forgotten?”
“No, but—” But on that occasion, I was too busy thinking of seeing you again to spare a thought for my surroundings.
“But what, Mr. Pickett?”
He shook his head. “Nothing, just—no.”
She had a fair idea of how his thoughts were running, and gave his arm a little squeeze in understanding.
Their seats were in the third tier, directly opposite the royal box. After they were both settled in the velvet-upholstered chairs, Pickett scanned the theatre. As he lived only a stone’s throw away from the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, he had been there many times before, but on all those other occasions he had been seated in the pit, where one might purchase a spot on one of the backless benches for a shilling. As Lady Fieldhurst had reminded him, he had been in a box only once before, but while on that previous occasion he had been too overawed at being summoned by her ladyship to take much notice of his surroundings, tonight he hadn’t the luxury of inattention. Recalling his magistrate’s warning, he took a moment to survey the cavernous expanse of the theatre. The three rows of boxes were arranged in the shape of a horseshoe, each box adorned with red velvet curtains and separated from its neighbors by a wall on each side supporting a massive brass sconce holding at least two dozen candles.
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