by Nicole Byrd
“Indeed,” the countess murmured. And this time, all the other ladies stared at Clarissa.
On the drive home, Clarissa was silent, and Gemma did not try to make conversation. Was the earl truly breaking a prior engagement so that he could help them examine their newly amassed list of crimes? Was it possible that he had feelings—no, she could not credit it. He could pick from any lady in the Ton. It was only for a good cause, and thank goodness he was inclined to help her. Clarissa was sure she needed all the aid she could find! Gemma had collected all the names and addresses of the thefts and had the papers tucked safely into her reticule.
That turned Clarissa’s thoughts back to the murdered woman’s missing bag. Had the matron had anything worth knowing about in her own reticule? If so, it had disappeared.
When they arrived home, Clarissa hurried up to change for dinner, and this time she did not begrudge the effort. If the earl did come, she wished to look her best. Only, of course, because he was being so diligent in trying to secure her safety, she assured herself.
Matty helped her arrange her hair becomingly and tied a blue ribbon to hold back the shorter curls at the front, then Clarissa slipped into a fresh blue-sprigged muslin gown. When Clarissa came downstairs, she felt a small leap of pleasure to see Lord Whitby standing by the drawing room fire, having a glass of wine with her brother.
He bowed to her, and she tried her best to achieve a graceful curtsy. At dinner, the earl was seated at Gemma’s right, of course, as his rank demanded, and Clarissa and Miss Pomshack sat across the table with Matthew at the head, but Clarissa had the pleasure of occasionally hearing snatches of the earl’s conversation. She was careful to mind her own tongue and to allow no unladylike curses to emerge. Also, by some small miracle, she did not drop her silver nor overturn the sauce boat.
So she was pleased—and her gown unspotted—when dinner ended and Gemma stood and collected the other ladies’ attention with a glance. They withdrew, leaving the men to their brandy, but within a short time, Matthew and the earl rejoined them in the drawing room.
“Perhaps we might sit down to a game of whist?” Matthew suggested.
Clarissa looked at him in surprise; her brother was not, as a rule, fond of cards.
But the others agreed, and soon she saw his purpose. Miss Pomshack was not a card player, so she cheerfully bade them enjoyment of their game and withdrew to the other end of the room, near the fire, where she sat down to peruse a volume of wholesome sermons.
Although Matthew laid out a hand of cards, Gemma, who had taken a seat with her back to the oblivious Miss Pomshack, drew the sheets of paper from her pocket and spread them on the table where they could all see them.
And Lord Whitby reached into his coat and drew out a list of his own.
Clarissa felt her breath quicken. They were all turning into accomplished plotters, she thought, trying not to laugh. But the memory of the dead woman’s face, as well as awareness of the lethal penalty that would be inflicted on a convicted murderer, sobered her at once.
While they played the most dilatory game of whist ever, they quietly discussed the two lists and where they agreed.
First, Matthew, his expression dark, told them he had not so far succeeded in locating the mysterious Mr. Grey. “No one on the street will admit to any knowledge of him. But I shall continue the search,” he promised his sister.
Clarissa flashed him a grateful smile, though she wondered if he had looked too much the gentleman to easily draw out the denizens of lower-class London.
Then they discussed the other inquiry, on the house robberies.
“We have two that took place in this square alone, and three in the neighboring streets,” Lord Whitby pointed out. “Not that far from you.”
Gemma shook her head and looked at her husband. “My dear, I think we shall have to get a guard dog. So many, and so close together!”
“I do not think it can be just coincidence,” the earl pointed out.
“Not bloody likely,” Clarissa agreed, then blushed deeply as her brother glanced at her. Damn, and she had been doing so well, too! Fortunately, the earl didn’t seem to notice her slip.
“I know several of these families. I think I should call upon them and make some inquiries,” he suggested.
“And not just of the family, but the servants,” Clarissa put in. “I had a thought—”
They all looked at her.
Clarissa plunged on. “Gemma said that in one case a servant was suspected of aiding the thieves. My first reflection was that some poor maidservant had been falsely accused, but then I thought many of the foundling home’s girls were sent into service when they were old enough. It would be an excellent way to get informants into wealthy houses, if the matron had indeed been connected with some criminal gang.”
“But would they agree to help her?” Matthew asked. “Surely they were not all dishonest by nature?”
Clarissa shuddered. “It would be very hard to say no to the matron if you had been accustomed to taking her orders,” she pointed out, her tone grim.
Gemma reached across the card table to pat her hand. “I can understand that, as anyone who had spent time under Mrs. Craigmore’s control would. You are likely correct, Clarissa.”
“And,” Clarissa added. “When you go to query the families, my lord, I should go with you. It’s possible that I might recognize a servant as a former inmate of the foundling home.”
Matthew shook his head. “No, indeed. I do not wish you to risk further danger or embarrassment.”
“We are only calling on respectable families,” Clarissa argued. “And I would not be alone.” She hoped that the earl was not displeased at her suggestion. He had not yet commented, and she carefully refrained from glancing his way.
Happily, Gemma took her side. “I think it is a good idea, Matthew,” she said, keeping her voice low. “His lordship will look out for Clarissa. And if there were to be some one among the staff, she is the only one who would recognize a familiar face. I was at the home, too, but only briefly and years ago when I was very young. I’m afraid I would not be much help. I don’t remember a great deal from that awful year.”
His tone firm, Lord Whitby spoke, “I will most certainly see that Miss Fallon is not in any danger.”
“And how will you explain making calls with a young lady by your side?” Matthew asked, sounding skeptical. “It will seem a bit, ah, unusual.”
The earl gave Clarissa a glance. “Perhaps I will claim her as a cousin, a fond but distant cousin.”
Gemma laughed softly. “If you do, you will have a great many society matrons racking their memories as to who is related to whom, and you must be prepared to explain the sudden connection.”
The earl shrugged, with the old arrogance that had once seemed so annoying. Somehow, Clarissa did not find it so any longer. After all, he was doing so much to aid her.
“I will think of a good excuse,” he assured them.
Armed with the list of house break-ins, they began the very next day. Lord Whitby arrived just after noon, a proper time for social calls, and he took both Clarissa and Gemma, who had offered to accompany them.
Lord Whitby welcomed them both, and in the carriage, they discussed a story to explain their visit. Whitby knew two of the families slightly, but they would be surprised, he noted dryly, to have him make a formal call.
Gemma suggested saying they were collecting funds for the small foundling home that she and Clarissa had suffered through and that Gemma and Lady Gabriel were now volunteering to oversee. “After all, we may as well get some donations out of this, while we look for information,” she pointed out.
“And I have decided to add my patronage to the home, inspired by your and Lady Gabriel’s example? Very noble of me,” the earl agreed.
But Clarissa knew by now that the gleam in his eye, the humor beneath the wry tone, was as much at himself as anyone else, and that, when he cocked his head to the side in that familiar way, he was not lo
oking down his nose at her, as she had first thought, but simply giving her his full attention. In fact, it was amazing how well she seemed to know him after what was really such a short acquaintance.
So they approached the first household calmly. The footman did not hesitate to show them in, and if the lady of the house seemed a little surprised, Mrs. Merdent was also obviously pleased to have such well-connected visitors. Even the suggestion that they were calling to discuss the foundling home’s needs did not faze her; she was eager to donate a small sum.
From there, as tea was dispensed, the conversation flowed into other areas. After a few minutes of gossip, Gemma was able to mention a burglary in their square, and Mrs. Merdent was eager to share her own story.
“Oh, we had just such a fright ourselves, only three weeks past! If I were not such a light sleeper—it’s my stomach, you see, and I’d made the mistake of eating lobster salad for dinner as our cook has this delightful receipt—but anyhow, I was awakened by a slight sound. . So I got out of bed and tiptoed down the hall and peeked around the staircase, and there were a positive horde of scoundrels in my own house!”
“Good heavens, so many?” Gemma asked,.
Mrs. Merdent seemed gratified by their close attention. “Oh, yes, a dozen at least. We could have all been murdered in our beds!”
“I woke my husband and ran up the stairs to rouse the servants. The two footmen came down to aid my dear husband—oh, I was in such a quake that he would be hurt—and then I ran to the nursery and stayed with my children.” The good lady sighed at the memory.
“Your husband is a brave man,” the earl agreed. He had been sipping his tea and allowing their hostess to chatter on.
“I hope no one was hurt?” Clarissa added.
“Thank goodness, no, except one of the footman got a nasty cut on his arm—the villains had knives! And they had already cleared the sideboard of the best silver, taken down the clock, which came from Paris, my dear, back before the war began. Even my husband’s desk in the study was rifled, but he had only a little housekeeping money there, fortunately, so they didn’t get much. But they moved so quickly that all was lost before my husband and the servants could get downstairs to confront them. The footman, the one who was hurt, tried to tackle the last man going out the door, but he was slashed with the blade, and the man got away.”
Their hostess fanned herself, and they offered more condolences and asked about the footman, who had recovered, the lady of the house said.
Gemma threw Clarissa a glance. They had discussed another ploy to try. After all, part of the plan was that Clarissa must see the maidservants. “If you would not think it too forward, perhaps my sister-in-law might speak briefly to your staff before we go?”
“Whatever for?” Mrs. Merdent asked, as well she might.
Clarissa tried not to blush. Gemma explained, “Since many of the children at the foundling home are the result of, ah, sad mistakes, we thought it would also be beneficial to remind the servants of the blessings of prudence and modesty.”
Mrs. Merdent looked slightly offended. “I assure you, Lady Gemma, my maids are all good girls, and indeed, they always go to church on Sundays.”
“Of course,” Clarissa agreed quickly. “But they can tell their friends, you know, and a little good counsel from another female can only add to the force of your vicar’s sermons.”
“I suppose it can do no harm,” their hostess agreed. She pulled the bell for the footman. “Peepes, have all the maidservants brought up to the hall; this young lady wishes to say a few words to them.”
His startled expression almost made Clarissa giggle, but she was still dreading the “sermon” she must now impart.
As Clarissa followed him into the hall, she heard their hostess say, behind her. “Your sister-in-law is certainly intent on good works, is she not? Is she thinking of going into holy orders?”
Unable to make out Gemma’s response, Clarissa swallowed hard. Oh dear, she felt like a total fraud. Worst of all, Miss Pomshack, who had helped her write out her short speech, had thought it an excellent idea! But she would not be harming anyone with her lecture, Clarissa told herself anxiously, even if her motives were not quite what they seemed.
When the girls came up, most of them no older than she, Clarissa looked them over carefully, but no one seemed familiar. She rushed through her short homily, and then added, more practically, “If you know of any orphaned children in your neighborhood, children in want, I mean, who have no relations to support them, the foundling home for girls would offer help, and if there are boys, we will see to their support, too, at another institution. Just send Lady Gabriel Sinclair or Lady Gemma Fallon word, your mistress can give you the directions, and they will see to the children’s aid.”
To her surprise, one of the younger girls blushed a bright red. When the maidservants turned to go, she avoided Clarissa’s eye.
Had she uncovered a former inmate of the home on their first try? One thing was for sure, however, Clarissa could not ask questions under the butler’s stern gaze; the little maid would never have the nerve to tell the truth.
The maids disappeared again belowstairs and Clarissa returned to the drawing room. Gemma and the earl stood, and they all made their farewells, with thanks to Mrs. Merdent for her charity.
“Always pleased to help a good cause,” she told them. “And be sure to mention my name to your sister-in-law, Lady Gabriel.”
“I will, indeed,” Gemma promised.
The next house they wished to inspect was only a few yards away, so they did not bother to climb back into the carriage but walked together. When they were far enough to be out of earshot, Clarissa could hardly wait to share her suspicions.
“Did you recognize anyone?” the earl asked, keeping his voice low.
She did the same. “No, not really, but one of the girls colored up when I mentioned the foundling home.”
Her expression eager, Gemma looked up. “Did you ask her if she knew anything about the robbery? I must admit, such quick and efficient thievery sounds very suspicious.”
“I couldn’t, with the footman and the other servants there, lined up in the hall like soldiers,” Clarissa explained. “We shall have to question her further later, in private.”
The second visit was much like the first. Their titles and the slight acquaintance the earl had with the man of the house—not that he was at home—got them in easily, and though getting permission to speak to the servants was the most awkward part, Clarissa was getting better at her pose of moral instruction. She simply had to pretend to be Miss Pomshack, she thought, sighing a little at the idea of imitating that good lady’s always noble intentions.
And this time, when the female staff trooped dutifully upstairs, one of the maids looked distinctly familiar. As Clarissa once more recited, a bit absentmindedly, her lecture on good conduct, she watched from the corner of her eye the thin maidservant with the birthmark on her cheek Did the girl squirm a little at the mention of the foundling home?
And when the staff turned to go, Clarissa tucked the paper into her pocket and managed to snag her fingernail in the lightweight muslin of her gown. She exclaimed in dismay. “Oh dear, I have torn my sash. Could you please render some assistance?” She looked at the servant she had been watching covertly.
The maid hesitated. “Of course, miss. But the ’ ousekeeper is better with ’er needle. Mayhap I should fetch ’er?”
“No, no, it’s a small tear, I’m sure you can take care of it. If we could just withdraw for a moment?” Clarissa insisted.
The footman showed her to a small parlor, and Clarissa paced up and down, afraid the maidservant would not return. But the girl reappeared within a few minutes with a sewing kit. She threaded a needle and knelt on the floor to make emergency repairs to the sash of Clarissa’s muslin gown. It had taken a good jerk to tear it, but indeed, a few stitches would make it more presentable. While the maid had all her attention on her needle, Clarissa searched her memor
y, and at last the name came to her.
Hoping that the girl would not stick the needle straight into Clarissa’s skin in her shock, Clarissa said, “Becky?”
“ ’ow you know my name?” Her gaze wary, the serving girl looked up.
“It’s Clarissa, Becky, from the foundling home, don’t you remember?”
Eyes wide, Becky stared at her. “ ’ow do you know about that?”
“I had the second bed from the end, and you shared a bed with that girl who snored so loudly, you must remember that.”
Becky dropped her needle onto the floor and scrambled to her feet. Afraid she would run out of the room, Clarissa put out one hand. “It’s all right, don’t be afraid.”
“What you doing ’ere dressed like that? Is it some kind of humbug you’re playing on me mistress? She’s a nice lady and she don’t deserve to be done wrong again! This ain’t another gang, is it?”
“Another gang?” Clarissa stared at the girl’s paled face, the birthmark even more prominent now that she had lost color. “You must tell me the truth, Becky. I promise you that I will see that you are not harmed by it.”
“I didn’t want to do it.” The maid blinked hard against tears. “But it was Miz Craigmore, you know how vicious she could be. She came to the ’ouse collecting for the parish poor ’ouse, and she made an excuse to talk to me. She made me tell her everything, where the best silver was and which plate weren’t worth stealing. When the men went to bed, and if my master was out of town any times . . . I didn’t want to do it, but she—she said she would palm a piece of silverware and blame it on me if I didn’t ’elp ’er. I’d be turned out on the street.” The girl bit back a sob. “I been that worried ever since that someone would find out. And I would never do it again, I swear to you.”
“I believe you,” Clarissa promised. “I don’t know if I could stand up to Miz Craigmore, either, when she was at her most bullying.”
“She was so ’ard on us when we were in the ’ome.” Becky wiped her eyes. “I still shiver when I think of ’er. I just pray she won’t come back.”