by Nicole Byrd
Dominic shook his head. “London has many gangs and even more houses. If I hired every runner in Bow Street, and there are not that many, we couldn’t possibly cover every house, not even in the West End. And without the matron’s connection to her past, the foundling home orphans now in service, we would have no way of knowing which residence they might target next.”
“And my husband says, from his survey of the magistrates’ offices, that household robberies have dropped off a little,” Lady Gemma put in. “Perhaps the gang is lying low for a time. It’s possible that the hue and cry over the matron’s death has alarmed even them.”
For a moment, they were all silent. Dominic looked at Clarissa’s face and said, “We will keep working, Miss Fallon. You are not alone.”
She nodded, although she still looked grave.
“And we have made progress,” Lady Gemma put in, her tone also encouraging.
They finished the card game, and Psyche took her leave. While Lady Gemma said good-bye to her friend, Dominic turned to look again at Clarissa. They had all risen when the game had ended, and now he stepped closer to her.
“Do not lose heart,” he told her, keeping his voice low.
She smiled up at him suddenly, and, glancing around to see that the other ladies had stepped into the hall, rose on her toes and gave him a quick kiss.
His hunger rising unbidden to the surface, he pulled her close and returned her kiss. Then he released her as abruptly and drew a deep breath. “Enough, you vixen,” he said beneath his breath. “We will be discovered.”
Ignoring the rebuke, Clarissa smiled. Her eyes were bright.
“Thank you, my lord, for being there for me,” she said. “And for everything you said. And for—just for being you.”
He was so shaken he could barely mutter his good-byes when he moved to the doorway. Lady Gemma looked a little puzzled at his unusual lack of suavity, but she thanked him, too.
“I do not lay the blame for the trip to Whitechapel on your shoulders, my lord,” she said quietly. “I know Clarissa too well. But I appreciate your care with her safety.”
“I only took a few logical steps to protect her,” he told her, knowing that even that, had the foray into Whitechapel gone wrong, might not have been enough.
Although she must have had the same thought, he was grateful that Lady Gemma did not remark upon it.
Under her sister-in-law’s eyes, not to mention Miss Pomshack’s, who hovered in the background, Clarissa gave him a prim curtsy as he made his leave. But he saw the glimmer of mischief—and more—that lingered in her bright eyes.
When he left, he climbed into the nondescript carriage and found that his whole body ached for her.
It was very late when Matthew returned. Clarissa had retired to bed, but when she heard his voice in the hall, she threw on a wrapper and went out.
She saw him on the landing below, speaking quietly to his wife. His face was gray with fatigue. She leaned over the bannister.
“Matthew?”
He came up to her and kissed her forehead. “I’ve been out all day, my dear. I did find one case where a woman I believe to be Mrs. Craigmore was had up before a magistrate in a nearby parish. She was charged with theft, but unhappily, she got off with a small fine. I have reason to believe that the magistrate—his name is Donaldson—may have been bribed. It often happens, I hear. But I will not give up until we find the villain who did this and see your good name and your safety no longer threatened.”
“Matthew—” It made Clarissa hurt to see him look so exhausted and discouraged. “This is not your fault.”
He looked away. “Of course it is my fault. If I had given you a better guardian when I went to sea, if after our mother died you had not been sent to that foundling home and into that woman’s clutches—”
“Matthew, you didn’t know! You did the best you could. You are not to blame. I love you, and you must not shoulder all the responsibility.” She threw her arms about him, and he sighed and hugged her.
“You are too forgiving, Clarissa. But I will not stop until we find the real killer.”
“I know that, and I am appreciative.” She didn’t point out that they were all working for the same end. She suspected that he needed to do this, needed to spend long hours combing London’s courts and records and the city’s seamier side.
His expression lifted a little, and he said good night to her. “Sleep well, my dear.”
“I will,” she promised and watched him return to where Gemma waited, saw them go arm in arm to their own room. At least Gemma could comfort him, would be there for him.
For herself, Clarissa shut her door and crawled into bed. But after some times worrying about her brother, she reached to the table near her bed and took out of her reticule a man’s handkerchief. The earl had forgotten to reclaim it after their adventure today.
She stroked its soft folds and held it to her cheek. Those kisses in the carriage—bloody hell, she’d never suspected a man’s touch could feel so good. If the earl were not such a gentleman, perhaps she could experience it again. Perhaps she could convince him that being proper was not always such a good thing. . . .
Smiling, she blew out her candle.
But when she slept, despite Dominic’s promise, she dreamed again of the hangman’s rope, and of ragged children who watched her from the shadows and chanted in shrill voice’s and uneducated accents.
“Cl’rissa’s gonna get caned again, Cl’rissa’s gonna get hanged again.”
The next morning, Clarissa woke late and heavy-eyed. When she went down to breakfast, she saw Gemma observe her with some anxiety. No doubt her sister-in-law thought she was exhausted from yesterday’s foray into the poorer side of London.
Clarissa knew it had more to do with her restless night and alarming dreams, but she didn’t want to discuss them. Talking about the visions seemed to give them too much weight, so she simply sipped her tea and tried to eat a little breakfast.
When a note was delivered, Clarissa looked up eagerly.
However, the footman took the missive to Gemma. With an apologetic glance toward her, Gemma broke the wax seal.
She skimmed the contents quickly, then looked up. “The earl sends us word that he is returning to Whitechapel today to make further inquiries and will visit later if he has any new findings, today or perhaps tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t he—” Clarissa began, then paused. He could have taken her along! And he certainly could at least have told her directly. Oh, no, gentlemen did not correspond with unmarried ladies, Clarissa recalled, her spirits dropping again. Damn all this bloody propriety, anyhow!
Gemma wrinkled her brow. “He’s quite right; it’s too dangerous a place for you, my dear. And you did what you needed to do yesterday, identifying”—she paused, glancing at the servants in the room—“identifying that person, so you need not fret. And besides, you missed a dance lesson yesterday. Monsieur Meidenne was annoyed. I paid him anyhow, of course, but I also promised that you would be here today when he comes.”
Dance lessons! Oh, heavens, just what she did not need! Clarissa wanted to argue that, with her life hanging—oh, dreadful word—on this investigation, it was much more important to find the killer than it was to polish Clarissa’s still rough society manners. But she knew what her sister-in-law would reply: Life had to go on, they had to believe that Clarissa would be exonerated and all would be well. And perhaps Gemma truly believed that. After all, she did not suffer dreams in which she saw the noose’s shadow or heard chanting children. . . .
Miss Pomshack came in and filled her plate, and Clarissa let the argument pass. When the dance instructor arrived, promptly at eleven, they went into the drawing room so that Gemma could play on the pianoforte and provide accompaniment.
Unhappily, Clarissa found that, not having given any thought to her dance forms for several days, today she appeared to have even less grasp of the proper steps than during the last lesson.
Her lack of p
ractice soon became all too obvious.
“Mademoiselle, if you will attend, s’il vous plait!” Monsieur Meidenne commanded, his tone sharp, after Clarissa had once again trod upon his foot.
Clarissa blushed and muttered yet another apology.
“Perhaps a short respite would be welcome,” Gemma suggested. “Let me call for tea.” She went outside to speak to a footman, and, perhaps in the hope of soothing his much-tested patience, motioned to the tutor to follow her for a word.
Clarissa knew that her cheeks must be flushed. She reached into her pocket and discovered she had forgotten to put in her small book of dance forms. Damn! She looked about her and saw that the tutor had left his larger volume sitting on a table nearby. If she could only scan the pattern and refresh her memory of the more complicated steps. . . .
She lifted the cover. Yes, it was a listing of dance forms, much like her own smaller book, and Clarissa skimmed the pages, looking for the steps she sought. But something was not quite right—she stared at the words in front of her.
Then, hearing the tutor’s voice, she let the book fall close and took several steps away, not wishing to draw more censure. With Gemma at his side, Monsieur Meidenne came back into the room, and Clarissa turned away, afraid she was blushing even harder. She walked across to gaze out one of the drawing room windows and avoid meeting his eye.
What was wrong with the forms in his book?
The tea tray came, and Gemma poured tea for everyone. Miss Pomshack helped make polite conversation, and by the time they returned to the lesson, Gemma tried grimly to keep her mind on the steps.
This time, the tutor chided her for watching his feet instead of meeting his gaze, but at least she did not tread on his toe, and if she had another reason for not wishing to catch his eye, she hoped he was not aware of it.
When the seemingly unending dance lesson at last wound to a close, Clarissa muttered polite thanks, but her thoughts were still elsewhere.
Gemma said, “You are improving, Clarissa.”
Unwilling to debate such an optimistic but loving assessment, Clarissa nodded and went upstairs to find her own dance book.
She was still puzzling over what she had seen when the earl was announced. By this time, Miss Pomshack had retired for her usual mid-afternoon rest, and Gemma and Clarissa were back in the drawing room. She looked up eagerly when Lord Whitby came into the room.
“Nothing new, I’m afraid,” he told them. ‘There is no doubt that Miss Craggity is a noted receiver, even if very eccentric about whom she deals with, and I found two people who admit to having seen her sister visit her, but I cannot trace any more of the late matron’s contacts. Whoever was in the gang she was connected to, I’m not sure we have any way of finding them.”
“Perhaps we should set up a trap and lie in wait for the gang to break in?” Gemma suggested.
“How would we make sure they came? And that it was the right group of thieves? There are many operating in London,” the earl pointed out.
“But we must do something,” Gemma said, sighing. She turned to gaze at Clarissa. “My dear, do not be downhearted.”
Clarissa realized she had been sitting silently for several moments. She tried to pull her thoughts together.
“What is it?” the earl said.
He always seemed to read her moods.
“It is probably nothing,” she said slowly. “But—” She explained how she had come to glance inside the dance instructor’s book of dance forms. “It was not accurate.”
“Perhaps it was only a slightly different version of the steps,” Gemma suggested, looking puzzled. “There are variations on many dances, you know.”
The earl waited, and under his encouraging gaze, Clarissa found the nerve to shake her head. “It’s more than that. I have been studying my own book of dance instruction,” she said. “At least, not recently, as was all too apparent from my performance this morning, but I have scanned it often, and I examined it carefully after the lesson. Monsieur Meidenne’s volume was wrong. I noticed one line that should have said, ‘Two steps back and cross over.’ Instead, several words were crossed out, and twenty g. written in.”
“G?” The earl wrinkled his brow.
“And a few lines down, I saw the name, Davidson, and more numbers. My brother Matthew has, after much searching, come across a magistrate named Davidson, who might have had contact with the matron. He is also a magistrate whom Matthew suspected might be open to taking bribes,” Clarissa pointed out.
The earl put down his teacup and sat up even straighter. “Magistrates who have been convicted of bribery can go to prison. Or at the least, lose their position.”
Her expression puzzled, Gemma looked from one to the other. “I don’t see what this has to do with our dance instructor?”
Clarissa found her heart beating faster. She looked at the earl. “What did the matron tell her sister? When they broke into a house, the gang’s ringleader always took the master’s study for himself, to ransack without the others watching.”
Whitby nodded. “I don’t know about your brother, but I keep more than money in my desk. It holds papers, both private and business.”
“But why would an ordinary housebreaker care about that?” Gemma asked. “Papers would have no value to him.”
“On the contrary—” the earl began.
“Perhaps this thief is not so ordinary after all,” Clarissa said at the same time. “Perhaps he found something even more priceless than the household silver.”
The earl gave her a quick smile. “Yes, information. A letter from a lover, business deals that were not totally honest, even perhaps a list of bribes taken. In a word, material for blackmail.”
Thirteen
“The slyer the fox, the more cunning the hunter must be.”
MARGERY, COUNTESS OF SEALY
“Blackmail?” Gemma looked from one to the other. “So it is more than simple household theft?”
“Information, embarrassing or incriminating, could pay for itself time after time, in contrast to a few valuables soon sold for much less than their original worth,” the earl pointed out.
“But, Monsieur Meidenne—a thief? Surely not, he came so highly recommended!” Gemma looked aghast.
Clarissa was still thinking. “Remember the households where there were no servants we could connect to the foundling home? One of them, you mentioned, had daughters who were out. What do you wager those young ladies had a dance tutor?”
“Most of them do,” Gemma agreed, her expression still doleful.
“It would be another way for someone to check out a household,” Clarissa pointed out. “And he’s quite good-looking. I’m sure he would have no trouble flirting with the maidservants or even the young ladies themselves.”
The earl gave her a quick look, and there was something in his eyes she could not quite identify. But he turned to Gemma.
“Have any of the tutor’s other clients had break-ins at their homes?” Lord Whitby inquired, and he had smoothed his expression.
She nodded, but added, “Yes, I have heard of several. Still, not all of Monsieur Meidenne’s patrons have been robbed. Certainly, we have not.”
“Perhaps he was simply being careful, wary of inciting suspicion,” the earl said. “If all his clients had their households invaded, it might occur to someone to connect him to the burglaries. His position—and his ability to go in and out of prominent homes—has value only as long as he is not suspected of any nefarious motive.”
Gemma sighed. “This is dreadful. I will terminate his services at once.”
“No!” Clarissa objected. “We must go on just as usual and not let him know we suspect him.”
“I agree,” the earl said. “We shall have to do more investigation of this Monsieur Meidenne.”
“I suppose so, but how on earth shall I greet him now without showing my suspicions?” Gemma fretted.
“You can do it; you must do it,” Clarissa urged. “We must not alert him
that we suspect that he is any more than a dancing tutor!”
Gemma nodded.
Lord Whitby looked thoughtful. “However, we can make use of this very valuable information. Perhaps now we can try some of your earlier ideas—plant an enticement for a break-in.”
Clarissa knew her eyes had widened. “Here?”
“Probably not here; it might be too obvious, but if we can find a friend willing to help—”
They discussed the matter at some length, and when the earl departed, his step quick with purpose, Clarissa felt a thrill of expectation.
At last, they could take real steps toward catching the man in the act and proving that he, not Clarissa, might be the one guilty of murder!
The next day was a long one. The dancing tutor was not due back until the following morning, and while they all had tasks to perform, Clarissa knew that the earl was the one who had the most to do. Still, she and Gemma could call on Lady Gabriel and share their ideas.
When they arrived, they found another caller, too, sitting in the Sinclair drawing room, and Lady Sealey seemed most interested in their plan. Since she was a trusted confidante of both ladies and had already aided them once, they did not hesitate to discuss the situation in front of her.
“No, the trap should not be laid here, Psyche,” she said, putting down her teacup. “You are a close connection because of Lord Gabriel and Lady Gemma’s family bonds. The man might be suspicious, and unless he brings his gang of thieves when we wish it, nothing will be accomplished and it will all be for naught.”
“We could not ask anyone else to take such a chance,” Gemma began, as if suspecting where this was leading. “The risk—”
Lady Sealey shook her head. “Bosh, we will be prepared, obviously. And I will not, as much as I shall hate to miss such an exciting event, be in the house. That’s the whole point, to announce discreetly that I am going out of town for the weekend to attend a house party. As indeed I am, this coming weekend.”
“Is there enough time to put everything in motion?” Gemma looked around the circle at them all.