She was silent for such a long moment that Pickett indulged a wild hope that she might turn to him and say, Yes, Mr. Pickett, as a matter of fact, I do.
But no. “Well, Mr. Pickett, you are certainly full of surprises,” she said briskly, offering her hand. “I thank you for stopping by to tell me privately, and in person. I suppose the next step must be consulting a solicitor to discover exactly where we stand and what must be done. If you will excuse me, I shall send a note to Mr. Crumpton, the Fieldhursts’ solicitor, requesting that he meet with the both of us. Unless you have a solicitor of your own with whom you should rather confer?”
Pickett, having no connections of his own in that regard, agreed with Lady Fieldhurst’s suggestion, albeit with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
“Very well, then,” said her ladyship. “I trust a note sent to Bow Street will find you?”
“Yes, my lady, thank you.”
He wasn’t quite sure what he was thanking her for. He bowed over her hand and left the room, stopping only long enough to collect his hat and gloves from Rogers.
And just that simply, the “marriage” was over.
Lady Fieldhurst stayed by the window long after he had gone, watching as he strode up the street heading east. Married! Married to Mr. Pickett! She had thought her deception innocent enough at the time, giving a false name at the inn so that she might escape for a time the scandal that still surrounded her six months after her husband’s death. She had never dreamed that she, by claiming to be his wife, or that he, by going along with the ruse, might actually be bound by it.
Even more disturbing than the irregular marriage itself, however, was her reaction to it. There was a time not so long ago—in Scotland, perhaps, or in Yorkshire this past summer, while he was playing the part of her footman—that she and Mr. Pickett would have shared a hearty laugh at the suggestion that he might be her husband. But neither one of them was laughing now; in fact, she found nothing at all of humor in the situation, and Mr. Pickett seemed to share her lack of amusement. Still, there was no need to make a Cheltenham tragedy of the thing: it was an inconvenience, certainly, but surely nothing that Crumpton and Crumpton, solicitors to the Fieldhursts for generations, could not overcome. There was nothing in the news, nothing at all, to leave her trembling and weak in the knees. What had changed?
Even as she wondered, she knew the answer. She had been grateful to Mr. Pickett for saving her from the gallows, and she had come to respect him as a trusted friend, but now—now the genie that was physical desire had escaped from the bottle, and there was no stuffing it back inside again.
It occurred to her that if his birth had been higher, or hers lower, marriage to Mr. Pickett might have been a very pleasant prospect indeed. But he was who he was, and she was who she was, and there could be no common ground on which to build a marriage, or indeed any sort of permanent association. Even a lasting friendship between them was unlikely in the extreme, depending as it did upon the event of various members of her circle getting themselves murdered at regular intervals.
In retrospect, she feared Mr. Pickett had been correct when he had said there could be only one ending to any liaison between them. Eventually he would meet a female of his own class whom he would wish to marry, and of course he must be set free before the issue arose; to be rejected as a matter of principle, as she had been in Scotland, was surely less humiliating than being abandoned in favor of another woman. She should be grateful, as he had said, that he had turned her down, so that the marriage (such as it was) might be annulled. And yet gratitude was not the thought uppermost in her mind when she considered the opportunity she had lost. Was it possible to miss what one had never had?
As his tall figure disappeared in the distance, she pushed aside her melancholy reflections, then sat down at her rosewood writing desk and penned a note to Walter Crumpton, Esquire, of Crumpton and Crumpton, Solicitors, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
CHAPTER 10
Which Finds John Pickett in the Doldrums
It was a very discouraged John Pickett who left Lady Fieldhurst’s house and trudged down Curzon Street, wondering how long it might be before he could expect to receive word from her of a meeting with her solicitor for the purpose of discussing an annulment. He had expected nothing less from this meeting; why, then, had he persisted in hoping against hope that it might somehow turn out differently?
Now that the dreaded interview was past, Pickett realized it was almost three o’clock and he’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. He would have preferred to wait until he returned to Bow Street to purchase a meat pie from one of the many street vendors who hawked their wares in the vicinity of Covent Garden; the fashionable coffeehouses and tearooms of Mayfair would consume rather more of his wages than he liked to spend on a single meal. But his stomach was by this time loudly protesting his neglect, and he still had two more interviews to conduct before reporting his findings to Mr. Colquhoun. He found a modest-looking tearoom, requested a table, and ordered the cheapest thing the establishment offered. The price of even this humble repast served as a further reminder to him of just how great a gulf lay between him and Lady Fieldhurst, and why an annulment of their accidental marriage was not merely desirable, but necessary.
As he ate his meager meal, he withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and consulted Lady Dunnington’s list. Somehow it was not surprising that his next stop must be at the bachelor abode of Lord Rupert Latham; a tête-à-tête with the man who had almost been Lady Fieldhurst’s lover seemed somehow all of a piece with the rest.
After finishing his luncheon, he called at Lord Rupert’s flat in the Albany. As he followed Lord Rupert’s man inside, Pickett told himself he had no reason to envy Lord Rupert; after all, that gentleman had not yet contrived to worm his way into Lady Fieldhurst’s bed, whereas Pickett himself had been invited there. No, if anything, it should be Lord Rupert who envied him, and not the other way ’round.
That encouraging thought, however, withered and died as Pickett found himself facing a gentleman dressed in the first stare of fashion, his dark blue double-breasted coat of Bath superfine clinging so closely to his shoulders that Pickett, painfully aware of his own workaday brown serge, suspected Lord Rupert could not get it on or off without the assistance of his manservant. Pickett sighed. He was never more conscious of his own lack of sophistication (or, indeed, of anything else held to be of value by the class to which Lady Fieldhurst belonged) than when in the presence of the man who but for the death of Lord Fieldhurst would have been her lover.
“So we meet again, Mr. Pickett,” said Lord Rupert after his manservant had announced the visitor and left them alone. “What is it this time, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”
“I understand you were one of several gentlemen attending a dinner party at Lady Dunnington’s house last night,” Pickett said. “A personal item of considerable value was left there, and I am trying to identify its owner. I wonder if you have noticed any of your belongings missing?”
Lord Rupert’s eyebrows rose in mild curiosity. “Missing? No, I don’t think so. What is this personal item, if I may ask?”
For the third time that morning, Pickett withdrew the pistol from the waistband of his breeches and laid it on the table.
“Not mine,” Lord Rupert said. “Aside from the fact that I prefer Manton’s, it seems to me to be shockingly bad ton, bringing a firearm to a dinner party.”
“I daresay Sir Reginald Montague would agree with you, seeing as how someone used this one to put a ball through his chest.”
“You don’t say!” His interest now fully engaged, Lord Rupert picked up the pistol and turned it over in his hands, examining it from all angles. “If only it could speak, what tales this weapon might tell!”
“Quite so,” agreed Pickett. “But since it can’t, I must deduce what I can. Tell me, if you will, where did you go after you left Lady Dunnington’s house last night?”
Lord Rupert chuckled. “I’m sorry to disap
point you, Mr. Pickett, but if you are still hoping for some excuse to send me to the gallows, I must confess that, while I had no particular love for Sir Reginald, neither had I any reason to hasten him off to the reward he no doubt richly deserves.”
“If half the tales I’ve heard about Sir Reginald in the past twenty-four hours are true, you would appear to be one of the few men in London who could make such a claim.”
“Given the purpose of Lady Dunnington’s party, one might assume that someone brought this little plaything along for the purpose of, er, eliminating the competition,” Lord Rupert continued, as if Pickett had not spoken. “Still, if that were the case, I flatter myself that I, and not Sir Reginald, would have been the target of choice, in view of my greater claim, so to speak, on the fair Julia’s affections.”
Pickett wisely held his tongue. Was Lord Rupert so sure of himself where Lady Fieldhurst was concerned, he wondered, or was he merely amusing himself at the expense of one whose admiration of the lady they both knew to be hopeless?
Lord Rupert handed the weapon back to Pickett. “I’m sorry I could not oblige you by getting myself killed. I realize how much it would mean to you, but I assure you my intentions toward Lady Fieldhurst are quite honorable. However much she may try to emulate Lady Dunnington, I fear Julia is not the kind of woman who may take lovers willy-nilly. Once she discovers this fact for herself, I fully intend to marry her.”
Pickett was surprised to find himself in agreement with his lordship, up to a point. He, too, suspected that Lady Fieldhurst was not the sort of female who might bestow her favors casually on any man who happened to take her fancy—a discovery that raised a new question: If he had accepted her invitation to become her lover, would she have followed through with it, or would she have made some eleventh-hour excuse not to consummate the relationship she herself had proposed? If the latter were to have been the case, then he had hurt and humiliated her unnecessarily. It was a disturbing thought.
Seeing that Lord Rupert was awaiting a response, Pickett took no small satisfaction in giving him one. “I believe you are correct in your reading of her ladyship’s character. But as far as marrying her, I fear you are a bit late to the fair. Her ladyship—” Don’t say it, don’t say it! Warning bells clanged inside his head, but Pickett could no more hold back the words than he could cease breathing. “Her ladyship is already married. To me.”
Alas, the pleasure he might have been expected to feel at making this pronouncement was considerably diminished by the fact that Lord Rupert appeared more amused than enraged by the revelation.
“Come now, Mr. Pickett,” he said, chuckling, “this is doing it much too brown! If you think to throw me off the scent, so to speak, you will have to do better than that.”
“If you doubt my word, you may ask her ladyship. She’ll tell you it’s true.” And then she’ll kill me for spilling the secret to the first person I meet, he added mentally.
At least he had the satisfaction of seeing the condescending smile erased from Lord Rupert’s face. “Nonsense! Why would she choose to marry a thief-taker with—forgive me!—neither birth, nor breeding, nor brass to recommend him?”
“In all honesty, Lord Rupert, I believe it was my very lack of those things that worked in my favor. On her recent sojourn in Scotland, her ladyship found it desirable to assume an incognito, for reasons I should not have to explain to you. She chose to call herself Mrs. Pickett, and when I arrived in Scotland myself shortly thereafter, I supported her in this claim. Not until much later did we discover that in Scotland such a declaration constitutes a legal marriage.”
“I see,” said Lord Rupert, and Pickett had the lowering feeling that he probably saw a great deal more than had ever been stated. “And do you flatter yourself, Mr. Pickett, that this irregular marriage will be permitted to stand?”
“I will, of course, defer to Mrs. Pickett’s wishes in the matter.” It was impossible, particularly in his present company, to resist the temptation to call her by the name just once.
“You had better, or she will find herself widowed for the second time,” promised Lord Rupert ominously, reaching for the bell pull. “Hastings, Mr. Pickett is leaving now. Please have the goodness to throw—er, show— him out.”
Having departed the Albany unceremoniously (albeit under his own power), Pickett had one more stop to make. In truth, his interviews with first Lady Fieldhurst and then with Lord Rupert had left him with very little interest in Sir Reginald’s murder. He had a duty to perform, however, and so, with the slight hope that the execution of that duty might give his mind a more profitable direction, he called on Mr. Martin Kenney at his hired rooms in St. Giles.
The door was opened not by a servant, but by Mr. Kenney himself, who greeted Pickett with a disarming smile and welcomed him to what he modestly (though accurately) termed his humble abode.
And humble it certainly was, thought Pickett, accepting Mr. Kenney’s invitation to take a seat in a faded and threadbare wing chair before the rather feeble fire. Surveying his surroundings, Pickett was taken aback to discover that the Irishman’s lodgings were no better than his own two hired rooms over a Drury Lane chandler’s shop. And yet Mr. Kenney was considered a suitable, if by no means brilliant, connection for Lady Fieldhurst, he thought bitterly, while he himself was not. And why not? His brain supplied the answer almost before he could frame the question. Lord Rupert’s three B’s, of course: birth, breeding, and brass. The Irishman might be no wealthier than Pickett himself, but he had the birth and breeding that Pickett lacked; two out of the three, apparently, was sufficient.
All these thoughts passed through his head in less time than it took to seat himself in the chair Mr. Kenney indicated and decline the man’s offer of tea. “In fact, I am here at Lady Dunnington’s behest,” Pickett explained. “It seems one of the gentlemen in attendance at her dinner last night left behind a personal item of considerable value.”
“I see,” said Mr. Kenney in his soft Irish brogue. “And would that item by any chance be a pistol made by Rigby of Dublin?”
Pickett blinked. “As a matter of fact, it would.” He withdrew the gun from his waistband and handed it to the Irishman. “Would this be yours, sir?”
“Aye, that it would.” He took the pistol and looked it over carefully. “It’s been fired since it was last in my possession.”
“Yes. Into Sir Reginald Montague’s chest, as a matter of fact.”
Kenney let out a long, low whistle. “Can’t say I’m surprised, not really. He had a gift for making enemies, did Sir Reginald.”
“You’ll forgive me for being unfamiliar with the ways of the Quality, Mr. Kenney, but do you make it a practice to carry firearms when making social calls?”
Mr. Kenney sighed. “Not before I moved to St. Giles, I didn’t. But these streets are none too safe at night, Mr. Pickett. I feel better for having a weapon at my disposal, just in case it’s needed.”
“If you don’t feel safe here, why don’t you find rooms somewhere else?” asked Pickett, suspecting he already knew the answer.
“Oh, I didn’t always surround myself with such luxury,” Mr. Kenney said facetiously, making an expansive gesture that took in the small room and its shabby furnishings. “At one time, I had rooms in the Albany—only a few doors down from Lord Rupert Latham, in fact. I owe the sumptuousness of my present situation to the generosity of Sir Reginald Montague.”
“Do you? In what way?”
“My family has always been what is frequently called ‘land rich but cash poor,’ Mr. Pickett. We have an extensive estate in County Cork, but very little blunt on which to run it. When my father died last year, I was obliged to settle his debts, which left me rather at point non plus. I made my way to London, where I have lived by my wits for the past year. Fortunately, they are good wits, and so I have been able to stay one step ahead of the constable.”
“Until Sir Reginald took a hand?”
Mr. Kenney nodded. “As you say. I was having a pro
digious run of luck at White’s one evening, much of it at Sir Reginald’s expense.” His fresh, open countenance turned dark. “He all but accused me of cheating at cards. Nothing was ever proven—how could it be, when I was innocent of the charge?—but the insinuation was sufficient to get me blackballed.”
“But if one must gamble for a living, surely there are other places in London where one may do so,” Pickett pointed out.
“Oh, there are any number of discreet little houses in Jermyn Street where one may play for stakes higher than any found at White’s,” acknowledged the Irishman, “but one is far more likely to find oneself up the River Tick. Then, too, there is the matter of respectability. A friendly game of whist with one’s fellow club members is one thing, but what man wants to give his daughter to a fellow who is known to frequent gaming hells?”
“Daughter?” Pickett tried to recall exactly what Lord Edwin had said about Mr. Kenney’s matrimonial ambitions. “Are you speaking generally, or have you a particular female in mind?”
Mr. Kenney gave a short, humorless laugh. “I see the gossips have been busy. I suspect you will not be surprised to learn that among the company present that night was the father of a young lady, a considerable heiress, whom I had hoped to marry, thus finding permanent relief from my straitened circumstances. Needless to say, the scandal put paid to my hopes of matrimony. I may have won four hundred pounds, but I lost forty thousand—a remarkable evening’s work, as I’m sure you will agree.”
“You had no reason to love Sir Reginald, then,” observed Pickett.
“I may be a fortune hunter, Mr. Pickett, but I like to think I am a man of honor. Had Miss—never mind her name now, but had she agreed to marry me, I had every intention of remaining faithful to her; I would have owed her that, at least, for saving my family’s estates and our heritage. But as much as I might regret the loss of her forty thousand pounds, it never crossed my mind to put a ball into the chest of the man who was instrumental in depriving me of them.”
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