“How do we find out who killed Lucy?” I knew he could bear to discuss it now.
“We’ve narrowed it down.” His voice determinedly practical. “It’s either Steven Drury, one of his agents, or the manservant Greene.”
“Steven would have done it because of what Lucy knew, the manservant because of what he discovered. If he found out that Lucy was still seeing Steven, he could have killed her.”
Richard concurred. “She wasn’t killed for the money, because we found it without too much trouble. The notebook I took should have been removed. If Drury had done the deed himself, he would have taken it for the information it held. I’ve been wondering if he’s been making enquiries about it but no one seems to know. My love, do you think you could visit your aunt, see if she’s had any suspicious visitors recently?”
“I’ll ask her tomorrow night,” I promised. I lifted my head again so that I could see him. “What about that Smith man? The Bow Street man?”
Richard grunted. “He’s a resourceful man. We’re only just keeping one step ahead of him. He’s looking for Greene and he’ll soon find out the man was taken by some well-dressed bullies, if he asks the right questions.”
“I’ll talk to Steven tomorrow. I’ll ask him how he feels about Lucy’s murder, see if he knows Susan is her daughter. I’ll let him know we know that much, shall I?”
He considered. I slipped around to the side, taking my weight off him and he took my hand, softly kissing the first knuckles of the fingers. “I don’t like the idea of you near him but if you want to do this, it’s better done in public.” He kissed the palm of my hand and the wrist. “I’ll try to find out what Julia knows.” He worked his way up to the inside of the elbow, then drew me close to him. “That’s tomorrow,” he murmured, his lips against mine, “But for now, adorata, you have won an evening’s grace for us and I mean to make the most of it. Unless, of course, you object?”
“Oh no,” I whispered, then after a moment, “Oh yes.”
Chapter Nineteen
I LEFT MY SCHEDULE as clear as I could for the next day. If I was to be the centre of attention, I was determined to look my best. I ordered a bath, one of the few times a maid was allowed in the bedroom while we still occupied it. When it was poured and I was safely installed in the steaming water, Richard sent Nichols away and insisted on helping. By the time he had soaped me, rinsed me and taken me back to bed, I needed another bath, so I sent him away and this time Nichols helped me.
I didn’t dress that day, donning a loose robe that didn’t need hoop or stays and I had a wonderfully leisurely breakfast, just me, the newspapers and the post, as Richard had already left for his round of the coffee houses.
Towards the end of my meal, Gervase called and I asked him to join me, which he did with some alacrity. Gervase had an alarmingly healthy appetite and I rarely knew him refuse food. I told him Richard’s news. Richard had agreed that Gervase should know.
Richard’s twin watched me carefully while I told him, his food, for once, forgotten. “It’s a shame she’s fallen into their hands. And I’m sorry it should come at this time for you, when you should be looking forward to your own addition to the family.”
“It could hardly have come at a worse time.”
“You still have the boy to find,” Gervase said. “Rose, if you need my help, you know I’ll always come.”
“I know. Thank you, Gervase. Richard is upset but he’s coping.”
“I don’t doubt it. He has you now.”
Gervase left soon after breakfast, leaving me to a blissfully empty day. I saw Brangwyn to discuss the appointments for the next few days and looking at his frank, open face, I wondered how we could have been so deceived in him. A secretary was a useful member of staff but we were vulnerable if we couldn’t demand absolute loyalty from whomever we employed. Reluctantly, I thought we would have to employ someone from the special box next time. The loyalty of the staff in there was beyond question but that made them considerably more expensive and unavailable for duties elsewhere.
I went up for my rest after a light meal at noon and was surprised to find I could sleep, although I had done nothing all day except please myself. Martha had told me she’d been tired all through the beginning of her first pregnancy and since that had produced a boy, I was hopeful. I would love to produce a boy first time. It would take the pressure from us to produce a Kerre heir, but Richard’s only concern was that I should be delivered safely. I tried not to think about that part. It was a long way away yet.
NICHOLS WOKE ME AT two. We were to dine at Southwood House with the most eminent of the guests before the ball, which was, to all intents and purposes, my coming-out ball. Our old rooms were available to us again, should we need them, so I didn’t expect to return home until the small hours.
I’d decided to wear my wedding dress, cerulean blue embroidered in silver, with a white and silver petticoat. Nichols brought it in and laid it on the bed, then crossed to the dressing table to attend to me. Her helper was with her, a young, keen housemaid, wishing to be a lady’s maid one day. Much as Susan Jackson was reputed to be to Julia Drury.
I leaned back in my chair and watched Nichols dress my hair, which she did with great swiftness and skill. We went into the little powder-closet and I suffered the powdering well enough, only sneezing a couple of times, then I could return to the bedroom. I hated powder, it was so messy and it didn’t suit my pale skin as well as my own rich, chestnut locks. Perhaps I would be glad of the powder when I became old and grey, if the hair I ended up with was an unbecoming shade.
I stood in my stays and under-petticoat and they fastened the side hoops about my waist. When the maid made as if to undo my stay laces to tighten them, Nichols stopped her. I thought she was being a little over-anxious, as I wouldn’t begin to significantly increase in size for at least another month but, surrounded by people determined to care for me, I said nothing. They fitted the white lustring petticoat, heavily embroidered in silver and watching the dressing process in the big mirror, I let my mind travel back to my wedding day. Until I saw my lord I’d been terrified of facing all those people I didn’t know but I was sure I was doing the right thing as soon as he clasped my hand in his. The gown had been to a London mantua-maker for a little London bronze but was much the same as it had been that confusing May day.
The stomacher was plain. It was pinned into place, then the maid held the gown up. It was a sacque, the pleats at the back sewn down to the waist, the robings at the front embroidered to match the petticoat. The skirt was embroidered in silver, heavy at the hem, lighter towards the waist, small flowers falling down the skirt, cascading toward the hem. The sacque style had begun as a loose, casual gown worn in the mornings as undress but the pleats at the back had been sewn down for a tight fit and now it had superseded the mantua for almost every occasion.
The maid hooked the stomacher to the front of the gown and Nichols surveyed me critically. She pinned folds that wouldn’t lie straight, pulled the stomacher down to plump my breasts up and arranged the lace at my elbows and neck. When she was finally satisfied she went and fetched the box from the safe in the dressing room which contained the diamonds.
Lady Southwood had the stones recut and set when she came into possession of them but the larger ones were reputed to have been presented to a previous Lord Southwood by Queen Elizabeth for undisclosed favours. They flashed at my neck, set in an elaborate design of flowers. This gown had been made to compliment the design, so I was all flowers this evening. The aigrette for my hair was a new one. The old one had been lost on my wedding day but some of the stones had been recovered and this new one made, the butterfly hovering on its spring above the flower as well as it ever did. There was a bracelet and girandole earrings, not as heavy as most girandoles but still with the extra hook to put over the top of the ear for support.
I applied a little paint to my face and a single patch near my mouth, then I filled my pockets with vinaigrette, necessaire, handker
chief, pencil and writing tablet, slipped on my shoes and I was ready.
The finished effect was a work of art with me held inside, not trapped but safely cocooned. The great lady I saw in the mirror wasn’t me, not the shy, plain, awkward girl from the provinces. This beautifully coiffured, elegant, tall lady in the breathtaking fashionable gown was someone else: a parody of me, someone perfectly used to the luxury and inconvenience of great country houses, who expected the adulation of others. It would be easier to act the part, looking like this. When I moved, my rich, full skirts swished and rustled invitingly.
Nichols handed me my fan and I went downstairs to find my husband.
He wore his wedding-suit, white velvet embroidered with silver and looked like some creature fashioned from ice straight out of ancient mythology. I caught my breath. The last time I’d seen that coat it had been liberally bedaubed with my blood and I’d been sure that I would never see it again. Smiling, he told me, “I had the front and sleeve remade. I thought you’d like it and it seemed appropriate, since I knew you would be wearing your wedding gown.”
He held out his hand and I went forward and took it. “You must know you look beautiful.”
I smiled. “The woman in these clothes looks well but I keep thinking there’s someone left discarded upstairs.”
“It’s all you. And this is your evening.”
We went out to where the carriage was waiting for us and made our way to Piccadilly. It was too early for a crush outside but the roads were busy with the carriages of the people who had been invited for dinner.
Lady Southwood complimented me on my appearance, so I must have done something right. Despite my reservations about her character, I had to admit that she was a woman of exquisite and demanding taste. She led me in and I was happy to see the party had arrived from Hareton House. Only the family was there, as the Skerrits and Miss Terry would arrive later. When I saw Martha, dressed as grandly as I had ever seen her, I remembered the practical, kindly, motherly lady who tried so hard to ease my failure in Devonshire society. She was always the same, would never change.
James, standing next to her, suited this society. His tall, broad figure looked well in fashionable dress. At home he’d spent his days visiting tenants, riding to hounds and attending to business and he didn’t intend that his new status would change that overmuch. He was my rock, my strength, a tacit comfort and support. Ian was still conspicuous by his absence. He’d had a sickly childhood and he still used that excuse for anything he didn’t want to attend, so he remained at Oxford with his books and his scholarly friends. I didn’t mind because I knew and loved Ian enough to know he would have hated this.
Lizzie and Ruth had reached out and taken fashionable society with both hands. Ruth looked lovely and Lizzie was ravishing.
So there we were, on the night when I would be presented to society, the beautiful Golightly sisters, two years ago unregarded members of a small community, now the toast of fashionable society. It was foolish beyond permission.
Richard was by my side, attending to my needs, making sure I was given the respect he thought I was due. If he’d been a yeoman farmer, I would have loved him the same but I nearly laughed out loud at the thought. He was what he was and I loved him. Unobtrusively he made sure I was seated comfortably and it must have been obvious to everybody present that if we had quarrelled before, we were in perfect accord now.
I sat next to the Duke of Newcastle at dinner. He and his brother were the main powers in Parliament at present. Their main rival, Mr. Pitt, wasn’t present but had been invited later. I was a little intimidated by the duke’s presence at first, but he was kind and Richard was near, sitting opposite.
The first thing Lady Southwood did was make sure that everyone knew of my condition, by asking a deliberately pointed question about my health, then, when I said I was perfectly well, announcing with a beaming expression, “Of course, ladies often are well at this time. I’m glad you are, my dear. When I was expecting, I’m afraid I was in poor health but you seem to be coping with it excellently.”
“I’m not ill,” I protested but everyone at that end of the long table congratulated me, then the news rippled down, so I became the centre of attention. I blushed but smiled and accepted the congratulations. Richard watched me, a slight smile quirking his mouth at the corners but saying little.
“I must say I never thought I’d see the day, Strang.” The duke’s words boomed across the table. “Perhaps now you’ve settled down, you’ll take more of an interest in matters of importance.”
“Such as?” Richard lifted his wineglass to his lips and sipped delicately.
“The affairs of the day. It seems war may be unavoidable, though we will do our best—what do you think about that, hey?” The duke moved a little so that the footman could take his glass to be refilled—the man took up a great deal of space. His brother, Lord Henry Pelham, sitting farther down the table, watching with interest. Pelham was the brains, and the leader of the Commons, but the duke matched him perfectly, adding pomp and influence to the mix.
“What I think seems immaterial, sir,” said Richard. “It isn’t something I can do anything about.”
The duke wasn’t so easily put off. “But you could, if you wished it. Now you’ve abandoned fripperies, you’ll have more time for such matters. You father must have a convenient seat you can take and if he hasn’t, I have.”
“Fripperies remain a great interest of mine. And I have no wish to enter Parliament. At least, not at this time. Have you spoken to my brother?”
The duke glanced at Gervase. Conversation began to buzz again. It was evident that Richard’s sunny mood extended to the guests. He was no admirer of the Duke of Newcastle. “I have,” said the duke. “We’re still talking.”
Gervase appeared to be concentrating on his conversation with the lady on the side furthest from the duke but, I would guess, with one ear trained on the conversation between Richard and Newcastle. “I’m nobody’s man.” Richard turned his half-full wineglass slowly round on its base on the white tablecloth. The wine cast a pale shimmer, reflected through the glass by the candles which sent the expensive scent of burning beeswax into the air to mingle with the perfumes of the guests and the smell of the food. “I study each issue on its own terms, then make decisions based on the merits of each case.”
“You’ve studied political philosophy? Locke, Doria?”
“And Machiavelli, Ficino and St. Thomas Aquinas,” Richard reminded him. “No theory seems to encompass the whole. Each has its merits.”
“That could be seen as a philosophy on its own.”
“I daresay it could, sir.”
There was a pause, while the duke passed a dish of buttered carrots I didn’t really want and Richard finished his wine and returned his attention to the food on his plate. But Newcastle wasn’t about to give up. “So you’re not decided, sir?”
Richard smiled gently. “Not yet.”
“But you run something—which gives you a certain amount of personal power.”
Richard frowned then. The reference to Thompson’s was unwelcome, especially in such a public place. “You must have been misinformed.”
“I think not.”
Pelham frowned at his brother and, with a courtly gesture, his elder brother waved him away. The more astute Pelham probably realised this was not the best way to get the hidden power of Thompson’s on his side. Richard was far more likely to respond favourably if approached in private. He blocked all Newcastle’s attempts to draw him out on the subject. “What little power I have rests entirely with my father’s interests. I can claim nothing else.” But the duke and his brother knew better. Like the Fieldings, they were anxious to gain access to the espionage network Richard had set up amongst the domestic servants of Europe. If it weren’t illegal, it might be termed a private army. If the politicians listened to the entreaties of the Fieldings and set up a non-military law enforcement organisation, they would have that power for themselve
s. But currently, the thought of setting up a civilian army was a vote-loser, and so not to be thought of. Although I’d wager that, in their beds at night, they did think of it.
The dining room at Southwood House was one of the most spectacular rooms in the building, decorated from floor to ceiling with paintings of mythological figures, all busy about their business. Richard saw me studying one particular figure and laughed to see my puzzlement. “It’s not a flaw in the paint. It’s Daphne turning into a laurel tree. Look to her left. That’s Apollo, catching up with her just too late.”
I looked again and saw Apollo. “The wall is so full of various figures it’s hard to pick out the different stories.” I turned to him, then back at the artistically draped figure on the wall. “You look like Apollo.”
Lady Southwood overheard my remark. “Not altogether unfeasible since he is supposed to be a portrait of Strang’s grandfather.” I was amused, and studied the paintings closer, wondering if I could tease Richard about the activities there. “Many of the figures are supposed to represent the eminent people of the time. The Lord Southwood of King Charles II’s day was a rake, chased anything that ran, they used to say.” I laughed, reminded of Richard’s reputation but I didn’t say anything about it, although I was sorely tempted. “Daphne is a portrait of his wife. He was married to her and ignored her for years, left her in the country. Then she tired of that and came to town and of course the king noticed her and took her for his own.” I was mildly shocked that she could mention this so casually but that was a different time, with different standards.
Richard took a hand in the story. “Then Southwood wanted her back. That’s why he’s shown in that story.”
“But she didn’t turn into a laurel tree.”
“He didn’t get her back until the king died. He treasured her for the rest of her life.”
I thought the story was romantic but Richard saw the other side. “We might have been tall and dark. God knows enough of the aristocracy is, thanks to Old Rowley.” That was a scurrilous nickname King Charles had won, named after the largest stallion in his stables. There was general laughter.
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