“Both!” cried Sybil, dissolving into tears again.
Oh, no! Could this possibly get any worse?
“Tell me how it happened...if we know when they went missing, we might be able to narrow down the possibilities of who might have taken them.” It seemed a vain hope, but she suddenly thought of Wilson, and how he’d once expounded the merits of logic and sequence to solve problems.
“I don’t know... I don’t know... I was reading them when we first arrived, and I was resting after the journey. I was...um...comparing the two, in order to decide which was the naughtiest...and which had made me most daring...” She bit her lip, and seemed about to offer an opinion as to relative merits, but Adela gave her a stern look. “A maid came with some tea, but I hid the letters in my bag then...and I’m sure I saw them a couple of times later, when I was looking for things....”
Adela suppressed a sigh. She didn’t want to get cross, but Sybil could be so vague. “Were they there when you left?”
“I don’t know,” wailed Sybil again. “It was all such a rush... I wanted to catch Algie for a few moments before we set off for the station. They might have been... I don’t know. It wasn’t until just now that I missed them when I looked for them.”
But as Adela considered the problem, it presented a completely perplexing variety of possibilities. There had been servants all around, both the Rayworths’ staff and personal servants of the many guests. Any one of them could have slipped into Sybil’s room at a mealtime, or during an entertainment, and perhaps seen the traveling bag not properly fastened. Not all domestics were as loyal and trustworthy as their Lizzie and Minnie; some might always be on the lookout for things to steal, especially at big parties like the Rayworths’ where it was easier to shake off the blame because nobody quite knew everybody.
It might even have been one of the guests themselves, and one possibility sprang to mind, even though in her heart, she thought it unlikely. Most unlikely.
Even if she was quite certain that Wilson had purloined her portfolio, why in heaven’s name would he steal Sybil’s old love letters?
* * *
BLAIR DEVINE TOYED with the pink ribbon on the little bundle of letters, preparing to untie it and sample the contents. Lord Rayworth’s under house maid—Maisie, or Flossie, or Mary or whatever her name was—had assured him they were sprightly and very incautiously phrased, but one never could tell with housemaids. Sometimes they tried to pull a fast one, and the supposedly risqué and damaging correspondence they handed over was really perfectly innocuous and without value, but in this case he was fairly confident that he’d struck juicy gold.
As a solicitor Blair Devine had seen many incriminating documents in his time, and from the very first, his mind had run on ways he could leverage the sensitivity of such correspondence to his advantage. But it wasn’t until he’d discovered such a bundle as this one, quite by accident, at a house party not unlike the Rayworths’, that he’d turned his hand to the lucrative little matter of blackmail. It had been risibly easy to ever so diffidently suggest himself as a discreet and sympathetic intermediary, a conduit between the victim of the loss, and some completely fabricated villainous blackguard who’d come into possession of the item. And that first sum he’d managed to purloin had been so daring it had set him scheming as to how he might repeat the trick.
Slowly, and with what he thought was admirable guile, he’d built up a network, a secret web of supply and demand. His trusted manservant had sounded out other gentlemen’s gentlemen—men like Edward Foster—in pubs and in the kitchens and servants halls, at social events and house parties. Word was put about, and maids with indiscreet mistresses and little moral conscience were soon coming forward with be-ribboned bundles such as this one.
Other interesting opportunities had presented themselves too. It didn’t have to be rambunctious love letters. Important legal, commercial, even political documents that weren’t kept as safe as they should be started to fall into his hands. He was doing amazingly well for himself, far exceeding his modest income from the law, yet nobody suspected a thing...because nobody liked to admit they’d ever made themselves vulnerable.
And Blair Devine’s reputation for discretion, and an ability to mediate successfully and avoid scandal, was impeccable.
He was perfectly confident that when the time came, that bird-brained nitwit Sybil Ruffington would think that it was all her own idea that he should help her navigate the shoals of her little difficulty regarding lost letters.
14
The Ladies’ Sewing Circle
“And I’m afraid I didn’t get to see the Persian etchings, after all. I never returned to the study after my little contretemps with Wilson.”
It was a relief to be able to tell at least some of her story, and know that it would be received without judgment, and nothing but sympathy.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, my dear,” said Sofia Chamfleur, reaching over to give Adela’s hand a reassuring pat. “Your drawings and sketches are perfect in their own right. You’re an original.... You don’t need to copy others.”
Adela smiled at her friend. They were in the spacious salon of Lady Arabella Southern’s London home, sitting a little way apart from the other members of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle, who were clustered around Lady Arabella herself. As usual, the peeress was telling tall and extremely scandalous tales about her vigorous and somewhat unlikely love life. Among those listening avidly, only one lady, Mrs. Julia Winterbourne, was actually engaged in any needlework, although without much enthusiasm. None of the others were even paying lip service to the faux purpose of their assembly.
The Ladies’ Sewing Circle really gathered to discuss men and scandal and all the juicy details of erotic amours, both their own and of high society in general.
“But I did promise...and some of the subscribers may have been looking forward to my interpretation.” Adela toyed with her coffee cup, then set it aside, without any real interest.
“Think no more about it. Just make something up.... I doubt if anyone will know the difference.” Sofia gave her a shrewd glance. “Now, tell us more about this run-in with your cousin. Do you really think he’s taken your portfolio? Why would he do such a thing?”
Why indeed? Because he could? Because he would never take no for an answer? It was difficult to describe, even to close friends like Sofia, and Beatrice Ritchie, who sat at Adela’s other side, what her relationship with her cousin was really like.
“Because I refused to show him my work. Because I refused to discuss my private life with him.” Nervous, despite her resolve not to allow Wilson to vex her, she pleated a soft fold of her black gown. “Wilson is just one of those men who simply have to have their own way.”
“But you like him very much, don’t you?” said Beatrice Ritchie in a low voice, smiling. Her brilliant green eyes twinkled. Adela was very fond of Beatrice, and had to admit that her friend was fully conversant with the ways of men who had to have their own way. Before her marriage, Mrs. Ritchie had been courted in a highly unorthodox way by her husband...who had paid her a king’s ransom to be his mistress.
“No! I don’t like him at all. He’s an arrogant monster.”
Two sets of elegant eyebrows quirked, Sofia’s dark ones and Beatrice’s, which were auburn like her hair. Adela realized she was obviously protesting too much.
“You desire him, though, don’t you?” said Sofia. “That’s obvious. The way your eyes flash when you talk about him, and a flush rises in your cheeks. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that happen when you speak of any of my ‘boys’...but every time we’ve discussed the subject of your cousin Wilson, you’re all aflutter.”
“Because he thoroughly annoys me.”
“A man can be both annoying and deliciously desirable,” observed Beatrice, “as I well know.”
“Your husband adores you, Bea. He absolutely dotes on you....” This was true. Handsome Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was well known for being the most devoted of h
usbands nowadays. “And Wilson simply despises me as a useless relative and a creature of inferior intellect...although in respect of the latter, that’s his opinion of just about everybody.”
“Well, he’s a famously brilliant man, as we all know, and notably disparaging of society’s foibles, but I’m sure he doesn’t feel that way about you, Adela,” said Sofia, pausing to sip her coffee. “How could anyone think someone as talented as you is useless? If he has your portfolio, surely he recognizes your extraordinary artistic gifts? Even if he is a genius.... The truly great acknowledge greatness in others, too.”
If only it was that straightforward. Wilson did admire her work. He always had done. But the complex twining of their history and their familial relationship made everything that passed between them into a problem. How could cousins so very, very distant be wound up so tightly in complications?
“Oh, he’s always valued my work. It’s just that I don’t think he values me much anymore.”
She had not told her friends everything about her shared past with Wilson. They knew only that he was her cousin, that they didn’t meet socially, except by accident. He was well known, too, as Lord Millingford’s heir, and the beneficiary of his assets in totality because of her grandfather’s hatred of her mother.
“Anymore? But you were once much closer weren’t you?” Beatrice’s eyes were intent. She’d spotted something Adela hadn’t meant to reveal. Both ladies almost imperceptibly leaned in.
“Yes...we were. Occasionally, when we were children, our families met. And one summer, we both holidayed at the same time at Ruffington Hall.” She paused, looking from one companion to the other, then beyond. Across the room, Lady Arabella had clearly said something quite outrageous, because Prudence Enderby was shrieking with laughter and the rest of the group were openmouthed and wide-eyed. Nobody would be interested in smaller revelations at the moment. “I...I did care for Wilson then. In fact, I was completely infatuated. He was—is—such a remarkable and spectacularly brilliant character...and I can’t deny he’s physically attractive.”
“Did something occur?” probed Sofia gently. Her expression was kind, and not at all salacious, as if she sensed that there was sorrow in the tale.
Adela looked away, letting her eyes flit around the handsome room, with its decor both ostentatious and strangely cozy. Arabella Southern had a beautiful home, and this salon was far superior to the one Adela had sat with Wilson in at Rayworth Court. It made the parlor at her own home in Digby Street look like a broom cupboard. It was also far more luxurious than the library at Ruffington Hall, where she’d once cast sheep’s eyes at Wilson, all those years ago.
“Yes, it did. Wilson and I were intimate. He was nineteen, and I was eighteen, and we were both willful and adept at escaping supervision. One day, one thing led to another...and we made love.”
“Oh...”
“Oh, my...”
Both women were too wise, and too worldly, it seemed, to ask why she and Wilson did not immediately become engaged.
“And afterward...we argued, I fled....” Unable to stop herself, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. “And along the path I stood on a broken branch that shot up and hit me in the face.”
“But that wasn’t Wilson’s fault...not really,” said Beatrice, her expression still sympathetic.
“No, the blame was equally divided. I see that now. But at the time we were too young, too proud and too foolish to realize that.” Adela dropped her hand, but somehow, her fingertip still itched to rub at the kink in her nose. “We parted without ever resolving the issue...and have continued not to resolve it to this day.”
“I can see how that might make things uncomfortable for you at Rayworth Court, especially with this more recent difficulty over your grandfather and his bequests.” Sofia gave Adela a level, sensible look. The other woman was not all that much older than Adela, but somehow she suddenly seemed infinitely sage and wise in the world. “But couldn’t you two agree to discuss your situation? Talk like two adults? Come to some resolution...at least between yourselves, if not in respect of the familial difficulties?”
Adela laughed. Suddenly she felt almost giddy. How funny, the idea of her and Wilson sitting down for a rational discussion. The fatal pull of their bodies, and the madness of desire, made it impossible to “just talk” for very long.
“Talking isn’t something that Wilson and I are very good at. When we’re alone together...well, things tend to happen. Reasoned conversation almost never occurs between us.”
“But surely...” began Beatrice, and then she giggled. “Oh, I see. You didn’t get time to talk because...other things happened.”
“Precisely.” Adela shrugged. “I hadn’t seen Wilson for several months, and it was seven years since we were intimate at Ruffington Hall...but within minutes of us finding ourselves alone together I was behaving like an absolute trollop, and Wilson was making the most of the situation. As is his wont.” She thinned her mouth into a hard line, crosser with herself than she could ever be with him. “He was no doubt missing the beauteous Coraline, and the sensual pleasures she afforded him...and so when his cousin offered herself to him on a platter, ever the pragmatist, he sampled the goods as a form of consolation.”
Sofia cocked her head and pursed her lips. “I have a feeling it wasn’t like that at all, Adela. Perhaps his affair with Coraline, and any liaisons he might have enjoyed prior to her, were simply consolation for something...someone else that he’d lost?”
No! That could not be it. Wilson hadn’t lost her, because he hadn’t wanted her in the first place. Other than in the carnal sense, to satisfy his curiosity and to assuage his young man’s lust.
And it had been the same at Rayworth Court. She’d been an answer to his physical frustrations, and perhaps an experiment. An empirical study...to measure whether the responses of the woman were as willing as the girl’s had been.
“No, you’re wrong, Sofia. I’m afraid that other than an occasional object of dalliance, I’m nothing to Wilson other than a trap to be avoided. He knows how much my mother wanted him to marry me, especially after our cousin Henry and his fiancée were killed, and he became heir. But he’s the last man on earth who’d allow himself to be maneuvered like that—” she shrugged “—and as a consequence, I’m the last woman on earth he’d ever want for more than a swift grope or a tumble.”
Both Sofia and Beatrice gave her steady looks. They didn’t believe her. But they didn’t know Wilson as she did.
If only things could have been different. But they aren’t. I’m me. Wilson is Wilson. We’re both too stubborn, and unfortunate circumstances divide us far too much.
She opened her mouth to explain, to expatiate, and try and make them see, but just at that moment, in a swish of silk taffeta, Lady Arabella arrived and, pulling up a chair, leaned toward Adela, her face eager.
“So, what wonders does ‘Isis’ have for us today? Some wicked pastiches of the treasures in that old dog Rayworth’s collection? Or some new, delicious delight, as yet unseen?” Mercifully, the peeress kept her voice hushed. There were newer members of the circle who were not yet quite aware of the depth of the group’s true nature, let alone that one of their number was one of the most notorious erotic artists in the country.
“Nothing, alas...not today,” Adela admitted, wishing she’d had time, and heart, to dash off a few new offerings, at least, with which to amuse her dear friends. “I’m afraid my portfolio was stolen over the weekend, with all my latest work in it.”
Arabella’s eyes widened, and she frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t have thought a stuffy crowd like that would have had any interest in such things.... Surely you were the only liberal-minded guest in attendance?”
“Not the only one, obviously.” Adela sighed.
The peeress reached out and took her hand, her handsome face concerned now. “If there’s anything I can do, Adela, please say the word. There might be some influence one may bring to bear that could help retrieve it for
you?”
“Bless you, Arabella. That’s kind of you.” She stiffened her spine, buoyed up by the support of her friends, even if there was not one thing they could do. “But I know exactly who took the portfolio, and when I leave here I intend to make another call and retrieve it. The person is well known to me, and I will not take no for an answer!”
Adela warmed at the chorus of “bravos” and smiles of encouragement. She would retrieve the portfolio, and this time she’d accept none of Wilson’s nonsense.
But in that case did she still quiver, on the inside, at the prospect?
15
Into the Devil’s Lair
A narrow-eyed manservant with a vaguely protective air led Adela through the ground floor of Wilson’s spacious London home, a rather fine villa in Maltravers Road, in the nicer end of Chelsea. Whether the man disapproved of her or not, she really didn’t care. She was on a mission. But she supposed if that woman had treated his master capriciously, the dour young man perhaps viewed all her sex with an air of suspicion.
It was an odd residence. Used to dwelling in a home full of furniture, knickknacks, photographs and all manner of collected mementos, Adela found the Spartan yet vaguely aesthetic quality of Wilson’s house a surprise. The entrance hall was almost bare, apart from one spindly but elegant table and a narrow mirror, and there were but two simple Japanese prints on the wall. Passing what was clearly a series of electrical light fittings set into the wall, she followed the thin, dark-haired servant as he led her length of the airy hall, then along an equally plainly decorated corridor, to knock on a white painted door at the end of it.
“Come!” called out Wilson’s familiar voice from beyond, and Adela was shown in.
The room she entered could not have been more different.
An immense, glass-ceilinged area, it was a palace of clutter, crammed with a cornucopia of “things” that defied her classification on first glance, and probably still would on closer inspection. It was hard to tell whether she was in a workroom, a study, a conservatory, a day room or a library, or some kind of general space where all the artifacts and possessions that might normally have been spread throughout a house were stored, along with those of a magician, an alchemist and an engineer. And it was all haphazard, scattered about, in a perfect jumble.
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