by Лорен Уиллиг
“I don’t believe that there is anything more for you to see here.”
“Certainly not the play,” Charlotte burst out. “I don’t believe anyone is even making a pretense of watching it.”
Deliberately cutting Robert out of the conversation, Sir Francis smiled intimately at her. “Why would they? I’ve seen better acting from the inhabitants of Bedlam.”
It was a rather odd metaphor to pick. It was, Charlotte remembered, Sir Francis who had recommended Dr. Simmons to the Prince of Wales. The real Dr. Simmons, or the false one?
Charlotte was very aware of Robert’s eyes on her as she said, with forced gaiety, “Do you habitually frequent mad hospitals, Sir Francis?”
“Why would I need to when I can find the same entertainment closer to home?” Sir Francis’s gesture encompassed the entirety of their party, saving only Robert, who stood tight-lipped beside them as though unsure whether to intervene.
It might not be so very bad for Robert to have to play chaperone to her and Sir Francis, thought Charlotte, with a pleasure not without malice. Now that they were to be friends. It was all for the good of the King, after all, she reminded herself piously.
“As you know,” said Charlotte, batting her eyes at Sir Francis over her fan, “the taint of madness runs in some of our best families.”
“Some more than others,” contributed Robert flatly, looking straight at Medmenham.
Medmenham acknowledged the point with admirable sangfroid, leaning one elbow on the wrought iron balcony that edged the box. “Do you refer to my cousin or my aunt?”
It had been Medmenham’s aunt, according to Innes, who had employed the services of Dr. Simmons. If Medmenham did have an aunt who had run mad, wouldn’t that imply that Medmenham had meant to recommend the genuine Dr. Simmons? On the other hand, if it was Medmenham who supplied Innes with the story, nothing Medmenham said proved anything at all.
“I believe I may have heard of your aunt . . . ,” hedged Charlotte.
Medmenham smiled lazily. “You would be unusual if you hadn’t.”
“I haven’t,” said Robert tightly.
The others both ignored him. “And your cousin?” Charlotte asked prettily, more to annoy Robert than anything else.
Medmenham’s lips curled with unholy amusement. “There your esteemed kinsman may have a little more knowledge. My cousin was a noted eccentric of his day — and he was good enough to leave me his house.”
Robert made an abrupt movement, but Charlotte rushed in first. “Of course! You mentioned before that you have a very well-known house. Is it anything like Sir Horace Walpole’s Strawberry Hill?” she asked, referring to the famous monument to the Gothic style the author of The Castle of Otranto had erected.
“It has something of the Gothic to it,” drawled Sir Francis. “Wouldn’t you agree, Dovedale?”
“I would not presume to judge,” Robert said stiffly. “My knowledge of . . . architecture is limited.”
“But growing,” said Sir Francis genially. “Under my careful tutelage. I am sure there are many among your friends who would be glad to give a good report to Lady Charlotte of your architectural education.”
Robert’s went as stiff as though Medmenham had threatened rather than complimented him. What were they talking about?
Well pleased with the effect of his words, Medmenham turned back to Charlotte. “Have you ever considered taking up the study of architecture?” he asked caressingly. “I should think that you would have a taste for the . . . picturesque.”
Something in the way he pronounced the last word made Charlotte squirm in her seat. The trail of innuendo beneath his words made her feel vaguely unclean and more than a little bit indignant.
“I have every admiration for a pretty prospect,” said Charlotte, choosing her words carefully. “But not all follies appeal to me. Some are too decadent in their design.”
“You shouldn’t dismiss them until you have sampled them,” Sir Francis said condescendingly. “Although some say one must go to the Continent for a true education, you would be surprised at the number of places of interest buried away in our own English countryside.”
“With Girdings to hand,” said Robert firmly, “I don’t believe Lady Charlotte need look any farther.”
Charlotte had reached the limits of her patience with both of them. While she had no desire to accede to whatever it was that Sir Francis appeared to be offering, she certainly didn’t intend to be cloistered at Girdings merely because the man who repented kissing her decreed it so.
“But Girdings is yours, Cousin Robert,” she said sweetly. “I shall have to look elsewhere eventually.”
Let Robert grapple with that one, she thought defiantly. He and Medmenham weren’t the only ones who could speak in double entendres.
Sir Francis bowed low over Charlotte’s hand. “A loss to Girdings but a gain to the rest of us. I think you should find Medmenham Abbey greatly enlightening, Lady Charlotte, should you care to honor it with your presence.”
“I am quite sure I should,” she murmured demurely.
“If,” said Robert pointedly, “your attendance on the Queen permits it. Since it has such a dampening effect on your social engagements.”
Charlotte lifted her chin, looking him straight in the eye. “That depends on the engagement.”
With the conversation no longer centered on him, Sir Francis Medmenham had had quite enough. “I am afraid,” interjected Medmenham smoothly, “that we have another engagement this evening. Haven’t we, Dovedale?”
Robert twisted abruptly away from Charlotte. “For my sins,” he said, and the words seemed to mean something more to Medmenham than to Charlotte, because he laughed as if at a private joke.
“Not just yours,” he said. “Lady Charlotte.” With a final bow, Medmenham took his leave as carelessly as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. And perhaps it hadn’t.
Charlotte looked to Robert. He was frowning, two lines incised into the space between his eyebrows.
“Tomorrow,” he said heavily, and turned on his heel as though he didn’t trust himself to say anything more. The click of his heels echoed through Charlotte’s ears.
The rest of the party were also taking their leave. Penelope had already been returned to her parents. In the corridor, Charlotte could see Penelope’s mother’s mouth open in one of her endless reproaches, while Penelope yawned behind a hand that emphasized more than concealed the gesture of disrespect.
“Well!” said Henrietta, coming up beside Charlotte on the balcony. “I thought I was going to have to intervene before they went for their pistols.”
“I don’t think they had pistols,” said Charlotte.
“Chairs, then,” said Henrietta, dismissing the choice of weapon as irrelevant. “You always did say you wanted men to duel over you.”
“Not with furniture.” Charlotte regarded her best friend with troubled eyes. “And it would be somewhat more flattering if I were quite sure they were squabbling over me.”
“What else?” asked Henrietta.
Charlotte stared out over the balcony, down over the restless sprinkling of humanity below. The Drury Lane had been waning in popularity ever since the new building had been constructed ten years before; last year, even Mrs. Siddons and the Kembles had deserted the theatre for the more hospitable Covent Garden theatre and no number of ingenious spectacles had contrived to recapture the crowds the theatre had once known. The pit was all but deserted.
“I wish I knew,” Charlotte said, watching an orange seller attempt to wheedle a sale from an unresponsive patron. “It was all very oblique.”
Henrietta’s eyes lit up. “Could it have something to do with the King? If Medmenham was involved in hiring the false doctor . . .”
Charlotte looked up at her in surprise. “How could it? Robert has nothing to do with any of that.”
“Unless,” said Henrietta dramatically, “he does. That would explain why he has spent so much time with tha
t lot,” she said excitedly, warming to her own theory. “What if Dovedale was sent to investigate Medmenham?”
“By whom?” demanded Charlotte. “And all the way from India? No.”
Fortunately, she was spared further protests by Miles, who loomed up over Henrietta’s shoulder like a very large jack-in-the-box. He tapped Henrietta’s shoulder.
“Do you mind if I leave you here?” he asked, all in one breath. He belatedly added, by way of explanation, “Card game.”
Henrietta flapped a hand at him. “Enjoy,” she said.
Miles hovered for a moment. “Are you sure?”
Charlotte angled away, trying to afford them a spot of privacy. Leaning over the balcony, she watched the pattern created by the shifting patrons in the pit, marveling at Henrietta’s ridiculous notion about Robert. She might be prepared to believe many fantastical things, but not that Robert was some sort of — well, some sort of spy. It was too fantastical, even for her. It was true that he was behaving oddly, but there were more than enough explanations for that without bringing in espionage. Henrietta, thought Charlotte complacently, just had espionage on the brain.
It wasn’t surprising. Henrietta’s brother had for years and years confounded the French under the flowery sobriquet of the Purple Gentian. Charlotte had never had terribly much to do with that part of Henrietta’s life. Given the current situation with the King, she rather wished she had. If she had paid more attention to Henrietta’s brother’s tricks and stratagems, perhaps she would have a better idea of how to go about tracking down the identity and origin of the false Dr. Simmons.
Below, in the pit, the unresponsive patron had detached himself from the clinging hands of the orange seller and was beginning to push his way out. Charlotte blinked against the glare of the candles. In profile, he really did look very much like Dr. Simmons. Charlotte made a face at herself. She clearly had Dr. Simmons on her mind; she was starting to see him everywhere, the way Henrietta saw espionage. Without taking her eyes off the pit, Charlotte appropriated Henrietta’s opera glasses. It couldn’t hurt just to check.
“Just leave me the carriage,” Henrietta was saying.
Miles beamed at her. “Done.”
“Hen.” Charlotte tugged on Henrietta’s arm, keeping the opera glasses trained on the dark coat of the moving man.
“Hmm?” said Henrietta, blowing a kiss to Miles as he dashed out the back of the box.
“Hen, look,” Charlotte said urgently, pointing her fan down into the pit. “Down there.”
“Down where?” Henrietta fumbled her opera glasses back from Charlotte.
“The man who just passed the orange seller. Not there. A little more to the right. Do you see? With the bad wig and the lumpy nose?”
“Ye-es.”
“That,” announced Charlotte, “is the false Dr. Simmons.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“It’s a very good thing we kept the carriage then, isn’t it?” said Henrietta, sweeping up out of her chair and pulling Charlotte along behind her.
“Oh, no,” began Charlotte. “We can’t — ”
“It’s the perfect opportunity,” said Henrietta firmly, swinging her cloak over her shoulders and hurrying them both along towards the stairs. Charlotte had just time to grab up her own cloak before following. “We can follow him straight to the people who hired him. My money is still on the Prince of Wales.”
“He might just be going home,” protested Charlotte, catching at her long skirt as they skidded down the stairs.
“That’s nearly as good,” said Henrietta. “If we can find his lodgings, we might be able to find out who he is. And then you can report all to the Queen. Do you see him?” she demanded as they paused breathless outside the theatre.
Snow fell in large, light flakes, creating a pattern like lace on the dark blue velvet of Charlotte’s opera cloak. It had begun to accumulate on the ground, creating a fine layer of gray mush over the cobblestones, while the horses of waiting carriages lifted their hooves in protest and the waiting chairmen shivered at their posts.
“There,” said Charlotte, pointing towards Russell Street, where a line of sedan chairs waited for customers. “There he is.”
Beneath an old-fashioned black hat, the man’s crimped wool wig rested against his shoulders like two drifts of snow. His chin was tucked away as far as it would go into the folds of a long muffler, and a caped greatcoat obscured his clothes. She might not be able to make out his features, but there was something decidedly smug about his movements as he sauntered through the night. He avoided the line of chairs for hire, stopping at a point slightly beyond them.
“Is that a sedan chair he’s getting into?”
Henrietta’s head bumped Charlotte’s as she leaned in for a closer look. “It doesn’t look like a hired one, does it? But the chairmen aren’t wearing livery, either. How odd.” By odd, she clearly meant suspicious. “It’s like hiring an unmarked carriage.”
“How will we find yours?” asked Charlotte.
Cravenly, she almost hoped it would take them too long. Then they could just go back to Loring House and a hot fire. Adventure was all very well and good, but it was frigid cold and the slush was seeping through the fragile fabric of her slippers.
There was no such luck. The carriage was waiting for them right near the entrance to the theatre, one of a line of carriages awaiting the end of the play. Henrietta instructed her coachman to follow the sedan chair at the very end of the row.
“I don’t expect the doctor will go far,” she said to Charlotte, sinking back against the cushioned seat while Charlotte burrowed under a pile of lap rugs. “If he meant to go any distance, wouldn’t he have called for a carriage rather than a sedan chair?”
“Not necessarily,” said Charlotte. There were still streets in London too narrow for a carriage to pass, places where only a sedan chair would do. They were not neighborhoods she usually had occasion to visit.
It was too late to back out now, though. Ahead of them, the chairmen had hoisted their burden, choosing their footing carefully on the snow-slick cobbles. The initial flurry had melted into the ground, but a fine dusting of snow was beginning to stick, not enough to create drifts, but just enough to make walking treacherous. It was, as the saying had it, a night fit for neither man nor beast.
Charlotte felt the familiar quiver as the coachman coaxed the horses into movement, sending the carriage swaying on its narrow wheels. The false doctor had hired a linkboy to light his way. As they edged along a discreet distance behind, the small burst of light winked in and out of the snow like a shooting star reflected through an astronomer’s lens.
Through the shifting snow, Charlotte spotted the old Savoy Palace on the Strand and briefly recognized her surroundings, but then the sedan chair shifted sharply sideways, down a side street, and Charlotte was lost again. All she knew was that they weren’t in Mayfair anymore.
The carriage lumbered deeper and deeper into a tangled warren of streets that seemed to twist and turn in on themselves like the strands of a spider’s web. Charlotte had never actually been to a stew or a rookery, but this was how she imagined one must look, with the upper stories of buildings tilting haphazardly over their bottoms. Any closer, and the carriage wouldn’t be able to pass. As it was, it was a tight fit.
Charlotte was only glad that the weather had prompted the residents to take refuge indoors, behind bolted shutters. She doubted this was a neighborhood in which carriages passed often.
“I suppose conspiracies can’t very well meet in Mayfair,” she said, catching at the side of the seat as the carriage lurched across a rut.
“I don’t see why not. It would be so much more convenient.”
“For us.” Charlotte doubted that was the conspirators’ primary concern. “What if he means to go somewhere the carriage can’t follow?”
Henrietta glanced ruefully at her evening slippers. They were stylish, but not terribly sturdy. “Then we follow on foot.”
Charl
otte looked dubiously out the window. “What if it’s not safe?”
With an air of unnerving competence, Henrietta whipped something out from beneath the seat. “That’s why I keep this in the carriage.”
It was long and metallic and had pretty mother-of-pearl inlay that sparkled in the light of the carriage lamp. Not all the mother-of-pearl in the world, though, could disguise the deadly purpose of the rounded barrel and elegantly curled trigger.
Charlotte instinctively ducked. “Do you know how to use it?”
“Oh, Richard and Miles taught me ages ago.” Henrietta hefted the firearm with a nonchalance that made Charlotte scoot back against the seat. If she could, she would have crawled into the seat, just for the extra padding. “Of course, it has been a while, but it should act just as well as a deterrent without our actually having to fire them.”
“Them?” Charlotte didn’t like the sound of that.
“For you,” said Henrietta benevolently, pressing the twin of her pistol into Charlotte’s hand. “You point. They run. Don’t worry! Yours isn’t loaded.”
The butt of the gun felt very cold, even through Charlotte’s glove, and surprisingly heavy. The weight of it bent her wrist back at an uncomfortable angle.
“Should that make me worry more, or worry less?” she asked, frowning at her firearm. If one was going to deal in the hideous things, one might at least have the use of it.
“I really did just bring them along as a precaution,” Henrietta hastened to reassure her. “I don’t think we’ll have to use them.”
Charlotte regarded the slim piece of steel dubiously. “I hope you’re right.”
Between the decaying buildings, the strong smell of sewage, and the firearm in her hand, this was all beginning to take on just a little too much of the taint of reality. It was all very well to theorize about a bit of ladylike eavesdropping from the comfort of Henrietta’s morning room, but it was another thing entirely to find oneself, at dead of night, in a decidedly dodgy bit of London with a pistol dangling from one hand and a smell one didn’t like to think too much about battering insistently on the windowpanes. In that, at least, the cold was probably a blessing. Charlotte didn’t want to imagine what it would have been like in summer, with people reeling out of tavern doors and the stench of unwashed flesh magnified by the humid air.