Lady Sparrow

by Barbara Metzger

  Marcel stepped back, holding his brush up to match skin tones.

  “We mean him no harm,” Lowell said. “In fact, the lady wishes to help with his schooling and such. He will benefit from her generosity, I assure you.”

  The artist tilted his head, squinting.

  Mina lowered her neckline another fraction of an inch.

  “My sister, she lives in London. Me, I do not pay attention to your English street names. I walk, I find my so-beautiful sister, I walk home. Granmere Radway, she knows those things.”

  “Mrs. Radway is in Bath,” Lowell almost shouted. Then he lowered his voice, recalling he was supposed to be the cool-headed detective. “Perhaps if we drove you in my carriage, you could direct us.”

  Marcel nodded. “But of course. Next week, when my masterpiece, she is completed.”

  Mina started to tuck her lace collar back.

  Marcel slammed his palette down on the worktable next to his easel. Two brushes, a cigarillo, and a shriveled sausage rolled onto the floor. “I knew this was the bad idea. How can I think with all this stupid noise?” He stomped over to a stack of leaning paintings, some framed, some not quite completed, and pulled one out. He took Mina’s portrait off the easel and replaced it with the larger canvas. “Here. Here is my sister. Now go, monsieur. Even an imbécile could find her in London.”

  Mina got up to look at the painting. She saw a beautiful auburn-haired woman who held herself gracefully, in a dancer’s pose. She held her feathered fan . . . strategically. Marcel’s sister wore nothing but another feather, this one in her hair. Mina’s cheeks turned scarlet and she gaped. All she could think to say was: “You do not look much like her, do you?”

  Marcel shrugged. “Belle is my half sister only. She looks like our sainted mother. I take after my father.”

  Lowell was staring at the painting. “My word,” he exclaimed, “that’s La Paloma, the Dove. She’s the highest-paid—”

  “Dancer,” Marcel supplied. “In all of London. Belle Palombe. Our mother was the premier ballerina in all of Europe. Belle dances in her footsteps. My genius leads me in other directions, no?”

  Mina could not believe his genius led him to paint his own sister that way. Even if she was his half sister and a ballet dancer. Some of her shock must have shown on her face, for Marcel shrugged again and said, “She brings her wealthy lovers here to commission her portrait. We both make the profit, no?”

  “Her wealthy lovers? You mean she is a—?” Mina turned to Lowell. “And you know her?”

  The tips of his ears turned red. “Ah, by reputation only.”

  “Hah! That is not what Belle says.”

  The world was soon to be short one genius. “I have met the young lady,” Lowell admitted, “at parties and such.”

  “But you do know her address?” the iceberg that used to be Lady Sparrowdale asked him.

  It was Marcel who told her, “Cherie, you would not want a man who did not know my sister’s direction.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “I am too going.”

  “No, you are not.”

  “I am.”

  “It is no place for a lady.”

  “It is no place for a little boy. I shall not leave Peregrine one minute longer with a courtesan.”

  “Do you remember discreet inquiries? How discreet do you think it will be when the scandal sheets broadcast Lady Sparrowdale’s visit to the Dove’s love nest? You hired me to transact such business for you.”

  “Then I am dismissing you.”

  “I’ll go anyway.”

  “So shall I, if you will not take me.”

  “You do not know where.”

  “Half the gentlemen in your mother’s parlor must know where, it seems. I shall ask one of them.”

  “And bid farewell to your reputation as a lady.”

  “When are you going to understand that I am no lady? I was born a cit, and I remain one, thanks to the shipyard that pays your salary. Paid.”

  “You are a countess, dash it!”

  “I might be nothing more than wife to a man who once was an assistant foreman at that shipworks. Heaven knows what Ninian Rourke does now, since he lost his position when we eloped.”

  “You are a lady. If you married a miner or a mercer or . . . or Marcel, heaven forfend, you would still be a lady. Where it matters.”

  And if she wed a private investigator?

  “I am going.”

  “No, you are not.”

  Neither of them was going, not that day. Marcel had insisted that the countess remain in the studio as long as there was light, and now they had to get ready for Her Grace’s dinner party. Mina would need at least an hour to scrub away the paint and the charcoal and the smell of turpentine, before donning her best black evening gown, her pearls, and . . . one feather in her hair.

  Lord Lowell needed that hour to buy her flowers, to change his mother’s seating arrangements, and to find out the name of La Paloma’s current protector. A chap with glasses learned to be cautious about calling on a stranger’s mistress. Half the gentlemen at White’s were more jealous over their ladybirds than they were over their wives.

  Harkness would know who currently paid the rent on the Dove’s Garson Street house, or he could find out in an instant. Unfortunately, both butlers were enlisted tonight to serve the company.

  Lowell intended to go to Marcel’s sister’s house this evening, nevertheless, after his mother’s dinner party, while Lady Sparrow was snug in her bed. He could have the boy back here before she came down to breakfast, all rosy from sleep and grateful to him for fetching Perry without jeopardizing her reputation. It was about time he earned his fee—and Minerva’s respect. He might be a mere second son and a professional man besides, but he swore to prove to the countess that he was not absolutely worthless.

  So he tossed out four neckcloths before getting one right.

  Almost everyone was pleased with the duchess’s dinner. The food was superb, the service was meticulous, the conversation was sparkling.

  Except at one end of the long table.

  Roderick had come with the Duke of Westcott’s party, and had fully intended on impressing the duke and his daughter, Lady Millicent. To that end, his shirt points reached his ears, his neckcloth reached his chin, and his waistcoat reached new heights of fashion, covered as it was with fire-breathing dragons embroidered in silk. His carnelian coat had matching flame-colored lining, and he wore a red rose in his buttonhole, and red-heeled shoes. He did sport a black armband, in memory of his uncle. And a black look, in memory of Minerva’s machinations.

  As second-highest-ranking gentleman, Roderick should have escorted Lady Millicent into the dining room, while her father led in their hostess. Roderick should have sat beside the heiress, filling her ear with sweet pleasantries during the long, many-coursed meal. Instead, Duchess Mersford, with Minerva’s contrivance, Roderick was certain, had unearthed a widowed marchioness who took precedence over the duke’s daughter, and who took his arm. Lady Pomfrey was seventy if she was a day, used an ear trumpet, and smelled of camphor.

  When he had tried to protest, Her Grace had rapped him with her fan—doing heaven knew what damage to the padded shoulders of his tailed coat. “Lady Pomfrey knows everyone, Sparrowdale. She will be good for your career.”

  “My career?” Roderick was a gentleman. Unlike others he could name, but would not, for fear of insulting his hostess, he did not work.

  “Why, your career as a toadeater, of course.” The duchess was obviously not afraid of insulting anyone. Why should she be, with a silver-haired duke at her right hand? At Roderick’s right hand was a deaf old lady who kept poking him with her knife to get his attention. Across the table, out of the bounds of polite conversation, sat Lady Millicent, giggling and blushing and batting her golden eyelashes at the youngest Mersford male, Lieutenant Andrew Merrison. The officer’s scarlet regimentals and gold braid put Roderick’s ensemble in the shade, and those shoulders needed n
o buckram wadding either, Roderick supposed, almost choking on his turbot in oyster sauce. They were old childhood friends, the duchess had announced as she paired them off for dinner, with a great deal of catching up to do. What was the lieutenant going to do, Roderick wondered—show Lady Millicent his tin soldiers?

  The paper-skulled soldier seemed to be showing her his cursed dimple and white teeth a lot. Of course. Why wouldn’t he be trying to reestablish himself in the young lady’s affections? Dash it, Roderick’s chosen wife was a frothy soufflé in white lace and ruffles, with gold curls, a rosebud mouth, and thirty thousand pounds. No man worth his salt could ignore the opportunity.

  “What’s that? Salt on the asparagus? Never.” Lady Pomfrey stabbed him with her fork this time.

  Further down the table, after a number of society’s leading lights and lions, sat Minerva’s dunderheaded Cousin Dorcas, an addlepate if Roderick ever saw one, but an Albright for all that. Her partner was the solicitor, Sizemore. He no more belonged in such elevated company than . . . than Minerva herself, a merchant mogul’s gel who’d climbed her way into Her Grace’s good graces. The shrew likely had more blunt than anyone else at the table, too. There was no way he could get his hands on the widow’s wealth, and he seemed to be losing his chance at the duke’s daughter’s dowry. Damnation. Roderick’s veal vol-au-vents tasted vile.

  He did not trust his uncle’s widow, nor that stuffed-shirt solicitor of hers, who was always nattering on about duties and responsibilities. If the man was so responsible, why was he not in his office drawing up those guardianship papers? Roderick wanted the matter settled, that blind brat in Minerva’s hands, and her out of his hair. For that matter, why was Roderick’s own butler waiting on table at Merrison House? Harkness ought to be at Sparrows Nest, making certain the other servants were not making inroads on Roderick’s inheritance while Lieutenant Merrison was inveigling his intended.

  His stomach protested the braised partridges. At least Lady Pomfrey was too deaf to hear.

  Confound it, nothing had gone right since Minerva had come to Town. Now his tailor was dunning him for funds he did not have, the cents-per-centers were calling in his vouchers, and he could not return to his old haunts and habits. He could not keep preying on those green-as-grass fools who came to London with their heads full of dreams and their pockets full of gold, not if he wanted to make an advantageous match. Want to? Hell, he needed to, or having an earldom was worth tuppence. He would never have the power that went with the title if he did not have influential connections.

  What he had was a cabbagehead who could not shoot straight, a thief who decided it was easier to light a fire than steal a folder from an orphanage. The dolt had not bothered to tell Roderick he could not read! Now Harry the Hammer wanted his money, his payment, his share of—nothing. Roderick did not have the blunt. He had dyspepsia.

  Swallowing bile, he studied his nemesis, his aunt-by-marriage. Too bad an alliance between them was illegal. He’d take her away and marry her—a man had ways to convince a feather-weighted woman to do his bidding—and then he’d never have to worry about her testifying against him in court, dragging those bastards out of the woodwork, or bankrupting the shipyard. He’d have enough brass to buy himself a place by Prinny’s side, by Jupiter.

  Instead, by Minerva’s side, at the foot of the table, sat their host, Lord Lowell. By the looks of things, the meddling Merrison would likely get all of Malachy Caldwell’s gold before he was dead a year. Mousy little Minerva was looking better these days, too, so the lucky dog would be getting a real bargain for his efforts. Too bad he couldn’t see half the advantages through those bottle-bottom spectacles.

  Too bad the syllabub tasted like sawdust. It was Roderick’s favorite dessert.

  By the time dinner was over and the ladies had withdrawn, Roderick had drunk his indigestion into submission. He nursed his port, and his resentment.

  “I say, Lolly, are you working on any interesting cases now?” Andrew asked his brother.

  Lowell smiled. “A good detective never tells.”

  “No? I thought the widow might have hired you. You and Lady Sparrow seemed thick as inkle weavers during the meal.”

  He’d been dismissed. Lowell smiled wider. “That would be pleasure, not work.”

  “Not much pleasure, according to my uncle,” Roderick said, slurring his words. “But I don’t s’pose it matters if the bride’s as cold as a witch’s backside, when you’re hanging out for a rich wife.”

  The other gentlemen set their glasses down and conversation ceased until Westcott cleared his throat. “I do not suggest you speak that way about my daughter, sirrah, or any female, when you hang out for another rich man’s daughter.”

  Andrew looked uncertainly between his brother and the man who had so crudely described Lolly’s lady friend. Lady Sparrow seemed a good sort, and she was his mother’s houseguest besides. The lieutenant was ready to call the cad out, in his brother’s name.

  Lowell was too far away to toss his wine in the dastard’s face, but he was going to toss him out of his house, by George.

  Harkness took care of the matter with a pitcher of water. “Oh, I am sorry, Lord Sparrowdale. I thought your waistcoat was on fire. All those fire-breathing dragons, you know.” The butler was so upset about mistakenly dousing the earl that he dropped the heavy pitcher, too.

  On his way out, half-carried between Harkness and a strong footman, Roderick spotted Mina. She had gone to fetch Cousin Dorcas’s lacework and was crossing the hall to the music room where Lady Millicent was going to entertain them.

  “I hold you responsible for this, dash it,” Roderick yelled. “And do not think you can get away with it. I’ll have that blind cub put in an asylum, see if I don’t.”

  “Actually, Roderick, I do not think you can. Mr. Sizemore sent a messenger to Mersford, and the duke has agreed to become Martin’s guardian.”

  Lowell had suggested bringing out the heavy artillery in light of Roderick’s threats, and Mina had agreed. What good were rank, power, and prestige if they could not protect a little boy?

  Unfortunately, with Roderick in a frenzy, it was even more imperative now to protect the others. Mina would go to La Paloma’s house this evening, as soon as the rest of the company left. Harkness had told her the address.

  “I am going.”

  “No, you are not!”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Ladies did not acknowledge the existence of high flyers such as Belle Palombe, La Paloma. They certainly did not visit them, not even after midnight when protective darkness shielded them from the curious eyes of society.

  Ladies, single, married, or widowed, did not ride alone in closed carriages with gentlemen, especially after midnight, when seductive shadows bred temptation. They took their chaperones or their mothers or their maids.

  Mina took her butler. A maidservant might have spoken to her friends. Harkness never would. Besides, no abigail was going to make this visit acceptable. They kept the curtains drawn, and Mina wore a veiled black bonnet.

  Harkness sat across from Mina and Lord Lowell, more referee than duenna. When they finally reached Garson Street, he settled the argument almost as expeditiously as he’d stifled Roderick. He simply got out of the coach before either of them.

  “I have no reputation to protect,” he said, “and will not be challenged for, ahem, hunting on another gentleman’s preserves. Therefore, I shall be the one to inquire after young Radway and bring him out to the carriage. This is not what we are accustomed to, but what is one more urchin, after all?”

  He shut the door before they could follow.

  While they were waiting, the carriage seemed to grow smaller and darker, a private world that was already breaking a hundred rules. What was one more, after all? So Lowell said he was sorry, pulled the countess into his arms, and kissed her. He would have stopped on the instant, had she protested. The fact that she did not, that she came so sweetly and so will
ingly into his embrace, meant he could never stop, or he’d expire on the spot. Instead, he felt more alive than he had ever been, burning hotter than Roderick’s fire-dragons. “I am sorry,” he whispered again, tasting her lips with his tongue until they opened.

  Mina did not know if he was sorry they’d argued, or sorry he could not help kissing her. She did not care. She was only sorry when he moved away.

  All Lowell was doing was removing his spectacles. And her bonnet. And a few hairpins. He had to run his fingers through those long brown tresses the way Marcel had. He had to touch the flesh the artist had uncovered. He had to—open the door when Harkness rapped on the covered window.

  Heavens, Mina thought, how could she have forgotten about Perry? Lowell stole her senses, that was how. He was a man, with his masculine urges, so he could be forgiven his dereliction of duty—or was he still fired?—but she should have known better. Thank goodness the carriage lanterns cast so little light on the interior. And thank goodness Harkness was talking to the driver before getting inside. She stuffed her bonnet back on her head and tucked her hair under its brim.

  Harkness did not have good news. According to the housekeeper, the Dove had flown the coop. She and her current gentleman had left last week for his cottage in Richmond. She had, moreover, taken along her new young page, although the lad was still feeling poorly.

  “Richmond is not far away,” Lowell told her. “We can make a day of it, bring a picnic luncheon.”

  Mina tried to sound pleased instead of despondent. “We could bring the children, I suppose, and the dog. I would wager that Martin has never been to the countryside.”

  Harkness harumphed something that sounded very much like “A handful of orphans will not be chaperon enough.”

  “What was that, Harkness?”

  “I said, madam, I will speak to Cook about a hamper.”