by Louise Allen
‘Miss Haddon.’
‘Mrs Willets.’ Lina smiled. Perhaps she could mend bridges a little now it was obvious that Quinn’s arrival had not resulted in scandalous behaviour to rock the neighbourhood.
‘A word with you, if you please. Anna, June, carry on home without me.’ Lina found herself marched around the corner of the shop and into the mouth of a sheltered alleyway. ‘Miss Haddon, I must ask that you do not approach either my daughters or myself, now that you have seen fit to associate with the new Lord Dreycott.’
‘Associate? Mrs Willets, his late lordship had taken me into his home. By remaining there, as I am entitled under the terms of his will, I am not associating with his great-nephew, if by that you mean engaging in immoral behaviour.’
‘It most certainly is what I mean. You are residing in the same house as a notorious libertine and with no chaperon.’ Mrs Willets was pink in the face, her voice strident with righteous indignation. ‘How you had the effrontery to introduce him to the congregation last Sunday, I cannot imagine.’
‘As I have an entirely clear conscience with respect to Lord Dreycott, and as he is now a notable member of local society, I saw it as my duty,’ Lina retorted. Her conscience was clear—she had refused Quinn’s advances and her inner desires were no business of anyone else.
‘Your duty? Hah! Well, I see it as my duty to protect the respectable women and girls of this parish, Miss Haddon, and I can tell you that you are not welcome here, you Jezebel.’
‘What will you do, Mrs Willets? Have me stoned in the village street? Your assumptions say more about your own mind and lack of charity than they do my morals. Good day to you.’
Lina drew her skirts to one side and swept past the affronted matron and into the shop. ‘Good morning, Mr Lucas. Have you any broad blue satin ribbon?’
For a moment she thought he was going to refuse to serve her, then the shopkeeper pulled open a drawer and laid it on the counter. He might have turned his back on Lord Dreycott in the churchyard, but a substantial part of his income came from the Park and she suspected he was not going to risk losing it, even if the squire’s wife disapproved.
Lina untied her bonnet and took it off so she could match the lining with the ribbons in the drawer and replace the frayed ones that trimmed it now. One looked perfect and she took it out and went to the door with it to hold it against the bonnet in the better light.
Mrs Willets glared at her from the other side of the street where she was talking to one of her bosom bows. Presumably taking one’s bonnet off in public was a further sign of depravity. Chin up, she went and bought two yards of the blue satin and the sealing wax Trimble had asked for. Mr Lucas made up the parcel and she paid cash and went out with it, ignoring the staring women.
It took the gloss off the lovely morning, she thought as she walked back between the gate lodges and along the carriage road through the park. The thought of six months in hiding in a village where she was now shunned was not a pleasant one, although she supposed she could go to church and do her shopping in the nearby towns of Cromer or Holt.
If she could only find out what was happening in London. Was Aunt Clara better or worse? Had she found anyone to help clear Lina’s name? Then the idea came to her. Mrs Golding, the cook at The Blue Door, lived out, at her daughter’s house off the Strand. She could read, she was devoted to her employer and had always been friendly with Lina. A letter to her, enclosing one for Aunt Clara, could be delivered without anyone else being any the wiser.
Now she had the idea, she could not wait. Lina ran; her bonnet blew off and hung down her back and her hair began to come down, but she did not care. Breathless, she arrived at the front door just as it opened and Quinn came out.
She beamed at him and he smiled back, then took her round the waist with his bandaged hands and lifted her, laughing up at her flushed and excited face. ‘Put me down,’ she gasped, still laughing, but he merely turned on his heel so she was spun round in a circle, hair flying.
‘You look as though you lost a farthing and found a guinea,’ he teased, coming to a halt at last and lowering her until her feet touched the ground.
‘I am going to write a letter.’ Lina felt the laughter gradually ebb away to be replaced by a feeling she could not understand. She felt a little breathless, rather serious, almost apprehensive. And yet it was not an unpleasant sensation. Quinn must have seen something in her face, for he sobered, too, moving closer, his hands still at her waist, his gaze steady on her face.
Then he blinked and dipped his head to deliver a rapid kiss on her parted lips. ‘What am I thinking of, standing looking at a beautiful woman and not trying to kiss her? I must be losing my touch.’ But his tone was at odds with his serious face and the slight frown between the dark, straight brows. And then he released her and strode off towards the stables, leaving Lina on the steps, her fingertips pressed to her lips, her pulse racing.
There was no writing paper in her room, so she went to the study once she had restored her windswept appearance to normality and made sure her scarf hid the red marks on her neck. The door was not locked, so she assumed there would be nothing on view that Quinn wanted to keep private, but she was taken aback by the piles of papers on every surface.
It was all neatly ordered, docketed with coloured slips tucked in here and there, and she glanced at the piles, curious to see what it all was. Blue slips, she realised after a few minutes, related to old Simon’s memoirs and a small stack of papers covered in a strong, neat black hand sat next to a far larger one, many of the pages yellowing and the handwriting thinner and more sprawling.
Other piles with green slips related to the estate and finally there was a smaller section with red labels. Ottoman Court; trade and shipping; religious ritual; harems and the position of women, Lina read as she walked along the trestles, peering at the work. Quinn Ashley was organised, knowledgeable and very hard working, she realised when she had walked right around the room.
She sat at the desk and drew a clean sheet of paper towards her, but it was a moment before she dipped the pen in the inkwell. She had dismissed Quinn as a dilettante, a seeker after sensation and Eastern luxury, and he was nothing of the kind. He had been right when he had said that he had many facets and she wondered now if she understood him at all. Which was the true Quinn Ashley? The ruthless rake who happened also to be a scholar and a traveller, or the scholar who enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh and thought it hypocrisy to pretend that he did not?
And what does it matter to me? she thought, dipping the quill with sudden decision. He is not so unprincipled that he will force me and if I become uncomfortable, why, then I will have to be firm with him and keep one of the maids with me at all times.
She sealed her letters, one within the other, using the wafers from the box on the desk. Was that secure enough? There was wax and a heavy old seal, which, when she looked at it, did not resemble the Dreycott coat of arms. That would give no clue if the letter was intercepted. She melted two blobs of wax and pressed the seal into them, then went to ask Trimble to have one of the grooms bring a gig round. She would have him drive her into Holt, not Cromer, which was closer, and then she could post her letter at a safe distance. Soon, she prayed, she would have news.
Four days passed uneventfully. Without Gregor’s assistance Quinn spent longer in the library and Lina, with his blessing, threw out all the most motheaten and disintegrating stuffed specimens. The chemicals were packed up and dispatched to the nearest pharmacist’s shop for safe disposal after Quinn’s cautious investigations had revealed arsenic, antimony and sinister purple compounds. They went to church on Sunday and were comprehensively cut.
Gregor wrote reporting that both houses were in good order, a section that Quinn read out at breakfast. He then read the rest of the letter to himself, grinning in a way that led Lina to the conclusion that Gregor had been exploring London’s pleasures with enthusiasm.
There was no letter for Lina. Perhaps, she consoled herself,
there was much to report and Aunt Clara was writing at length, but by the fifth day following the one when she had posted the letter, she was finding it hard to keep her spirits up, and Quinn noticed.
Teasing failed to raise a smile; she responded to outrageous flirting by snapping at him and she was so distracted that once or twice she was halfway downstairs before she remembered to run back and wrap a scarf around the fading marks on her neck.
‘His lordship’s compliments, and would you join him for tea in the study, Miss Haddon.’ Lina looked up from her sewing to find Trimble in the doorway and managed a smile for the butler.
‘Thank you, yes, I will.’ That was new; perhaps he wanted help with the papers, she mused, folding the sheet and following Trimble out.
She poured tea, cut cake and produced at least three intelligent questions about the progress of the memoirs. She thought she was doing rather well until Quinn said, ‘What is wrong? You were so happy a few days ago. Is it your sisters? Was the letter to them?’
‘No.’ Lina shook her head, touched that he had even remembered about Meg and Bella. ‘Nothing to do with them. I am just rather low in my spirits, that is all.’
‘I am sorry—’ Quinn broke off at the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel outside. ‘We have a visitor.’ He went and opened the study door a crack. ‘Let us see if we want to be At Home or not.’
Trimble could be heard greeting someone and from his voice it was not someone he knew. ‘I will ascertain if his lordship is receiving. Who should I say is calling?’
There was a deep rumble, then, quite clearly, ‘…from Bow Street. My warrant…’
Lina dropped the cake slice with a clatter as she stumbled to her feet. Quinn swung round from the door, closed it and strode across the room to catch her arm. ‘Do not faint on me! Are they here for you?’
She nodded, her mouth too dry to even whisper yes. There was nowhere to escape to, not with Quinn’s hand hard on her forearm, the Runner on the doorstep.
‘Behind that screen.’ He jerked his head towards the back of the room and the battered old folding screen of tooled Toledo leather that he had pinned maps and lists to. As she stood there staring at him, he grabbed his cup, saucer and plate and shut them in a drawer, then moved to the small table she had been sitting at and sank into the deep armchair. ‘Go.’
‘Thank you,’ Lina whispered. ‘Oh, thank you.’
He shook his head at her, his face grim. The door began to open and she ran.
‘My lord, a person is here from Bow Street,’ Trimble said as she huddled into the corner, her skirts drawn tight around her legs.
‘Never tell me Gregor has got himself arrested?’ Quinn said. His voice had the deep, amused drawl that, she was learning, could hide quite different emotions.
‘I could not say, my lord.’
‘Show him in, then.’
‘My lord.’ The voice was middle-aged, confident, with a pronounced London accent. Lina resisted the temptation to peer through the join in the screen.
‘Have a seat.’ Quinn’s tone was affable but with an undertone that suggested that if this was a wild goose chase he would not appreciate being troubled. ‘What can I do for you—’ there was a rustle of papers ‘—Inchbold?’
‘Is there a young female residing here, my lord?’
‘Several. Six maids—house and kitchen, a brace of laundry maids—then there’s the outside staff—a poultry girl, dairy maid—’
‘I mean a female who can pass herself off as a lady,’ Inchbold said. ‘Mid-twenties, blonde hair, blue eyes. Pretty thing by all accounts—see, my lord, there’s a sketch.’
‘Why, certainly, there’s a resemblance to the young lady who resides here with me, I suppose,’ Quinn acknowledged readily, after a moment when he must have been studying the picture. Lina bit on her clenched fist to stifle her gasp of alarm. He was going to betray her. She was trapped in this tight corner… ‘But why do you ask?’
‘This female is wanted for a capital crime, my lord. The theft of the Tolhurst Sapphire from the just-dead body of Sir Humphrey himself. For all we know, she murdered him, too, although it looks like a seizure. The theft alone is a hanging matter, my lord.’
‘Good God.’ In the silence that followed Quinn’s exclamation, Lina thought the men would hear her heart thudding. She clenched her fingers around the edge of the table she was pressed against in an effort not to slump to the floor in a faint. Through the buzzing in her ears she heard Quinn say, ‘That is serious indeed. You may be assured of my total co-operation, Inchbold.’
Chapter Eleven
Quinn was going to betray her, give her up. She would not weep, she would not struggle, Lina resolved, an awful calm beginning to descend. If nothing else, she could behave with dignity and courage. If they thought her passive, there might be a ghost of a chance of escape later. But the pain of Quinn’s reaction cut like a knife.
‘This female’s name?’ Quinn asked.
‘Celina Shelley, my lord.’
‘Ah, it would seem we have a discrepancy. The young woman living here is Celina Haddon.’
‘False name, my lord,’ the Runner said confidently. ‘You’ll find they’ll do that—change one name, but keep another. Classy bit of stuff, for all that she’s a thief and a whore. Comes from one of the better houses of ill repute, place called The Blue Door near St James’s Palace.’
There was a silence before Quinn said, ‘When and where did the theft take place?’
‘In London, my lord. Sir Humphrey’s house in broad daylight, it was. March fifth of this year.’
‘Unless you can explain to me how a woman might be in two places at once, with the English Channel intervening, then you have the wrong Celina, Inchbold. I’ll agree they are both of the muslin company, but the cunning little madam in my keeping was warming my bed in Calais for most of the fourth of that month.’
‘The information we have is that the young woman here arrived at Dreycott Park alone on the stage, my lord.’
‘That’s right.’ Lina opened her eyes and found she could breathe again. Whatever Quinn was doing, he was not handing her over—at least, not yet. ‘I had urgent business in Calais, but I knew my great-uncle was not in good health, so I sent her on ahead. The little wretch spent the money I gave her for a chaise on a new bonnet, hence the stage.’
‘You sent your mistress to your great-uncle’s home, my lord?’
‘He was not well and I knew she would cheer him up,’ Quinn said laconically. ‘Unfortunately, I had no idea he was as ill as he was and in the event I did not arrive until almost seven weeks later, by which time he had died. I had to go back to Paris from Calais, which delayed me.’
‘She’s got papers to prove who she is, I suppose, my lord?’ Inchbold asked.
‘Shouldn’t think so for a moment.’ Quinn sounded as though he was shrugging. ‘Women like that don’t. No passport, that’s for sure. I put her on a fishing boat belonging to some acquaintances of mine. Why? Are you doubting my word, Inchbold? Or do you think I can’t recognise a woman I’ve been enjoying for weeks?’ The amusement had gone from his voice now to be replaced by the cool anger of a gentleman whose statement was being questioned by a menial.
‘No, no, of course not, my lord. If you say this female was with you—’
‘I said she was travelling from France that day,’ Quinn corrected sharply. ‘It might just be possible she was involved if this event took place in the small hours of the next morning.’
‘Quite, my lord.’ The man was sounding rattled now. ‘No, it was late afternoon. Can I speak to the young woman? For my superiors’ satisfaction, you understand.’
‘Of course. When she gets in. She’s taken a fancy to long country walks for some reason. Come back after dinner, Inchbold, and you can talk all you like.’
‘My lord.’ From the sound of his voice the Runner was on his feet and making for the door. ‘Thank you for your co-operation, my lord.’
There was the sound of
the front door closing, of wheels on the drive. Lina stayed were she was, not at all certain her legs would hold her up. She heard Quinn pull the bell rope and a few moments later the door opened again.
‘Trimble, get Jenks in here at the double. And, Trimble, no member of staff speaks to that Runner, or to any other stranger asking questions, on pain of instant dismissal. Is that clear?’
‘My lord, I will see to it at once.’
Quinn came to stand by the screen. ‘Stay where you are.’ His voice was cold and Lina shivered and obeyed, listening to the sound of Quinn’s booted feet pacing on the boards until there was a tap at the door.
‘Ah, Jenks. That gig that has just left—I want you to follow it, see where it goes and if the driver is joined by anyone else. Don’t let yourself be seen. When you are certain he’s fixed wherever he ends up, come back to me.’
‘My lord. Up to no good, is he? We’ll see about that.’
‘You can come out now,’ Quinn said when the room was silent again. ‘Stay at the back away from the window.’
‘Thank you.’ Lina got as far as one of the hard upright chairs and sat down, shaking. ‘Thank you so much. I thought—’
‘And I thought you were telling me the truth and in fact you are a demi-rep from a St James’s brothel.’ He looked furious as he stood in front of her, hands fisted on his hips. ‘I have just given my word to an officer of the law that you are not here. Now, tell me the truth this time or I’ll have him back here so fast you won’t be able to say hanging cleat.’
‘I did not steal the sapphire. I am not a prostitute.’
‘And you don’t know this brothel, The Blue Door, and you’ve never met this Tolhurst?’
‘I live there.’ Quinn’s eyebrows rose. ‘And I was in his bedchamber when he died. And I did not steal anything.’
‘How did you get here?’