Keswick would not be hurt when he learned that she and Moncreiffe had ended their betrothal. In fact, he would most likely feel relief, and plan for Moncreiffe to find a bride with more exalted ancestors.
He took his leave of Aunt Hermione in similar fashion, making her giggle and blush like a schoolgirl.
“I declare, you are a very lucky miss, marrying into that family.” Aunt Hermione snapped open her fan and plied it vigorously.
Well, someone would eventually marry into Keswick’s family, but it wouldn’t be her. She had other plans. She couldn’t resist teasing her aunt, though. “Thinking of marrying into it yourself?”
“Oh my, oh dear, no.” She let loose another lilting sound that could only be called a giggle, continuing to fan herself. “No, I’m much too old for such silliness.”
Despite the token protests, Charlotte couldn’t help noticing that her aunt tracked the duke’s progress as Lord Eccleston led him to a small cluster of people near the refreshment table and made introductions.
So, did the wind really blow that way, or was her aunt merely impressed by an impressive package—title, wealth, bearing, and a handsome face? Perhaps something would come as a result of her association with Moncreiffe after all.
She kept an eye open, hoping to see the viscount’s tall frame stride into the ballroom, to no avail. Soon after Keswick left, Aunt Hermione declared an end to the evening, and they departed for home.
Feeling disappointment at not being able to dance with Moncreiffe was ridiculous, considering she’d been wrapped in his coat earlier, and they’d shared much more intimate conversation on the roof than they would have been able to in a dance.
But now that she knew what it felt like for him to hold her, she couldn’t help wishing he’d do it again. Soon.
Steven was at the breakfast table when Charlotte came downstairs late the next morning. Aunt Hermione had already eaten and was ensconced in the salon, catching up on her correspondence, safely out of earshot.
Charlotte allowed the footman to fill her plate and teacup before excusing him from the room.
Steven watched him depart, then set down his cup, eyeing her warily.
She smiled brightly. “You would have been proud of me at the rout last night, Steven. I pretended to be just as much a ninny as any other London miss.” The actual nature of her ninniness—being distracted from her task of watching Melisande—was unimportant. “I even engaged the Duke of Keswick in conversation.”
“Did you now. And what is his grace like?”
She shook her head. “I’ve held up my end of our bargain. Now it’s your turn.”
He sighed and scooted his chair back from the table. “Very well. Let me refill my cup first.” He moved to the sideboard and fussed with milk and sugar and the teapot until Charlotte thought she was going to have to hit him. Just as he was sitting down again, the butler entered, bearing a card on a silver platter.
“Yes, Farnham?”
“Beg pardon, sir, miss, you have a visitor.”
Charlotte groaned at the delay.
Steven glanced at the card, then smiled at her. “You’re in luck, poppet. Please send in Gauthier, Farnham.”
“Very good, sir.”
Moments later Gauthier shuffled in and was seated across the table from Charlotte, both of them on opposite sides of Steven, who sat at the head of the table, so they could converse in low tones. Charlotte brought the tea things to the table so the three of them could keep talking without wasting time for trips to the sideboard.
Gauthier nodded a greeting at her, ran his hands through his greasy dark hair, blew his enormous Roman nose on a pink silk handkerchief, and emptied half his cup in one swallow. “The good news is, our friends from Darconia are still in London, so we still have a chance of success.”
Charlotte topped off his cup. “What’s the bad news?”
“Merci. I am afraid that last night, they, how you say, gave me the fall.”
“Slip. They gave you the slip.” Steven sat back in his chair and shook his head. “You’re losing your touch, old man.”
“Insolent whelp. If you had accompanied me as we planned, they would not have had such an easy time.” Gauthier leaned toward Steven and gave a suggestive wag of his eyebrows. “How is the fair Mademoiselle Emily?”
Steven coughed and stared resolutely at Gauthier, who was only three years his senior, and refused to meet Charlotte’s angry gaze.
She tapped her finger on the table. “You abandoned your post, a task assigned by Lord Q, in favor of engaging some woman’s favors?”
Steven finally faced her. “No, of course not. I was, um, taking a page from your book, in fact. Emily is a maid at the palace, and I was…interviewing her.”
“Interviewing.”
He didn’t blink. “Yes.”
She’d just bet Emily was pretty, and poor enough that her dress didn’t quite conceal all her charms. Charlotte drew breath to dispute his claim.
“S’il vous plaît, mes amis, do not fight. My head, it hurts when you argue.” He tapped Steven’s hand. “Ma petite, she is as skilled with her tongue as she is with a knife. You know you cannot win.”
“We are not fighting, Gauthier. Perish the thought.” Charlotte turned her dazzling smile from the Frenchman to her brother, losing the smile in the process. “So, what useful information did Mademoiselle Emily have to share?”
Steven cleared his throat. “At the fete last week, the night we think the snuffbox was stolen, she saw the two emissaries from Darconia standing by the fireplace early in the evening, where the box was on display on the mantel.”
“Aha!” Gauthier slapped his hand on the table in triumph. “I was right!”
Steven took a deep breath. “She also saw Madame Melisande near the mantel before the snuffbox disappeared. It looked like she was checking her appearance in the mirror, but the snuffbox was directly below said mirror.”
Charlotte resisted slapping the table. She did, however, raise her chin a tad higher in the air in her triumph.
“So it would seem you may have been correct from the beginning, poppet.”
She couldn’t raise her chin any higher and still see her brother or Gauthier. “If you finally agree that Madame Melisande stole the box, does it matter if the Darconians gave Gauthier the slip last night? Why not let them just go home to Darconia?” Let them leave, and not muddy things up any further for her investigation, since she knew the Darconians had been robbed of the box, probably by Sir Nigel. Surely they were at an impasse as to where to find the box now.
“Because we don’t know for certain that Madame Melisande is the one who took it. If we find out she didn’t, but in the meantime we’ve let the Darconians slip out of our grasp, we’re going to have a lot of explaining to do to Lord Q.”
As much as she wanted to prove that she was just as capable as Steven at completing the assignment, it was more important to get back the snuffbox. “Ah, but I am certain that Madame Melisande took it, though she no longer has it. The Darconians stole it from her hotel room last night.”
Steven set down his teacup with precise movements. “And how did you come by this information?”
“I saw them. I was too far away to get the box myself.”
Gauthier had gone still, staring at her intently.
Steven leaned closer to her and lowered his voice even further. “Where, exactly, were you?”
This was the part that could be interpreted incorrectly if she wasn’t careful. “At the rout last night, I went up on the roof with my spyglass.” No need to add any additional details. “Right after I saw the Darconians steal the box, they were held at gunpoint by another man who stole the box from them. I believe it was Sir Nigel.”
Steven’s eyes narrowed.
Gauthier cocked his head to one side, considering her statement.
Undaunted, she pushed ahead. “I have seen Nigel and Melisande together on more than one occasion. I think he may have stolen the box back for her
. We should investigate him.”
Steven shook his head. “If we investigated every man who spent time with Melisande, we would have to scrutinize half the men in London.”
“What kind of gun was it?” Gauthier leaned his elbows on the table.
“I couldn’t tell. Too far away, too dark.”
“In the dark, so far away, how can you be sure it was Sir Nigel?” At least Steven wasn’t asking why she had gone up to the roof.
“I can’t, but the height and build were correct, and based on the interaction that I have witnessed between Melisande and Nigel, it would be logical for him to get back something that was stolen from her. We should investigate him.”
Steven gave a slow nod. “Perhaps we—meaning Gauthier and I—should. You, however, promised to play the part of a London miss. Where was your fiancé when you were spying on Melisande’s room?”
“You agree with me, don’t you?” She reached an imploring hand toward Gauthier. She hated putting him in the middle like this, but she had no intention of answering Steven’s question.
“Perhaps, ma petite.”
Steven sighed. “We’ll look into him, after we finish up with the Darconians.”
“You’re going to wait? No telling what he’ll do with it in the meantime. He may not give it back to Melisande, especially if he discovers just how valuable it is. I’ve seen them arguing.”
“We’ll look into it, poppet, I promise.” Steven had the gall to actually pat her hand. He turned back to Gauthier, who was busy dunking a buttered scone in his tea. “After the Darconians gave you the slip, you turned in early?”
Charlotte sat back, trying to calm her simmering resentment. How many times would she have to be right for them to give credence to her theories?
Well, fine. She’d just investigate Sir Nigel herself. Which had been her plan anyway. Let Steven and Gauthier chase after the Darconians—it would free her up to follow the real leads in the case. She buttered a scone and liberally smeared it with blackberry preserves. Delicious.
“Of course not, silly boy.” Gauthier ate a bite of his scone. “I went to Lost Wages, my favorite gaming hell, and won fifty pounds.” A look of bliss crossed his face as he swallowed the last of the scone. He kissed his fingertips. “You have no idea how bad London hotel food is, mes amis.”
“I’ll pass your compliments to the chef,” Charlotte said, thinking how accustomed to good food she had become in the short time since coming to London. Thank heavens she no longer had to eat her own cooking, or—God forbid—Steven’s.
“You didn’t come here to tell me you lost the people you were supposed to be following, or that you cheated at cards last night.” Steven refilled his cup.
“Moi, cheat? Never. Unless the house, she is twisted, n’est-ce pas?”
Steven frowned for a moment. “You mean crooked.”
“Oui. This house last night, she is very crooked.” He glanced into his empty teacup. Charlotte filled it again. “But at this house, one can buy as well as play.”
“Buy what?” She’d never heard of anyone shopping at a gaming hell before. Wagering possessions, certainly, but not selling or buying them. She thought most men hated to shop.
“Anything one’s heart desires, ma petite. One need only give a description of the object one wants, prove one has the necessary funds to purchase it, and voilà, within a night or two it is there. Sometimes several of them to choose from, just like in a shop. They have an understanding for those who cannot purchase new, but who wish to keep up appearances.”
Steven leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And did you express an interest in obtaining a snuffbox?”
Gauthier nodded. “Alas, my old one was lost when I traveled here.” He grinned.
“It can’t be so simple as to just buy back the snuffbox from a fence, could it?” Charlotte asked. If Sir Nigel was at low water, as Moncreiffe had suggested, perhaps there was nothing more nefarious to his plans than selling stolen property for a profit.
Lord Q had described the snuffbox as being inset with a fortune in small gemstones, quite valuable in itself, without considering it had been a gift to the Prince Regent from a female dignitary from the tiny principality of Darconia.
“If Madame Melisande knows of this gaming hell, that would explain why she took the snuffbox in the first place, a shiny bauble like that.” Steven beat Gauthier to the last scone on the plate in the middle of the table. “It would have easily fit in her reticule, and even after cutting a fence in on the deal, would still fetch her enough to keep up appearances for another month or two.”
With the scones gone, Charlotte put the lid back on the blackberry preserves. “Does Bow Street know about the extracurricular activities at this gaming hell?”
“I’m certain they do, poppet. And if they don’t, there’s no need for us to enlighten them until after Gauthier buys a slightly used snuffbox. And that should be…?”
“Tonight.”
“So soon? Marvelous.” He cut the scone in half and gave part to Gauthier. “You see, poppet? You didn’t miss out on anything with this case after all. Very simple and straightforward. Boring, even.”
“Yes, I can see that.” She snatched the just-buttered piece of scone from Steven and popped it in her mouth.
Business concluded, Gauthier began discussing his favorite dealer at the gaming hell, a buxom brunette. “I think she is the cousin of Melisande. Do you remember her, Vivienne, with the magnifique…” He gestured with his hands, indicating a woman with voluptuous curves.
Before he could become more specific in describing the woman’s attributes, Steven held up a hand to silence him. “What are your plans for today, poppet?”
“I haven’t decided about tonight yet. Aunt may prefer to stay in. But I’m going for a drive with Moncreiffe this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?” Steven glanced at the clock, which showed not quite eleven. “You’d better hurry upstairs, then, if you’re going to get dressed and ready in time.”
She was about to argue that she did not require a ridiculous amount of time to prepare for a simple carriage ride, but realized she could put the time to good use. “Excellent idea. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”
Both men stood, and Steven tugged her close to kiss her forehead as she passed. “See, I knew you’d come to like all this female folderol,” he whispered.
She patted his hand, then dashed upstairs.
Once inside her bedchamber, she shut the door and leaned against it.
She hated lying to Steven, actively or by omission, but he’d left her no choice. If he had his way, the rest of her life would play out like the conversation over breakfast just now—concerned with her social calendar and the whereabouts of the man in her life, and little else.
Just like her mother. A woman who’d lived her life for one party after another, an existence as ephemeral as that of a butterfly, and having about as much impact.
The fate of the nation might not rest on whether she succeeded in retrieving the snuffbox—the prince could survive the loss, and Darconia was hardly likely to declare war on England over it—but her future was at stake.
Success in this assignment meant a more secure future for herself, working for Lord Q. A woman of independent means, not reliant on a husband or brother. Someone who made a difference. Like her father.
A glance at the clock told her she had just enough time to complete her errand before Moncreiffe arrived, but only if she didn’t dawdle.
Now, which of her costumes was best suited for visiting a gaming hell?
Chapter 8
“Looking for wagers regarding your lovely little bride-to-be?”
Alistair didn’t look up from the betting book he was perusing at White’s. “Good morning, Father. Bit early for you to be up and out, isn’t it?”
“Could say the same for you.” Penrith pulled out a chair at the table and sat down beside Alistair. “Stars were bright and twinkly last night, just the way you like them
. Thought they’d keep you up until dawn. Or were you concentrating your efforts on other celestial bodies, eh?” He gave Alistair a playful elbow to the ribs.
Alistair closed the book, his finger marking his spot, and gave his attention to his father. The morning light streaming through the club’s big bow windows showed every line of dissipation on the older man’s face, and revealed there was far more gray than brown in his hair these days. Years of heavy drinking and late nights kept his blue eyes perpetually bloodshot.
“How I spend my nights is of no concern to you. What brings you here so early?”
Penrith grunted. “Couldn’t take any more. Seems the old man likes that filly you picked, despite her father being a mere baron.” He hailed a passing waiter and ordered wine. “Kept going on and on about the tête-à-tête he had with her last night.”
The hair on the back of Alistair’s neck stood on end. Miss Parnell and his grandfather had a chat last night at the rout, and she’d said nothing to him about it?
“What’s that you’re looking at, eh? Thinking of placing a wager of your own?”
Alistair quickly debated how much to say. “Not at all. I simply saw someone recently in a coach I admired, but I know he didn’t own it, so I wanted to see if perhaps he’d won it in a wager.”
“Haven’t seen a coach change hands on a wager for a bit. Find anything interesting?”
“Not so far, and I’ve already checked the books at Boodle’s this morning.”
“Hmm. Who was in the coach? Perhaps I’d know the answer to your quest.”
With his father’s lifestyle and the company he kept, it was quite likely Penrith was more familiar with disreputable folks than he was. “Sir Nigel Broadmoor.”
His father shook his head. “If that loose fish now has a fancy carriage, ten to one he stole it, not won it on a wager. Most likely it belongs to his crony Tumblety, and Nigel simply borrowed it.”
Alistair frowned. “I’ve heard rumors about a Baron Tumblety. Something about him engaging in trade.”
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