Smiling, the woman started placing slices of candied orange and lemon, whole cherries, chunks of pineapple, and ginger into the box. Then she added a neat row of almonds, sprinkled a few candied violets on top, and finally held the selection out for Henry to peruse.
Taking a deep breath, Henry appreciated the mixture of sweet and spicy fragrances. “She will love this! And if she doesn’t, I will.”
The woman nodded sagely while Henry pulled an elegant silver case from his breast pocket and selected a gold-framed visiting card. “Do you have something I can use to write the lady a note?”
Again the matron smiled knowingly and produced a pen and inkwell from behind the counter, as well as a piece of foolscap to note down the lady’s direction.
After finishing his note, Henry set the small box on top of the packet with the silk, added his card, and secured the lid. He wrote down Isabella’s address, paid the confectioner, and left a shilling for the box to be delivered that day. A satisfied smile played around his lips as he headed back to his hotel.
ONCE BACK IN HIS ROOMS, Henry shed his coat and went about the tricky business of opening a letter without breaking the seal. A sharp knife and a steady hand were required. If the seal broke or the paper ripped, there would be no covering the fact the letter had been tampered with.
The missive was addressed to a solicitor in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, located within easy walking distance of the very post office from which the letters from the two girls in service in London had been postmarked. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place.
Henry heated a slim blade in the flame of a gutted candle. It was always a near thing to get the metal hot enough without blackening it. Gauging the right moment to take it out of the flame, Henry wiped the blade on his handkerchief to ensure there would be no soot transfer onto the wax seal, a sure sign for anybody checking whether the seal had been compromised.
Once the blade was ready, Henry’s practiced fingers inserted it carefully between the seal and the paper and separated the two with one swift move. He unfolded the letter, mindful not to disturb the creases in the paper, and read.
Esteemed Sir,
I am sending you word through Mr. Harcourt, Esquire. As you predicted, Sir Henry March came to visit today, but he seemed more interested in the castle than the abbey. He has already visited the abbey and found nothing of interest, but voiced his wish to pay his respects to your grandfather. I tried to direct his interest toward Smugglers Cove, but am unsure as to my success in this, or whether it was indeed necessary, since he had already dismissed the abbey.
Your humble servant,
Mrs. Twill
Postscript: Sir Henry mentioned a painter friend who sells her paintings in galleries wanting to paint the abbey. Apparently Gothic ruins are in vogue. Perhaps you are unconcerned by this, but I thought you ought to know.
There was no doubt the letter was meant for Lord Didcomb, and that the young lord was hiding something. The letter also confirmed Didcomb suspected Henry had come to Brighton to gather information.
Henry needed to take a closer look at the abbey as soon as the weather permitted, and Isabella would have to do as his cover. It wasn’t right for him to involve her, but what was done, was done.
Henry refolded the letter along the existing creases and retrieved a wooden box containing a dozen different shades of sealing wax. He selected the shade most like the color of the seal on the letter and heated the wax stick. He also held the underside of the seal to the candle to warm it, and when the wax stick was ready to drip, he let one singular drop fall on the back of the now malleable seal, then gently pressed the seal back into place. He let the whole thing cool for a few minutes, inspecting his handiwork with a critical eye. Satisfied not even he could see the seal had been tampered with, he set the missive aside, setting the coin he had swiped with it on top.
Sitting back down at the writing desk, Henry pulled a fresh piece of writing paper out and wrote a brief message to Thomas in London, instructing him to put a man on Mr. Harcourt, Esquire, obtain a writing sample from the same and his clerks, and send them to him posthaste. Then he wrote another note to Allen, asking him to find out whatever he could about Lord Didcomb, but cautiously. The young man had secrets that could well make him dangerous.
When William appeared a few moments later, Henry pointed to the letters. “We may just have found the man of business who wrote the letters for the missing girls. Take those to the posting inn on North Street and make sure they get onto the next mail coach.”
William took the letters and looked at the addresses, then stashed them in his coat pocket with a nod. “Thomas’ll find out. Anythin’ else whilst I’m out?”
Henry handed him the stump of the wax stick he had used earlier. “I could use another stick of this shade.”
William took the stump and grunted in the affirmative. Matching wax was clearly not one of his preferred chores. “I polished them Hessian boots of yours. Figured you might need them tonight.”
Henry nodded. “Good. Order me a bath on the way out, would you?”
William’s mood lightened and he grinned at his employer’s enthusiastic tone. It looked like Sir Henry was looking forward to showing off for Miss Isabella. Things were decidedly looking up on that front.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AT THAT MOMENT, ON THE EAST SIDE OF BRIGH-ton, in Mrs. Curtis’s cozy town house, Isabella was washing her hair in preparation for the musical that evening. Not a fan of cooling bathwater, she rinsed off quickly and climbed out of her tub as Sally bustled into the room, a large wooden box tucked under one arm, and Isabella’s freshly pressed gown over the other.
“Seems you have at least one admirer who knows better than to send you flowers, miss.”
Discarding her towel, Isabella slipped into her dressing gown, but looked up with mild curiosity. “Oh, and which admirer would that be?” She picked up her hairbrush and stepped to the fire to dry her hair.
Shrugging, Sally placed the box on the little table next to her mistress and went to lay out the gown alongside Isabella’s underthings. “Don’t know, miss. There are two bouquets of flowers waiting for you downstairs, but George the footman says this box came from the best confectioner in town, so I brought it upstairs before Her Ladyship sees it.”
“Oh, good thinking, Sally. She would probably tell me I can’t afford to gain any weight whilst we are here and confiscate my treats.” Isabella grinned at her maid, knowing how much Sally loved sweets. She wrapped her hair into a towel and twisted it all up into a turban. “Let’s see what’s in the box.” She flipped the catch to the side and lifted the lid, only to find a similar smaller box inside. Intrigued, she read the card lying on top.
Dear Miss Chancellor,
I know I have no right to send you this, but I couldn’t resist. I believe it to be the exact right shade for you, so please accept this token of my friendship.
I hope to see you tonight at the Landover musical.
Your friend,
Sir Henry March
Sally had stepped behind Isabella to read the missive over her mistress’s shoulder. Now she lifted the smaller box out of the bigger one and exclaimed, “Look, there is a package underneath.”
Isabella sat on the sofa with the parcel and pulled off the ribbon. Once the linen cloth fell away, she caught her breath at the sight in her lap. It was simply the most beautiful, softly shimmering satin she had ever seen. It was the color of ripe wheat, and Sir Henry was right, it would suit her beautifully.
“Oh, miss,” Sally breathed. “That’s going to look so pretty on you.”
Isabella lifted the richly glowing material out of its packet, and the modiste’s card fluttered to the ground. She picked it up and went to the mirror over her dressing table to see how the satin looked against her skin. “Oh, Sally, it’s terribly wicked to accept it, but look, it’s absolutely perfect.” She draped the fabric around her shoulders and turned to her maid, who studied the effect, nodding
approvingly. The silk set Isabella’s eyes to shine blue-green like the ocean in the sun. It also contrasted beautifully with her dark hair, and complemented her lightly tanned skin.
Sally contemplated the silk. “Remember the dresses you drew before you had your coming out? You could make some drawings of how you want the dress and then have it made for you.”
Isabella turned back to the mirror, stroking the material lovingly. “Yes, Mama wouldn’t even let me show my designs to the modiste and stuffed me into all those frilly pink and white things instead.” She shrugged off her dressing gown and let the material fall down the length of her body, admiring the way it molded to her every curve. “I would keep it simple. All the lines clean, perhaps just a little gathering across the bosom and the sleeves short and slightly puffed. The waist should be lower than empire, but the skirt narrow, like we saw in that magazine in London on the way here.”
Stepping up behind her mistress, Sally’s eyes gleamed with professional zeal as she fingered the satin reverently. “There is enough there for two gowns, miss.”
“Or a gown and a spencer and maybe even a shawl too. What’s in the other box?”
Sally, still holding the small box, flipped the catch and opened it. Both mistress and servant looked down and gasped in unison.
“Candied fruit, however did he know?” Isabella had expected a few icing-covered cakes or chocolates, but instead the box was brimful of exotic candied fruits, the likes of which she had only ever admired in a London shop window. She had tasted most of the fruits contained within fruit cakes, but displayed like this they looked and smelled entirely different. Delicately lifting one of the little flowers out, Isabella examined it more closely. “Candied violets. The only time I’ve had one of these, it was drowning in the icing on top of a fancy tea cake, so I couldn’t really taste it.”
She placed the rare treat on her tongue and closed her eyes to better concentrate on the taste. “Mmm, it’s exquisitely delicate and melts on your tongue. And the color, so deep and rich, like the satin. Perhaps we should embroider the shawl with violets.” She furrowed her brow as she lifted the satin to study the effect of the two colors next to each other. Then she pushed the box toward her maid. “Try one, Sally.”
Sally, who had stared at the selection with round, covetous eyes, needed no further encouragement. She took one of the violets and placed it on her tongue, then took a slice of orange and pointed to the chunks of ginger. “I know I like the orange and the lemon slices, but what’s that one?”
Isabella grinned and took one of the amber-colored pieces. “Ginger, I think. They were my grandmother Chancellor’s favorite and she always tried to give them to us when we were children, but I didn’t like them back then.” She nibbled on the piece, her eyebrows pinched together, then her face cleared. “Oh, that’s rather good. Spicy but sweet, and it doesn’t have the fibrous texture my grandmother’s had. Maybe it’s one of those adult tastes, like caviar and oysters.”
Sally looked at the rather substantial slice of candied orange in her hand and grinned. “I’ll try that tomorrow. So, I take it you’re keeping Sir Henry’s lovely gift?”
Isabella read the challenge in her maid’s eyes loud and clear. Sally knew she loved all things beautiful, including fabrics and laces, and the gowns that could be fashioned from them. Sadly, the wardrobe her mother continued to foist on her in the name of propriety and wanting to attract the right sort of husband ranged from the uninspired to the downright ugly. Checking herself in the mirror once more, Isabella sighed at the marvelously sensual feel of the satin on her skin.
“Whatever will I tell my mother?”
Sally snorted derisively. “Tell her you saw it in the window and just couldn’t resist. She’ll understand that one; does it often enough herself, she does.”
Isabella sent her maid a warning glance, but there was no heat in it, for they both knew she was right. She heaved another sigh. “But will she believe I paid for such a costly dress with my painting money?”
A calculating gleam stole into Sally’s hazel eyes. “She just might. She might believe you paid for it to spare your papa the expense, and when she sees you bought such a fancy gown, she might also conclude you do want to catch a husband this time. That’ll get her off your back so you can go painting.”
Trust Sally to figure it this way. “I don’t want to encourage Mother in her zeal to marry me off, but I did something similar yesterday when I told her I was going to paint up on the bluffs because Sir Henry told me he walks there in the mornings.” She giggled at her own wickedness, then stroked the satin again and turned to the mirror, admiring how it brought out her eyes. “Oh, I’m not sending it back, it’s simply too beautiful.” She looked at the modiste’s card in her hand and turned to her maid. “We’ll go see this tailor tomorrow.” Then she put away the satin carefully and started dressing while Sally set the curling tongs near the fire.
Sally regarded her mistress’s back for a moment, pity clearly written in her eyes. “Maybe you should think about marrying Sir Henry. He’s not a bad-looking gent, and he likes you.”
Isabella’s shoulders slumped, but she didn’t turn around. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You know I can’t.”
Sally made an impatient noise at the back of her throat. “Just tell him. He’s got an illegitimate daughter, and he’s kind. If there’s one gentleman in all of England who might not judge you, it’s him.”
Isabella just shook her head and got on with the business of rolling on her stockings. Sally had been there that fateful day. She’d cleaned up her distraught mistress and burned the evidence of her downfall, but even she didn’t know the whole of it. Perhaps Sally was right and Sir Henry wouldn’t judge her, would continue to treat her with respect and kindness, but for that very reason he deserved better than her.
Sally stepped up behind her mistress and started to lace her stays. “You like him, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.
Isabella nodded, but said no more, and Sally was wise enough to know when to stop pushing. Still, it killed her to see her lovely mistress languishing alone, shriveling into spinsterhood while her mother griped at her, and her sisters exploited her good nature at every turn.
TWO HOURS LATER, CLAD IN a simple light-blue silk gown, Isabella entered the fashionable town house where the musical was to be held. Her dark hair was piled loosely on top of her head and held in place with the help of several tiny braids and two blue ribbons. A moderate string of pearls graced her throat, and teardrop pearl earrings dangled from her ears. Pearl-white satin gloves covered her arms, a crocheted seed-pearl-encrusted reticule hung from her wrist, and a painted fan was clasped in her hand. In short, Isabella had made an effort. Not that she would have admitted it to a living soul, but she wanted to look good for Sir Henry, especially after he had seen her in the horrid pink gown and sent her the marvelous satin. Her blue gown was slightly out of fashion—it had been purchased for her coming out seven years prior—but she knew its simplicity flattered her trim figure, and the color suited her.
Isabella made her curtsy to her hosts, the very fashionable Lord and Lady Landover, and followed her mother and Mrs. Curtis into the throng of guests. They wandered through a smaller side chamber, where people who chose not to attend all the musical performances could converse, and continued on to the large salon at the back of the house where the pianoforte was set up.
The event was already well attended, and Isabella had only just crossed the threshold when Mr. Wickham charged their little group with the single-mindedness of a man on a mission. “My dear Baroness Chancellor, Miss Chancellor, and Mrs. Curtis. How fortunate I am to encounter such grace and beauty twice in one day.” After the rather flowery greeting, he turned his particular attention to Isabella. “May I inquire whether we will be favored with a performance from you tonight, Miss Chancellor?”
Isabella had been assured it would be her choice whether to offer her mediocre skills or not, but one look at her mo
ther and the matrimonial gleam in her eyes cured her of that illusion.
“Isabella will be delighted to sing and play for us, won’t you, dear?”
Isabella forced a smile and conceded. “I might sing a song in a little while.”
Mr. Wickham bowed over her hand, his breath hot and encroaching even through her satin gloves. He held onto her hand as he straightened, and she caught him staring at her bosom. Sir Henry’s warning came to mind, and Isabella knew with a flash of certainty it would be ill-advised to ever be alone with this man. She was almost relieved when Baron Tillister approached. Tugging her hand out of Wickham’s possessive grip, she smiled at the newcomer.
“Baron Tillister, I bid you good evening. Thank you so much for the lovely roses.”
The baron bowed over her hand very properly, released it immediately, and stepped back, smiling at her. “You are most welcome, Miss Chancellor. I trust you had a good day since last I saw you.”
He then turned to make his bows to the baroness and Mrs. Curtis, and Isabella let her eyes travel across the busy salon and found the squire, who’d been the third in Mrs. Curtis’s salon that morning, waving to her from a sofa near the piano.
Eager to escape Mr. Wickham’s attentions, Isabella nudged her mother. “Look, Mama, Squire Gardener is holding a sofa for us. How very thoughtful.”
With some satisfaction, she noted Mr. Wickham glaring daggers at the poor man while her mother led the way to the squire and the sofa he guarded. The baroness may have preferred a titled gentleman or the aging but still dashing Mr. Wickham as a son-in-law, but a sofa was always preferable to the hard chairs set up in rows in the middle of the room. On those grounds the squire deserved their attention and the pleasure of their company.
“My dear Squire Gardener, you must have read my mind. This should be big enough for at least the three of us.”
The good squire looked like he had hoped the sofa would be big enough for at least four, but bowed graciously, invited all three ladies to sit, and pulled one of the hard chairs toward the end of the sofa where Isabella had settled. “Did you receive my flowers, Miss Chancellor?”
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