by Amanda Quick
“I don’t understand. Is your sister also a correspondent?”
“No, but she is in a similar profession, one that, like yours, compels her to conceal her identity.”
“What does she do?” Louisa asked eagerly. She had never encountered another woman who had also assumed a false identity.
“She writes plays under the name E. G. Harris.”
“I know her work.” Louisa was barely able to contain her excitement. “Her plays are staged at the Olympia Theater. The current one is Night on Sutton Lane. I went to see it last week. There are several thrilling sensations including the most astonishing scene of a ship sinking at sea.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“One believes the heroine must surely drown because she was involved in an illicit love affair, and everyone knows that illicit love affairs always come to bad ends in sensation dramas. Nevertheless, at the last minute a gentleman appears out of nowhere and saves her.” Louisa sighed. “Unfortunately, he is not Nigel, the man whom she loved.”
“As I recall, Nigel was already married,” Anthony said.
“Yes, but he didn’t know it, you see. He thought his wife was dead when she had actually been locked up in an asylum by her scheming brother.”
“I assure you I have seen the play, Mrs. Bryce. There is no need to describe it.”
She blushed, embarrassed. “Yes, of course.”
Emma chuckled. “Louisa is a great fan of your sister’s plays, sir.”
“So I see.” Anthony raised his brows. “It so happens that I have read some of your news reports, Mrs. Bryce.”
“I’m surprised to hear you admit that you have read anything printed in the Flying Intelligencer.” But a little thrill of pleasure went through her. He had read her work.
“The Intelligencer has two categories of readers,” he said dryly. “Those who will admit to reading it and those who will not admit to reading it. That is especially true since I. M. Phantom’s pieces began appearing. I offer you my sincere congratulations, Mrs. Bryce. You have managed to astound Society on a number of occasions with your revelations of scandal in high places.”
She felt a sudden need to defend herself. “I am not interested in scandal solely because of the sensation it will cause. It is a desire to see justice prevail that motivates me, sir.”
He cocked a quizzical brow. “Justice?”
“Too often people who move in elevated social circles abuse their positions of privilege and power. They take advantage of those who are weaker than themselves knowing full well that it is unlikely that they will pay for their crimes.”
“I see. You feel called upon to mete out justice by exposing such people?”
“There is little else that can be done.” She widened her hands. “Everyone knows that it is virtually impossible for Scotland Yard to conduct an investigation in the Polite World. All the doors are closed, and there is no way to open them. You said yourself, there was no chance that the police would ever be able to search Hastings’s house.”
“True. Nevertheless—”
“Thanks to Emma I find myself in a unique position,” she continued. “I am able to circulate in some of the best social circles without calling attention to myself.”
He glanced at Emma.
Emma poured more tea. “It has been interesting, I must say.”
“I wish to make it plain that I pride myself on accuracy,” Louisa said firmly. “I always investigate quite thoroughly before I write my reports. The last thing I want to do is cause pain or humiliation to an innocent person.”
“Enough.” Anthony raised a hand, palm out. “I do not doubt your zeal or your intentions, Mrs. Bryce.”
She dared to relax slightly.
“I have been wondering how you came by your information,” he continued. “Can I assume that, as a member of the press, you have informants?”
“Yes,” she said, cautious again.
“I would like to know the name of the person who put you onto Hastings’s trail.”
She pondered that for a moment. Miranda Fawcett enjoyed her role as a behind-the-scenes source of secrets for a newspaper correspondent. She could no doubt be persuaded to aid Anthony in his investigation, provided she could be convinced to trust him.
“My informant might agree to assist you,” she said, “but I make no guarantees.”
Veiled anticipation leaped in Anthony’s eyes. “I understand.”
Louisa clasped her hands. “Let me make myself very clear, sir,” she said coolly. “This conversation will end here and now if you do not agree to make me a full partner in this affair.”
His eyes tightened dangerously at the corners. “I do not think that would be wise, Mrs. Bryce.”
“I do not think that you have any choice, Mr. Stalbridge.”
10
Ten minutes later he went down the steps of Number Twelve, crossed the street, and started through the small park in the center of the square. He was not in what anyone would term a pleasant mood.
Louisa was a correspondent for the Flying Intelligencer. That piece of information had come out of nowhere, blindsiding him. He had never heard of a female reporter, let alone one who did her work from inside exclusive circles.
Astounding as her career was, it did explain much of what had made him curious in recent days, including her secretive forays in the Wellsworth and Hammond households and her interest in Hastings. It also explained the unfashionable gowns, the spectacles, and the boring conversation at every social event she attended. Louisa had gone to great lengths to make certain that people did not take any notice of her. Like it or not, however, she was going to lose some of her precious anonymity now that her name was linked with his. He wondered how she would deal with that.
He walked through a stand of trees and found himself in a small clearing in the middle of the park. He passed two green wrought-iron benches and a statue of a nymph. On the far side of the greenery he crossed another street, turned a corner, and entered a narrow lane. When he emerged onto a busy street, he briefly considered and then discarded the notion of whistling for a hansom cab. He needed to work off some of the frustration Louisa’s bargain had sparked.
He did not want her to be involved in this affair, but it seemed there was no other choice. She had made it clear that she would pursue the investigation of Hastings with or without his assistance. The only thing he could do now was keep an eye on her. That would probably not be easy, he decided.
11
I know that it is highly unlikely that I can talk you out of this venture,” Emma said. “Nevertheless, I feel I must try. There are so many risks involved.” Louisa got to her feet and went to the garden window. “I have taken risks before.”
“Not like this. You have never investigated a murder.”
“That is precisely why I cannot pass up this opportunity. A story about the shocking murders of two women in Society that can be tied to Elwin Hastings is simply too important to ignore. Men like Hastings rarely pay for their crimes. This is a chance to drag one to justice.”
“Keep in mind that you do not know for certain that Hastings murdered anyone. You have only Mr. Stalbridge’s opinion of the facts to go on at this point. I told you, he may have his own reasons for wanting to fix blame on someone.”
Louisa looked out into the garden. “I do not think that he is pursuing this investigation solely to clear his own name, Emma. Frankly, I do not believe that he gives a fig for Society’s opinion of him. My intuition tells me that he is genuinely convinced that Hastings murdered Fiona. He is determined to obtain justice for her.”
“Perhaps you want to attribute such noble motives to him because you would like to believe that the two of you have something in common,” Emma said gently. “Both of you seeking justice, et cetera, et cetera.”
“I suppose you may be right.” Louisa turned around. “But either way, I am determined to see this through.”
“Do not mistake me, dear, I have nothing but admi
ration for your work as a correspondent, but I fear that you are becoming reckless in your pursuit of justice in the Polite World.”
“I appreciate your concern, and I promise you I will be careful.”
Emma sighed. “It is your old anger and fear of Lord Gavin that drives you. The man is dead, but he haunts you still.”
“I will not quarrel with you on that account. What happened last year is a nightmare that will be with me to the end of my days. Perhaps I have allowed it to push me into a risky business. At the same time, I cannot help feeling that I am doing what I was meant to do. My work as I. M. Phantom satisfies something in me that nothing else can equal.”
“You are determined to go forward with this arrangement you have made with Anthony Stalbridge, aren’t you?”
“I have no choice.” Louisa gripped the edge of the windowsill. She fell silent for a moment. “He must have loved her very much, Emma.”
12
Anthony went up the steps of the large house on Brackton Street. Dreading what lay ahead, he banged the gleaming brass knocker. Footsteps sounded in the hall. The door opened to reveal a tall, cadaverously thin, gray-haired man in a butler’s suit.
“Mr. Stalbridge, sir. Do come in.”
“Good afternoon, Shuttle.” Anthony moved into the hall and tossed his hat onto the marble-topped side table. “All is well with you, I trust?”
“I am in excellent health, thank you, sir.” Shuttle closed the door. “Your mother and sister are in the library. Your father, of course, is in his workshop.”
“Thank you.”
Anthony went along the hall and paused in the open doorway of the library, steeling himself for the assault. There was a large desk and an easel in the room, both positioned to catch the best light from the tall windows overlooking the extensive gardens. His mother, Georgiana, was at the easel, paintbrush in hand. The sun highlighted the silver in her dark hair. She was in her late fifties, tall and gracefully made. A paint-stained apron covered her gown. Clarice sat at the desk, poring over a stack of papers covered with her handwriting. Her latest script for the Olympia, no doubt. A cloud of red curls framed her elfin face and blue eyes.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said from the door. “You both appear to be busy. I will not intrude.” He took a step back. “I just stopped by to have a word with Father.”
“Tony.” Clarice looked up suddenly. “Come back here. Don’t you dare try to leave without explaining yourself.”
“Sorry,” Anthony said, edging farther out into the hall. “I’m in somewhat of a hurry at the moment. Later, perhaps.”
“No, not later,” Georgiana declared. She set aside her brush. “Your grandmother was here not more than an hour ago and told us everything.”
He swore under his breath. His grandmother, Lady Payne, was an indomitable woman who never failed to live up to her name. Her chief occupation in life, as far as he could tell, was to meddle in family affairs. At one time or another they had all suffered from her interference, but of late she had been focusing most of her attention on him.
To be fair, she was not alone. These days it seemed that everyone in the large clan was concentrating the full force of their no doubt well-intentioned attention on him. Fortunately, the only members of the extended Stalbridge family who were in town at the moment were his grandmother, mother, father, and sister.
Nevertheless, given the razor-sharp intelligence and forceful willpower that characterized virtually every leaf on the Stalbridge family tree, it was little wonder that he was doing his best these days to avoid even the four relations who did happen to be in London.
“Is it true?” Clarice demanded eagerly. “Did you really sweep a mysterious widow named Mrs. Bryce away from the Hastingses’ ball last evening and carry her off into the night in your carriage?”
He loved his sister. She was several years younger, sharp of wit, compassionate by nature, and generally quite entertaining, but there was no denying that she had a flare for the dramatic, a side effect of her playwriting talents, no doubt.
“Mrs. Bryce and I did leave the ball together,” he said, choosing his words with care. “However, we went down the steps and got into the carriage in an entirely normal manner. As I recall, there was no sweeping involved. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go find Father.”
“Wait, you must tell us more about her,” Georgiana insisted. “Who is she? What of her family background? What became of Mr. Bryce? Your grandmother did not have a great deal of information. The only facts she had were that Mrs. Bryce is a distant relation of Lady Ashton’s and that she has absolutely no sense of style.”
Anthony smiled at that. “The lack of details must have been extremely frustrating for her.”
“Does she really wear her spectacles when she goes to a ball?” Clarice asked.
“Yes,” Anthony said.
“Well?” Georgiana prompted. “What of her husband?”
“I do not know what became of Mr. Bryce,” he admitted. “The important thing is that he is no longer around.”
“Grandmother says Mrs. Bryce is out of mourning so he must have died at least three or four years ago,” Clarice offered.
“One could make that assumption, yes,” Anthony agreed.
“Your grandmother indicated that she does not appear to have any money in her own right,” Georgina observed. “Evidently Lady Ashton has taken her in out of the kindness of her heart.”
“That seems to be the case,” Anthony agreed. “Now, if you will excuse me—”
“What is she like?” Clarice asked.
Anthony gave that a few seconds of close contemplation.
“Unconventional,” he said finally.
“In what way?” Clarice demanded. “We want details, Tony. This is the first woman you have shown any interest in since Fiona died. The least you can do is tell us a little about her.”
“Among other things she admires your plays,” he said.
“You told her that I write for the Olympia?” Clarice’s eyes widened.
“I believe she was quite pleased that the heroine who had the illicit affair in Night on Sutton Lane did not drown at the end of the story even though she was not rescued by the man who had seduced her.”
“I couldn’t have Nigel rescue her,” Clarice explained. “He was already married.”
“I did try to explain that,” Anthony said. With that, he made good his escape.
He climbed the stairs and went down the long hall to the large room at the back of the house. The architect had intended the space to serve as a master bedroom and sitting room, but it had functioned as his father’s workshop for as long as he could remember.
The muffled clang of metal on metal reverberated through the upstairs hall. It was a familiar sound, one he remembered well from his childhood. He had spent countless hours in the workshop. When he had not been actively assisting his father with a project, he had wiled away a considerable amount of time playing with the unique clockwork and mechanical toys his father had created for him.
One thing about having an inventor for a parent, he thought, opening the door: Life had never been dull.
“Is that you, Clarice?” Marcus Stalbridge had his back to the door. He did not turn around. “I haven’t finished work on your burning house project yet. Bit of a problem with the chemicals that create the smoke, I’m afraid. They produce far too much of the stuff. The audience won’t be able to see the action on the stage.”
Anthony closed the door, folded his arms, and propped one shoulder against the wall. “Clarice is planning to burn down a house?”
“Tony. About time you got here.” Marcus put down a wrench and swung around. “I sent that message hours ago. Where the devil have you been?”
Dressed in a heavy leather apron, grease-stained shirt and trousers, and a pair of sturdy boots, his father could easily have been mistaken for a dockside worker or a carpenter, Anthony thought. He certainly did not present the typical image of an English gentleman
descended from a long line of the same.
Marcus had been educated as an engineer. According to everyone who had known him in his youth, he had been inventing things since he was old enough to climb out of his cradle. He was in his sixties now, a big man with big, competent hands and aggressively modeled features. His green-and-gold eyes could be disconcertingly piercing and direct when he was consumed with the creation of one of his countless inventions. At other times he appeared vague and distracted. Everyone knew that expression well. It meant that Marcus was dreaming up a new device.
“My apologies, sir,” Anthony said. “I’ve been busy today, and then, when I arrived, I had some difficulty getting past that pair of inquisitors downstairs.”
Marcus wiped his hands on a rag. “Expect your mother and sister had a few questions for you. Your grandmother paid us a visit earlier.”
“I heard. Tell me about Clarice’s burning house.”
“It’s another one of her sensations. She says the competition is becoming quite fierce. Every theater in town is trying to outdo the others with dramatic scenes on stage. Ghosts, storms, runaway trains, rotating towers, and the like have all become quite common. She says fires never fail to dazzle audiences.”
“It will be difficult to top the sinking ship in her latest production. It is so realistic the critics complained because they got damp.”
“Bah.” Marcus grimaced with disgust. “The critics always find something to complain about. The audiences love the show.”
“Now she wants to burn down a house on stage?”
“Yes. The hero has to rescue a child trapped in the flames.”
“I’m sure it will be thrilling.”
Marcus pursed his lips. “Not as thrilling as Clarice had hoped, I’m afraid. It seems the owners of the Olympia got a trifle nervous when she told them she planned to use real flames on stage. But I’ve come up with an alternative that I think will work. It involves an array of fire-colored lights and a great deal of smoke.”