Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
Threads of Inquiry
Sleep proved elusive the night of the Marwood Ball.
I drifted in and out, suspended between the glitter of Lady Marwood’s chandeliers and the foul voices of two young men speaking of a Venus Grotto and the girls to be used as though they were nothing at all. Each time my eyes closed, the words returned—hollow, vile, impossible to dislodge.
By morning, May light filtered through the curtains, and birds sang cheerfully in the square below. It ought to have been a gentle sort of dawn. It was not. My temper felt as frayed as an old hem, worn thin by hours of wakefulness and thought.
At last, I gave up the pretense of sleep and rang for Tilly. She arrived in no time and proceeded to lay out my gown with practiced care.
“You seem tired, my lady,” she said. “Shall I bring your tea?”
“That would be kind,” I replied. “And some toast and jam, if you please. Thank you.”
When the door closed behind her, I crossed to the dressing table. A pale face looked back at me; my copper braid was half undone. Tilly could put my hair to rights easily enough. My unsettled thoughts were another matter entirely.
After our discovery in the Marwoods’ garden, Steele had taken it upon himself to learn what he could about the Venus Grotto. Of course, he had. Because he was a man. Because he was a duke. Because he moved in worlds barred to me. I understood the logic of it. That did not mean I had to like it.
Finch’s report lay on a small table by the hearth. Restless, I picked it up and read it again, my attention settling on the list of six young women Sister Margaret had entrusted to me. Beside two names, Finch had noted places of employment.
The first meant nothing to me—a laundry in Lambeth, the sort where girls came and went in a steady stream.
The second did.
Mme Delacroix. Modiste. New Bond Street.
At the start of the season, we had visited her establishment to order gowns for Chrissie. I recalled Mme Delacroix’s elegant bows, the flutter of seamstresses moving through clouds of silk and muslin. I had thought the place a small miracle of pins and talent.
One of the missing women had worked there. But he had been rebuffed when he’d inquired about her.
I set the paper down slowly. The modiste might refuse to talk to a man about a former employee, but she wouldn’t do the same with me.
I could visit Mme Delacroix under the pretext of ordering another gown for Chrissie.
She had already begun hinting she would require something new for Lady Stratham’s ball. It would take very little persuasion.
A soft knock announced Tilly’s return with my tea and jam. “Here you are, my lady.”
“Thank you, Tilly. Is Lady Chrissie awake?”
“She hasn’t rung, my lady.”
“Then let us give her a little time,” I said.
After the light breakfast, I sat at the writing table and dashed off a note to Mme Delacroix requesting an appointment. While I waited for her response, I dressed for the day, moving with more urgency than care.
Her reply came before long. Eleven o’clock—barely an hour from now. Apparently, it was the only time she could spare amid the demands of her busy salon. I dashed off a quick note to Steele, informing him where I was going and what I hoped to learn.
And then I went in search of Chrissie, nearly colliding with her as she emerged from her bedchamber.
Though her hair was only partially pinned, a few curls slipping loose around her temples, she was thankfully already dressed in a day gown.
A slim volume of poetry was tucked beneath her arm. She was clearly bound for breakfast.
“Good,” I said. “You are up.”
Chrissie blinked, startled, then smoothed the fall of her skirts. “Yes. As I am every day, at precisely the same hour. I was just on my way down.”
“No time for that. We have an appointment with Mme Delacroix.”
“We do?” She tightened her grip on the book, brows lifting. “When?”
“Now. You said you needed a gown for Lady Stratham’s ball.”
“Well—yes, but—what about breakfast?” Her stomach answered for her with a faint, indignant growl. She pressed a hand to her waist, her cheeks warming.
“No time for that,” I said again.
Before she could protest further, I looped my arm through hers and steered her toward the staircase. Chrissie cast one last longing glance toward the dining room as we descended, dragging her feet just enough to register her displeasure.
“Come along,” I said firmly.
Just before eleven, our carriage rolled into the bustle of Bond Street. Shoppers streamed along the pavement in a wash of spring color. Shop windows gleamed with displays of gloves and parasols, and hats sprouting feathers that would have caused Claire to swoon with delight.
Our footman, Weston, sat stiffly opposite us, his hat resting on his knees, his gaze politely lowered. Even so, his presence eased the small, insistent corner of my conscience that sounded suspiciously like Steele’s voice.
As the carriage drew to a halt before Mme Delacroix’s shop, its window displayed a confection of pale blue silk arranged on a headless dress form. Ivory kid gloves were set neatly beside a spray of artificial lilacs.
After Weston helped us alight, I drew Chrissie into the cool, scented air of the shop, a mixture of starch and pressed linen.
Bolts of silk fabric lined the walls, in shades of shimmering rose, cream, and soft green.
The murmur of feminine voices replaced the masculine shouts and clattering carts outside.
Almost immediately, Mme Delacroix appeared from behind a curtain near the back. She wore dark silk and an expression of pleased recognition. “Lady Rosalynd. How charming to see you again. And Lady Chrysanthemum. The Season has treated you kindly, I hear.”
Chrissie glowed under the attention. “You are very good, madame.”
I did not wish to spend the moment on pleasantries. Time was ticking away. “My sister is in dire need of a gown. She has another ball to attend and fears the potted palms will overshadow her.”
Chrissie shot me a puzzled look. She had never said any such thing.
Still, Mme Delacroix laughed. “Then we must ensure they do not. Come, Lady Chrysanthemum. We shall find a color to make those palms weep from envy.”
She led Chrissie past a curtain toward the fitting room, calling softly for pins and a measuring tape. An assistant hurried to assist.
Following them, I strolled slowly along the fabric shelves. My fingers drifted over a bolt of pale peach silk that would suit Chrissie to perfection. All the while, my thoughts circled one name.
Alice Brent. The young woman who had worked at this establishment.
As Chrissie stood on the low dais with her arms slightly lifted, Mme Delacroix began to pin a length of celadon silk—that tender shade between seafoam and the palest willow-green—along her shoulder.
“Madame,” I said, keeping my tone light. “You must have a great many young women working for you to manage so many gowns.”
“It is true,” she replied. “And we only employ the best.”
“Do you recall a girl named Alice Brent? She worked here at one time. A few months past, perhaps.”
The pin paused midway to the fabric. A tiny hesitation—less than a heartbeat—yet unmistakable.
Mme Delacroix resumed her work. “We have had many girls, my lady. Names come and go.”
“This one came to my attention recently,” I said. “I believe she was in your employ, and I am told she left suddenly.”
Another faint pause. The muscles at the corner of her jaw tightened.
Chrissie looked down at us from the platform. “Who is Alice Brent?”
“A seamstress,” I answered. “A very talented one. I am curious what became of her.”
Mme Delacroix let out a breath that sounded more like surrender than simple exhalation. She smoothed the silk against Chrissie’s bodice, then signaled for her assistant to hold a fold in place.
“If you wish to speak of Miss Brent, my lady, perhaps we might do so a little apart,” she said. Her voice remained low, careful.
Chrissie’s eyes widened. “Am I to be excluded from this mystery?”
“You are to hold still,” I said. “Or your seams will sit crooked.”
She wrinkled her nose but obeyed.
Mme Delacroix guided me toward a small table near the window, where pattern books lay neatly stacked. She adjusted the edge of one that did not need adjusting. “Two days ago, a Mr. Finch inquired about Alice. I refused to speak to him as I believed him a vaurien, a man without honor.”
Finch would be amused when I shared that with him. “He’s quite honorable, I assure you. I hired him to look into a matter, Madame. Some young women have gone missing.”
“And Alice is one of them?”
“We believe so, yes.”
“Mon Dieu.” A troubled look crossed her face. “Alice was a good girl. Her stitching was fine. Her manner respectful. She needed the work, and I was glad to have her.”
“What happened?”
“She left. Not of her own impulse, I think, although she said it was her choice. A woman came. Well dressed. Refined. Not the sort one expects to see in a workroom. She said she acted on behalf of a household in need of extra staff.”
My pulse quickened. “Did she give a name?”
“Mrs. Kincaid. That was the name. At least that is what she told us. She said she was hiring on behalf of a house in Chelsea. Near the river. I believe she called it Riversgate.”
“Riversgate,” I repeated softly, fixing the name in my mind. “Did she say what role Alice would have there?”
“A sort of companion and a lady’s maid. The details were vague.” Doubt flickered in Mme Delacroix’s eyes. “The wages she offered were quite high. Alice was delighted at first. Then she seemed nervous. She came to me two days later and asked if I thought she ought to go.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That I could not make such a choice for her. I only said that when something appears too generous, one must ask why.” Her mouth tightened. “She went all the same. She thanked me for the opportunity she had had here and left her work neatly folded.”
“Did she send any word afterward? A letter? A message?”
“No. That was months ago. She did not return.”
Or been heard from, according to Sister Margaret. “Have you seen this Mrs. Kincaid since?”
“Not here. But I ‘ve heard her name. Other shops have mentioned her. Always with the same pattern. A girl recommended for a very nice position. Wages higher than usual. A house near the river.”
Cold crept into my limbs despite the gentle warmth of the shop. “And those other girls? Did they also vanish?”
Mme Delacroix hesitated. “Girls move on, Lady Rosalynd. One grows tired of asking where they went.” Her voice had grown soft and weary.
Chrissie’s laughter drifted from the fitting platform as she admired herself in a mirror. The seamstress pinned and repinned with rapid, efficient motions. To anyone passing on the street, we were nothing more than a pleasant scene—ladies, fabric, fashion.
But beneath it, something dark coiled.
“Thank you,” I said. “You have been very helpful.”
Mme Delacroix inclined her head. “I hope Miss Brent has found something better. That is what I tell myself when I think of her.”
I could not muster that same comfort.
When Chrissie and I climbed back into our carriage, she bubbled with delight over the fabrics and frills.
“The celadon shade will suit me, do you not think?” she asked.
“I do,” I said, distracted.
Chrissie leaned back against the squabs with a satisfied sigh. “You were very quiet in there.”
“I was listening.”
“To Mme Delacroix talk about Alice Brent.” She tilted her head. “You had that look. The one you wear when a mystery is hatching behind your eyes.”
I smiled, though it felt thin. “You imagine things.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps I know you very well.”
As the carriage rattled back toward Grosvenor Square, she closed her eyes. Weston sat opposite, gaze fixed politely on the floor, a solid reminder of the promise I had made to Steele.
I had taken a footman. I had gone to a respectable shop in full daylight. I had done nothing any other lady of my station might not do. He couldn’t possibly find fault.
I smoothed my gloved hands over my skirts and thought of Alice Brent leaving Mme Delacroix with her work neatly folded. I thought of Mrs. Kincaid and Riversgate House in Chelsea. I thought of girls who climbed into carriages for positions that never existed.
Honora’s time was slipping away, and so was theirs. Action could not wait for permission.
I would need to find Riversgate.
The carriage could take me to Chelsea so I could find the place.
Weston, of course, would accompany me. I would pretend I meant to call on some innocuous acquaintance, should anyone ask.
But I couldn’t run off willy-nilly. I had to return Chrissie home first and dash off a note to Steele before I could search out this house.
Unfortunately, my plan was derailed after I arrived home.