Chapter 22 #2
“Good,” said Geoffrey. “Because by coming to town, you’ve jeopardized everything we hoped to accomplish.
If anyone from the ton or the society magazines gets wind of your condition, the rumors will ricochet through town like a pall mall ball.
” He looked down at her belly. “There’s no help for it.
You can’t go back to Carham now. You’ll have to stay here confined to the house until the baby comes. ”
“I came here to see Ralph,” objected Helena.
“Absolutely not,” said Geoffrey. “Newgate’s no place for a lady. I forbid it.” He looked at Maud who, under his nose, was exchanging a meaningful glance with his sister. “And that goes for you too, Lady Worlington.”
“If I may remind you, your grace,” said Maud regally, “we’re not married yet.”
“I am painfully aware of that fact,” retorted Geoffrey. If he’d had his way, they would have ignored all the conventions of mourning and married by special license months ago.
He turned back to Helena. “If you even set foot outside the front door, I’ll put you under lock and key in your room. It’s for your own good.”
The old Helena would have been cowed into tears, but this new creature met his glare with unabashed eyes. “I have no plans to stay at your house, Geoffrey. I’ve brought several servants from my own establishment, and I’ll be letting a house of my own for the duration of my stay in London.”
Geoffrey could only stare at her in astonishment as she climbed the steps back out of the orangerie. His fingers clenched into fists as her black cloak disappeared into the house. “Let her go,” whispered Maud. “She’s a woman not a child.”
“I…see that,” replied Geoffrey. What had happened to his sister in the last five months? He had thought she would wilt like a cut flower at the news of Ralph’s imprisonment, but she had sprung back like a blade of grass that was stronger and more resilient after being trodden upon.
Pevensey trudged up the stairs to his flat.
It had been a long day with little movement on any of the cases he was currently working—little movement except for Tibbs constantly looking over his shoulder and demanding to know what his next steps would be.
“I presume Sir Richard has given you work of your own?” he had said, trying to shame the boorish busybody into leaving him alone.
“Perhaps he has, and perhaps he hasn’t,” Tibbs had sneered. “Perhaps my work is keeping an eye on you, Mr. Pevensey.”
Pevensey had resolved to talk to Sir Richard about the officious fellow at the next opportunity, but as he arrived home, the annoyance and the resolution faded away like the morning miasmas that rose from the Thames.
There, on his doorstep was a crisp, white letter, freshly arrived from sweet-smelling Sussex to the coal-stained upper story of his London tenement building.
My Dear Mr. Pevensey,
I must thank you for the drawing of the single, solitary flower in the square nearest your flat.
London, while it has its charms, does seem to snuff out the life of nature in favor of the more efficient forms of life, like gas lamps and stone-paved streets.
The spring flowers are in full bloom in Sussex, the bluebells, and the wood anemones, and the blossoms on the blackthorn trees.
Edward and I returned home from our travels yesterday, taking a roundabout and decidedly non-efficient route so as to better appreciate the view.
In my last letter, I indicated that I would likely not be returning to London until the next season.
Indeed, after our lengthy excursion to the lakes and peaks of Derbyshire, I think I could remain at home for a year and be content.
Upon our arrival, however, I discovered an urgent letter from my dear friend Helena Angiers, now Helena Aldine.
Following the unfortunate events at the beginning of the year, she wed Ralph Aldine, the half-brother of the man who died.
You will, of course, remember the details of that investigation.
Now, it appears that Helena’s new husband has been imprisoned on charges of murder and will be hauled before the magistrate soon.
I would not have thought that Helena would have the spirit for such a thing, but she has traveled to London to be near him.
I intend to travel there as well to support her in this time of distress.
The matter is complicated further by her advanced state of pregnancy, so it is possible I shall stay in London for the next two months or more to help with the birth of the baby.
Should our paths cross while I am in town, I would enjoy a comfortable coze over a cup of tea.
And if the weather should permit, perhaps you can show me this intersection where carts are overturned so frequently—for from the pictures in your past letters of the overturned potato cart and the upended cabbage wagon, it appears almost a daily event.
I would not have thought vegetable transport to be such a hazardous occupation.
Yours,
Edwina Cecil
A slow grin spread over Pevensey’s freckled face. He ought to have foreseen that Ralph Aldine’s imprisonment would set this chain of events in motion. How pleasant to have Miss Cecil here in town—although, without her brother here, he might not have as much excuse to visit her.
He considered whether he ought to make a reply but decided that it was likely a return letter would cross paths with Miss Cecil’s own travels to London.
It was but a day’s journey from the Cecils’ home in Sussex.
It was possible that she was already in town.
He wondered where she would stay once she arrived.
Last Christmas, her brother had let a house in Baker Street, but a young woman alone would only do so if she had a female friend to stay with her.
He had climbed his stairs five minutes ago, exasperated with his day’s adventures and determined to do nothing more for the evening.
But after reflecting on the matter, he decided that his work was not yet finished.
He would put his hat back on, go out again, and find a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese from a street vendor.
Then he would call on Geoffrey Angiers, the Duke of Tilbury, determine if he had any information pertinent to the Aldine case, and inquire—as a casual aside—whether the duke was expecting any houseguests in the near future.