Chapter 26
“Come along,” Geoffrey urged. “The air will do you good.”
“Oh, very well,” said Maud crossly. “I suppose if you won’t let me go to Newgate, then Hyde Park will have to do.
” She wondered if she would ever convince Geoffrey to let her visit Ralph.
Even though her betrothed was five years her junior, he was made of steel when his mind was resolved.
And it was currently resolved that no woman under his care would ever set foot across the threshold of London’s most infamous prison.
Geoffrey handed her up into his phaeton, and they tooled through the streets until they came to the iron gate for Hyde Park.
“Wait here and walk the horses,” Geoffrey told his groom.
Seizing Maud about the waist, he lifted her down to the pavement.
His hands lingered on her waist a little longer than was necessary, and his eyes bore such a look of intensity that Maud suspected he would have kissed her then and there if not for the presence of the public.
Geoffrey was ardent, but he was also discreet, something Maud appreciated immensely.
Giving her his arm, Geoffrey shortened his long stride to match hers.
They entered the gates of Hyde Park. Spring had begun to mimic summer; the air was fitful but warm.
A few acquaintances hailed them, but most of the other park visitors were inside an open carriage or astride a prancing horse and did not stop to talk.
It was not until they encountered a smart barouche stuffed with two large occupants that they were obliged to exchange more than a greeting.
“Maud, dear,” said the woman, her ample bosom contained by a puce spencer with military frogging. “How are you doing? We received your invitation to the wedding and wedding breakfast yesterday.”
“Oh, how excellent!” replied Maud, keenly aware that Geoffrey was still irked by such an invitation being sent to Lord and Lady Fremont.
“Fremont,” said Geoffrey, inclining his head.
“Tilbury,” replied the stout man in the carriage, copying the gesture.
“How are the children?” asked Maud. Her friend Emma had produced a child every year since her marriage without any time for her figure to recover from the endeavor.
It was highly likely that she was currently pregnant, for it had been at least six months since the last infant had been born into the world.
The plump couple was much of a size, although Lord Fremont affected Prince George’s style by padding out his shoulders and nipping in his waist. Maud would not be surprised if he wore a corset.
“As rambunctious as always,” said Emma, a soft look in her eyes.
Her children were her favorite topic of conversation.
“Jack has started writing his letters. And Amelia adores wearing my jewelry. They all developed coughs this spring, but I made a tonic that helped ease the symptoms. Richie is a bit of a trial still in the matter of sleeping, but—”
“Do I have your support for the bill I’m proposing?” Fremont asked, his crass voice coming in over top of his wife’s conversation.
“No, my lord,” said Geoffrey coldly. “You don’t.”
Maud pasted a smile on her face and tried to keep her mind on what Emma was saying.
She had some inkling what bill Fremont was proposing—a bill of inclosure that would win him the favor of some of the richest men of England—but she knew that Geoffrey saw it as radically unfair and planned to speak against it.
“How vexing,” replied Fremont. “I find it strange that you plan to attend sessions at all before Parliament adjourns, what with your upcoming nuptials.”
“One must see justice done.”
“Hmm…justice, just like the just deserts for Lady Worlington’s unfortunate relative.”
That comment caused Emma to cease prattling. Her double chin began to quiver, and she gave Lord Fremont a subtle shake of the head. Maud turned pale and her dark eyes flashed. Lord Fremont was a bully, just like her former stepson had been. No wonder Geoffrey disliked him so much.
Maud considered with satisfaction that Geoffrey had no need of padding to broaden his shoulders, and what was more, on the fencing floor he was one of the quickest blades in England.
He used that rapier swiftness now to combat Lord Fremont’s comment.
“I believe Mr. Aldine’s barrister, Sir Philip Phipps, will thoroughly prove that his client was nowhere near the unfortunate incident at King’s Theatre. ”
“Oh, you’ve engaged Sir Philip, have you? The man’s overpraised and doubtless underprovided with evidence. He can spout flowery rhetoric, but he can’t spin gold out of straw.”
Maud could see that Lord Fremont was refusing to let the matter drop, despite his wife’s subtle pressure on his arm.
“I daresay Sir Philip will make more headway in the courtroom than you will make on the floor of Parliament—” Geoffrey’s blood was up, and Maud could see that he was playing with sharps now.
The only thing that would make this worse was if Emma’s enterprising sister Anthea Wedgwood came riding up on her showy chestnut.
“It was so delightful to see you, Emma,” said Maud, nudging Geoffrey into the grass away from the barouche. “We look forward to having you at the wedding.”
Emma gave a nervous smile. “Good-bye, Maud. You must come visit me soon.”
“Of course,” said Maud with a wave to the departing barouche.
She wondered how long she would be welcome in that house once she became the Duchess of Tilbury.
Lord Fremont did not seem like he took kindly to being crossed, and Geoffrey was not the sort to conciliate a cockatrice unless it was part of a larger scheme to orchestrate the beast’s downfall.
“Well, Dolly, I trust Miss Clifford’s replacement found her room satisfactorily cleaned?”
“Yes,” said Dolly warily.
It had been over a week since Pevensey had last seen her.
The broad-hipped dresser had painted her own face as if she were about to go on stage and was wearing a low-cut dress with gold braid on the hem.
Pevensey wondered if she was part of the chorus for the new production they were practicing.
Close up, the effect was more grotesque than gorgeous.
“Are you wondering what was in those letters I found in the room?”
“No,” she said sullenly.
“Come now,” said Pevensey. “You must be curious.” The first of the three letters had been from Ralph Aldine demanding proof of the baby’s paternity. But the other two letters were more interesting. He took one of them out of his pocket. “Here. See what it says.”
“I can’t read,” said Dolly promptly, pushing it back towards him.
“Indeed?” Pevensey’s red eyebrows rose. “Then I’ll read it for you.”
Libby, you naughty minx,
What do you mean writing me at my home? You know my man is tasked with sending any messages between us. And furthermore, what do you mean you’re in the family way? I assumed your fellow Cyprians would have taught you how to take precautions for that possibility.
I shall visit you in person and tell you what I think of this unfortunate development, but in the meantime, no more letters, or—I promise you—there will be no more parcels from Rundell & Bridge.
—F
Pevensey folded the letter and replaced it in his pocket. “Who might “F” be, Dolly?”
The actress shrugged. When her face had no animation, she looked old and worn and used up.
Pevensey pulled out his notebook and began to sketch. “I think you were intimately familiar with everyone who went into Miss Clifford’s dressing room. I daresay you even had to clean up after them. Who is “F,” Dolly?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, causing her bosom to show even further in her low-cut gown.
Pevensey wondered if she thought this would distract him.
He had no interest in her bosom, even though he’d flirted with her more than once in the course of his investigations.
“On the night of the murder, you told one of my colleagues that Ralph Aldine had just been in Miss Clifford’s rooms after the performance. ”
“That’s right,” said Dolly.
“How do you know that?”
Her brow crinkled. “I heard his voice in there.”
“Did you see him go in?”
“No,” she said slowly.
“What does Mr. Aldine’s voice sound like?”
“I don’t know how to describe it,” she said in a frustrated tone. “Just a voice.”
“I would think an actress would know something about how to describe a voice,” observed Pevensey.
Dolly glared at him, her natural features working in strange contrast with the happy surprise of her stage paint.
“Did you see Mr. Aldine leave the room?”
“No, I was changing my own dress then.”
“Is it possible, then, that it was not in fact Mr. Aldine in Miss Clifford’s dressing room after the performance.”
“Y-yes. No!” said Dolly with a mulish set of her face.
“Why are you so certain?”
“She came to the door and called for me. She said, ‘he’s back again.’ And that’s how I know it was him.”
“Is it possible that she could have been referring to a different man?”
“No, she told me to get the l—” Dolly fell silent.
“What did she tell you?” said Pevensey sternly. He was a small man, but he knew how to make his voice imposing when the occasion warranted it.
Dolly took a deep breath. “She told me to get the letter.”
“Was it the one I just read to you?” asked Pevensey. “Or was it in fact this one?”
He pulled a second letter out of his coat and began to read.
Libby, you naughty minx,
What do you mean writing me at my home? You know my man is tasked with sending any messages between us. And furthermore, what do you mean you’re in the family way? I assumed your fellow Cyprians would have taught you how to take precautions for that possibility.
I shall visit you in person and tell you what I think of this unfortunate development, but in the meantime, no more letters, or—I promise you—there will be no more parcels from Rundell & Bridge.
—Will
As he read, the grease paint on Dolly’s face began to melt.
“It is the same letter,” observed Pevensey. “But with one important difference in the text.” He held the letter with Will’s name on it up to the candlelit sconce in the theater corridor.
“I don’t know anything about it,” protested Dolly miserably. “I told you I can’t read. I just brought her the letter like she asked.”
“But which letter?” demanded Pevensey. “And did you hide both letters behind the mirror after you found her dead? Tell me, why did you have the letters in the first place, Dolly? They were clearly meant for Miss Clifford. Why didn’t she keep them in her own room?”
“I don’t know!” shrieked Dolly, her eyes frightened.
The outburst came just as Tibbs with his gray-streaked hair entered the room.
“He said he doesn’t keep a guest book,” blurted out Tibbs.
“But he does, Pevensey. He does.” He held out a small notebook to Pevensey, of the sort that a gambler would use to record his winnings and losings.
“Apparently, this is a house of blackmail as well as debauchery.”