Chapter 31
Maud Worlington, Geoffrey’s betrothed, was still there when Edwina arrived back in Baker Street, but she was just taking her leave of Helena.
Edwina, possessed by a new idea, followed Maud out to the porch.
“Lady Worlington,” she interjected, before the woman could climb into her carriage, “I wonder if you might make an introduction for me.”
“An introduction? To whom?”
“I believe you are acquainted with Lady Fremont and Miss Wedgwood. I would like to call on them, but we have not been introduced.”
Lady Worlington’s face grew troubled. “I am indeed acquainted with them, but Miss Wedgwood and I are not close, and I am still in mourning—”
“It’s for the case,” said Edwina gently.
“The case?”
“Mr. Pevensey has designated Lord Fremont as a person of interest. I was hoping to find a way to ask some questions to his wife and sister-in-law.
“You mean Lord Fremont might have…might be…instead of Ralph?”
“I’m not sure,” said Edwina. “But his name has come up. Will you help me?”
Lady Worlington took a deep breath. “For Ralph, yes.”
Later that afternoon, the carriage came back again to call for Edwina.
She had dressed simply in a peach-colored gown with white ribbons.
She knew that the ladies they were visiting would be dressed in far grander clothing, but it did not bother her.
If they considered her a country mouse, they would be less careful about letting crumbs fall.
“Should we avoid speaking about the murder?” asked Lady Worlington.
“Not at all,” said Edwina. “It would be better if it came up in conversation so that we can watch the two of them and see if they reveal anything.”
“I cannot imagine that Emma would know anything about her husband’s sins,” said Lady Worlington. “She has always devoted herself to her children and her house and knows little about her husband’s activities outside the home.”
“Perhaps Miss Wedgwood will be more insightful and more incisive.”
They arrived in Grosvenor Square in less than a quarter of an hour.
The butler ushered them into a grand salon where the ladies of the house were receiving.
“Maud, dear,” said Lady Fremont, rising ponderously from the sofa to give Lady Worlington a kiss on the cheek. “I didn’t know you were making calls.”
“I make an exception for you, Emma,” said Lady Worlington, putting on a bright smile despite her lavender gown. “I have a friend in town. This is Miss Edwina Cecil, visiting from Sussex. She was one of Helena’s schoolmates, and we have come to know each other since my engagement to Tilbury.”
“You look older than Helena,” said Miss Wedgwood, assessing Edwina with a frank gaze. Her own muslin gown was shot through with threads of gold in a pattern that highlighted her trim figure.
“I entered the ladies’ seminary later than most,” said Edwina calmly.
It was true. The tragedy of her parents’ death had delayed many things in her life, although it had created an exceptionally strong bond of affection between herself and her brother Edward.
“Helena was fifteen when we met, and I was seventeen.”
“I daresay Helena was all trailing curls and big eyes,” said Miss Wedgwood. “She always has been a taking little thing. I wonder how the air in Scotland agrees with her? I’m sure you must be keeping up with her latest adventures?”
It was the question cast by an expert angler, but Edwina did not take the hook.
“Of course. My brother and I took a trip to the north recently and just returned a few days ago.” There.
That was unclear enough to imply that Helena was still located somewhere on the Scottish border.
And vague enough not to reveal anything about Helena’s “adventures.”
“How soon your wedding is,” said Lady Fremont to Lady Worlington. The stout woman gave her friend an affectionate smile. “Surely, you intend to put aside your mourning clothes before then?”
“Possibly,” said Lady Worlington with a calculated sigh, “although my family has suffered so many troubles as of late, that it’s possible the wedding may have to be postponed.”
Edwina watched as Anthea Wedgwood sent her sister a knowing look. Clearly, both were aware of the accusations against Lady Worlington’s brother.
Lady Fremont, however, preferred to change the topic of conversation. “We’ve had our own troubles lately with the children ill. There is nothing sadder for a mother than to see her children suffering.”
“I don’t believe Lady Worlington has that trouble to contend with,” remarked Miss Wedgwood, “as her first marriage yielded no children. One wonders whether a second marriage will rectify the matter.”
Edwina was astonished by the callous viciousness of the remark. Was Miss Wedgwood trying to imply that the Duke of Tilbury could do better than marry a barren woman?
Lady Worlington kept her composure, but Edwina could see spots of color appear high on her cheekbones. “It is not a trouble that afflicts you either, Miss Wedgwood, as you’ve not managed to marry at all.”
“No,” said Miss Wedgwood, fully ready to cross swords with their guest. “Although some unmarried women do manage to fall with child without the benefit of a husband.”
Edwina kept her face placid. Surely, Miss Wedgwood did not know of Helena’s predicament? But if she did not, why would she have made such a statement?
Lady Fremont’s countenance was more troubled, possibly to witness such strife between two women she cared for.
She lowered her short, thick legs to the ground and stood up from the sofa.
“Miss Cecil, would you care to take a tour of the house? It is one of the older houses in London with a good deal of history on the walls.”
“Of course,” said Edwina. She joined Lady Fremont, and they traversed the large salon to the hearth on the other side of it, leaving Lady Worlington and Miss Wedgwood staring daggers at each other over the tea table.
“This is a picture of my husband’s father,” said Lady Fremont, gesturing above the hearth.
She seemed determined to escape all sounds of conflict by providing the dullest of descriptions.
“He was quite renowned in his day as a speaker of note in Parliamentary affairs. My husband Henry bids fair to be just like him.”
“What topics does Lord Fremont speak on?” asked Edwina with wide-eyed curiosity.
“I’m afraid my female mind cannot always follow them,” said Lady Fremont, “but he has been a prominent voice about the poor laws and workhouses and is currently addressing some bills of inclosure. He is greatly sought after by the philanthropists in society to aid their causes. His good character and great heart are known to all.”
Edwina made no comment on that. She had certainly never heard of Lord Fremont being spoken of as a friend to the poor.
They moved out of the salon into the grand entryway and walked slowly up one flight of stairs. “This,” said Lady Fremont, pointing to a painting on the landing, “is my husband’s mother.”
Edwina saw a blond-haired woman dressed in the styles of yesteryear with a low neckline, a tiny waist, and wide hips achieved by generous padding.
Her figure was the very opposite of Lady Fremont’s.
Her hostess needed no extra padding about the backside to be quite round, and she had the disadvantage of living in a time that adored slender Grecian columns rather than ample Rococo opulence.
The woman in the portrait wore a necklace of pink stones about her neck, a heavy collar of square and round jewels in an old-fashioned chain of gold.
“Pink topaz,” murmured Edwina, remembering Pevensey’s description of the stones at Rundell and Bridge and the drawing he had made of them.
“Pink was my mother-in-law’s favorite color,” said Lady Fremont, her voice dripping with disdain.
“She was a very pretty woman,” ventured Edwina.
“She was no better than she should be,” said Lady Fremont coolly.
“It pains me to say this, Miss Cecil, but she was actually my father-in-law’s mistress before he married her.
An actress who took the ton by storm and deluded my father-in-law with her wiles.
Fortunately, she died young, and my Henry was raised away from her influence. Mostly.”
“Oh, I can see how distressing that might be,” said Edwina, sympathizing with Lady Fremont’s tight-lipped censure. “That necklace is very distinctive. Is it part of the family jewels?”
“Yes, of course, it belongs to the Fremont family. But I would never wear such a thing. I imagine Henry has it securely in the safe. There is no reason to suspect otherwise.”
Curious about such an adamant answer to such an innocent question, Edwina followed Lady Fremont through the picture corridor on the first story, listening to more tales of her husband’s relatives. Then, she suggested they return to the salon.
“Oh, but we shall stop in at the nursery first,” said Lady Fremont, “so you can see my little loves. A woman’s children, Miss Cecil, are her raison d’être.”
Edwina, who had no younger siblings, gave a gracious smile. She was not afraid of children, but she had spent little time in their presence. She considered that when Helena had her baby in two months’ time, it would be the first baby she had ever seen up close.
Lady Fremont opened the door to the nursery.
“Mama! Mama!” cried a pair of siblings who were each pulling on one side of a large stuffed doll.
“Jack! Amelia!” said Lady Fremont. “What on earth are you doing?”
“It’s mine, Mama!” said the little girl, “but Jack wants to cut off her hair.”
“She traded it to me,” objected the slightly larger little boy, “and I can do what I want with it.”
“Nonsense,” said Lady Fremont. “Your father gave Amelia that doll, and she is not allowed to trade it to you. Go play with your own toys, Jack.”
Sulkily, the older boy shuffled to the other side of the nursery, kicking every toy in his path as he went.
“Where is Richie?” Lady Fremont demanded.
“Still in bed from his nap, my lady,” said a harried nurse who was bouncing a wailing six-month-old up and down. “And John is colicky again.”
“Ah, the poor little loves,” said Lady Fremont.
She turned to Edwina. “They have all had the most dreadful coughs. I’ve been forced to give them laurel water to sleep at night—nothing else works.
I make my own remedies from Culpeper’s Herbal.
Do you know it? Every wife and mother should have a copy on her shelves. ”
“How commendable of you to make your own remedies! I know a little about herbs, although my practice with medicines is limited. I must confess, I’ve always been more interested in how they look than what they do.
I completed an embroidery last summer of all the plants in our kitchen garden in Sussex. ”
“How delightful,” said Lady Fremont, who was clearly a devotee of all things domestic. “I should like to see such a thing. You may know that my father is a botanist, and it is from him that I learned the properties of plants.”
“Yes,” said Edwina. “Lord Tilbury speaks highly of your father as he is something of an amateur gardener himself. Is your sister Anthea as knowledgeable as you about such things?”
Lady Fremont shook her head. “Anthea has always been more restless and independent than I. She does not take the time to sit and study or improve her domestic skills but is forever charging into some new endeavor.”
“I could not help but notice a certain coolness between her and Lady Worlington.” Edwina tried to discern if Lady Fremont was open to discussing the matter. “Pardon me, if I intrude on matters I should not. I am such a country mouse, and I have much to learn.”
“Yes,” said Lady Fremont with a sigh. “It is very distressing to me. Maud has been my friend since we made our debut together over six years ago, and Anthea is my youngest sister. The whole fault lies at the door of the Duke of Tilbury. He made overtures to Anthea last autumn, but then he threw her over for Maud at Christmas. I refuse to take sides on the matter, but there is a good deal of ill-will between them.”
Edwina was not sure how accurate those remarks were concerning the duke, but she nodded sympathetically.
“I daresay it is good, however, that your sister discovered Tilbury’s true character before they were married.
It would be quite dreadful if he had developed a passion for Lady Worlington after your sister had married him. ”
Lady Fremont’s broad face reddened. “If they were already married, I’m certain that my sister would have known how to manage him. You are very inexperienced, Miss Cecil, so you may not know that a man’s eye can wander, but a dutiful wife can always bring him back to the bosom of his family.”
“Such pearls of wisdom, Lady Fremont,” said Edwina, imbuing her voice with sincerity. She was not sure yet what all the pearls portended that had passed Lady Fremont’s lips, but she determined to collect as many as she could and let Mr. Pevensey decide what was pertinent to the case.