Chapter 39
“Are you certain about this?” said Lady Worlington, fingering the heavy topaz collar as the carriage came to a stop at the house of the Marquis de Montesquerrat.
“I am certain,” said Edwina, gazing approvingly at the tiara, earbobs, necklace, and bracelets. “The whole set is eminently recognizable. I shall be watching Lady Fremont’s face when she sees you.”
“She will never forgive me,” murmured Lady Worlington.
“You will never forgive yourself,” said the duke sitting next to her in the carriage, “if your brother hangs for a crime he did not commit.”
“Do you know your part, your grace?” asked Edwina.
“Certainly.”
Edwina hoped that the marquis’ invitation—and his intimation that Lord Fremont’s latest bill would be a topic of interest that evening—would be enough to bring their quarry to dinner on such short notice.
The whole plan hinged on both Lady Fremont and her sister being present, as they were far more likely to reveal something than the baron himself.
“Is Mr. Pevensey going to be present?” asked Lady Worlington.
“Yes, he will be watching from the shadows.”
“In what capacity?” asked the duke, rubbing a knuckle over his right sideburn.
“I don’t know,” said Edwina with a smile. “He refused to tell me.” In truth, Mr. Pevensey had been insufferably enigmatic about it, and she suspected he had made some private arrangement with the marquis that would take all of them by surprise.
For the occasion, Edwina had donned a simple silk dress of forest green and one string of pearls.
Lady Worlington, on the other hand, was bespangled with every piece of jewelry imaginable.
She had given up her blacks and lavenders and, instead, was wearing a gaudy confection of pink and white.
She looked far younger than her twenty-seven years and far giddier than her widow’s weeds had allowed.
They had purposely come late to the gathering to allow time for the other party to arrive.
“My lady,” said the red-haired butler at the door, bowing to Lady Worlington and ushering her in.
Edwina barely suppressed a giggle as she saw that Lady Worlington did not recognize the Bow Street Runner at all.
Somehow, with the marquis’ connivance, Jacob Pevensey had come by a suit of butler’s evening wear and was bowing them all into the entryway.
“His lordship is in the drawing room with the other guests,” said Pevensey, leading the way. “Dinner will be served shortly.”
Edwina saw the duke rest a comforting hand on Lady Worlington’s back as they proceeded down the corridor. The lady was nervous, and rightfully so. She had a crucial part to play in tonight’s tableau. The door to the drawing room opened, and the three guests went inside.
The marquis’ London home was extensive. The drawing room could amply contain the thirty people, or so, that had come to the dinner party.
Edwina moved immediately to the edges of the room where she could watch everything that transpired and noted that Pevensey had set himself up in the corner by the door, able to block anyone from exiting.
Lady Fremont and her sister were seated by the window, conversing with the hatchet-faced wife of one of Lord Fremont’s supporters while Lord Fremont talked with the man himself over by the fireplace.
The duke and Lady Worlington meandered through the room arm in arm, exchanging greetings with the other members of the ton and searching for their host to thank him for the invitation.
Edwina saw Lady Worlington take a deep breath and then glide in the direction of her friend.
“Emma, how good to see you here.” She held out her hand.
Mechanically, Lady Fremont took it, her eyes riveted to Lady Worlington’s neck. Lady Worlington gave a nervous smile.
It was Miss Wedgwood who broke the silent tension like a boot smashing through thin ice at the first freeze. “Lucifer’s eyes! Emma, do you see what she is wearing?”
Lady Fremont’s substantial bosom began to heave, and she pulled her hand away from Lady Worlington’s grasp.
“Where did you get that necklace?” demanded Anthea Wedgwood. “And all the rest of those jewels?” The hatchet-faced woman gasped at this breach in manners.
“Why, what do you mean?” asked Lady Worlington. “They were a gift from…a friend.”
“A gift from a friend?” repeated Miss Wedgwood in disbelief. “You viper. Not content with stealing Lord Tilbury from me, you must take my sister’s husband as well?”
The ripples of this accusatory conversation spread through the drawing room, and heads began to turn toward the women by the windows.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Lady Worlington coldly.
Lady Fremont snatched her sister’s hand to try to shut her up, but Miss Wedgwood was used to speaking her mind and would not be denied.
“Those jewels are very clearly part of the Fremont family collection. I can only assume they were given to you by Lord Fremont, in payment for services rendered. My poor sister thought she only had an actress to worry about, but apparently, conniving widows are even cleverer about bedding their best friend’s husband. ”
Over half the room heard that last comment, and a cacophony of confused commentary ricocheted off the tall ceilings as everyone surged forward to see the players in this vulgar scene.
Lord Fremont reached his wife’s side just as the Duke of Tilbury came level with Lady Worlington’s elbow.
“What is going on here?” demanded the duke, his blue eyes flashing.
“Miss Wedgwood was just about to apologize to me,” said Lady Worlington, her chin lifted high with carefully controlled fury.
“I will do no such thing,” said Miss Wedgwood.
“My sister has been looking for the recipient of this necklace for weeks, and it turns out it was none other than the woman she called friend.” She reached out and hit Lord Fremont savagely with her fan.
“How dare you betray Emma with this painted harlot!”
Lord Fremont began to bluster denials, while the hatchet-faced woman and the rest of the crowd looked on with growing scorn.
Edwina pressed forward so that she would not miss a syllable of the contretemps she and Pevensey had created.
She could see Pevensey still standing at the door and, beside him, a footman in an old-fashioned periwig who looked vaguely familiar.
The Duke of Tilbury’s jaw was twitching terribly as he controlled his urge to protect his betrothed from the onslaught of public opinion and let the scene play out.
Lady Fremont’s face was the very picture of chalk cliffs crumbling into the sea. “How could you do this, Henry?” she whispered. “After everything I’ve done for you?”
“I haven’t done a thing!” protested Lord Fremont. “I don’t know what witchery is here, but I never gave that woman those jewels.” He glanced around uneasily, seeing his erstwhile ally in the House of Lords sternly leading his wife away from the contagion of his presence.
“And I suppose you never visited that actress at the King’s Theatre, either?” shrilled Miss Wedgwood, hitting him again with her fan.
“That’s none of your affair,” said Lord Fremont. He looked for a moment as if he was about to backhand his sister-in-law across the face.
But Miss Wedgwood had cleared her decks and run out her guns and would not be silenced now.
“How convenient for you that she’s not here to tell the tale, and how effective of you to take double precautions.
The poison and the dagger. Do you mean to get rid of Lady Worlington in the same way so that she doesn’t attempt to blackmail you too? ”
A collective gasp went up through the room.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” said the marquis in silky tones, sweeping in to ameliorate the situation as only a host could. “My Lady Fremont,” he said, offering her his arm, “it appears that you have been wronged très terriblement. Allow me to take you to the retiring room away from all these eyes.”
“Why?” demanded Miss Wedgwood. “She’s done nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Neither have I,” protested Lord Fremont, trying to salvage whatever shreds of reputation he had left.
Edwina watched as the butler and the footman approached.
“My lord,” said Pevensey, executing a quick bow to Lord Fremont.
“Allow me to introduce myself—Jacob Pevensey, officer of the magistrates at Bow Street. And this is my associate, Jedediah Tibbs. We have recently received information that you purchased a bottle of cyanide from a local apothecary on the morning of Elizabeth Clifford’s murder. ”
Lord Fremont swore and tried to run for the door, but the duke and the bewigged Mr. Tibbs seized him and held him fast. “I am taking you into custody,” continued Pevensey in unperturbed tones, “for the murder of Miss Elizabeth Clifford of the King’s Theatre.”
A woman shrieked. Another woman fainted. The marquis escorted Lady Fremont out of the room with her sister following. “May I have your assistance, your grace,” asked Pevensey, “to escort Lord Fremont to Bow Street?”
“Certainly,” said the duke, his eyes hard, and his grip tightening on Fremont’s shoulder. He turned to Edwina. “Miss Cecil, can I prevail upon you to bring Lady Worlington home and stay with her tonight?”
“Of course,” said Edwina. Lady Worlington was still holding her head high as the light from the chandeliers glinted off the pink topaz tiara, but she could not be unaware of the fact that in forcing Lord Fremont’s confession, she had created a multitude of rumors about herself that would be difficult to quash.
No one had appetite after such a display, and as soon as the Bow Street Runners left with their prisoner, the rest of the guests began to leave with awkward farewells.
The marquis, who had deposited the Wedgwood sisters in a smaller salon across the corridor, came back to the entrance hall to wave placidly at the departing guests.
“I’m sorry about your dinner party, my lord,” said Edwina, giving him an apologetic press of the hand.”
“Mais non, I expected as much. I told my chef to only make enough for four, since I had a feeling it would all unravel before the first course. I must admit, I was hoping to dine en famille with my good friend Geoffrey, Lady Worlington, and yourself,”—he sighed—“but I shall console myself with listening to the melodious complaints of La Wedgwood over a choice Bordeaux.”
“You are a good friend, Louis,” said Lady Worlington, depositing a kiss on his cheek.
She removed the earbobs and bracelets, and with Edwina’s assistance unclasped the necklace and unpinned the tiara.
“I beg you to return these pieces to Lady Fremont with my apologies. Perhaps it would help her to know that they were not gifts from her husband but were in fact retrieved from a pawnshop near St. Martin’s. ”
“As you wish, my lady,” said the marquis, with a little bow. He waited at the door until the Duke of Tilbury’s carriage pulled forward, and then he disappeared into the twinkling lights of his house to continue performing the office of a friend.