Chapter 12
After installing the slate board, Kendra and Alec traveled to Lady St. James’s townhouse via carriage through streets shadowed by low-bellied clouds that obscured the sun, threatening rain or sleet.
Kendra knew that the colder-than-normal temperatures and seemingly never-ending sunless days were not only making farmers nervous, but also the general population.
In the future, this period would become known as the “Year Without a Summer,” thanks to the previous year’s volcanic eruption of Mount Tambora in Indonesia.
Kendra had read about the event in history books, but they didn’t convey the bleakness of the crop failures and food shortages, as well as the underlying fear that the new weather pattern meant the world was ending.
The carriage stopped outside Lady St. James’s home.
Eleven o’clock in the morning was not only an unfashionable hour to call upon a member of the Ton, but it was also considered shockingly rude.
Lady St. James’ butler certainly looked appalled when he opened the door to find Alec and Kendra on the stoop.
He quickly composed himself when he realized who was calling, and hurried off to deliver Alec’s card to Lady St. James’s lady’s maid, who would then give it to her mistress.
Still, the fact that he left the Marquis and Marchioness of Sutcliffe standing in the entryway rather than escorting them into the drawing room revealed how they’d discombobulated the man.
When the butler returned, his face flushed red at the faux pas as he told them that Lady St. James was at home, but would be a few minutes before she joined them.
He ushered them into Lady St. James’s fussy parlor—an eye-popping mishmash of ancient world, Asian, and baroque decorating elements—and had a maid bring in a tea tray and dishes of fruit and bite-sized cakes.
Kendra was standing in front of one of the cluttered tables, studying the laughing head of a deity in gray stone, either from the Ming Dynasty or a clever forgery, when Lady St. James scurried into the room in a flutter of ribbons and ruffles.
“My Lord Sutcliffe, Lady Sutcliffe,” she greeted somewhat breathlessly.
Kendra turned to look at the countess, who favored styles more suited to a young debutante rather than a woman approaching her mid-fifties.
Today, she’d dressed in a pink-and-white floral glazed chintz with a deep pink sash tied into an extravagant bow beneath her ample bosom.
A lace cap covered brown hair streaked with gray.
She’d draped a gold-fringed paisley shawl over her shoulders and clutched a pink feathered fan, which she now unfurled and waved in front of her face, even though the room was cool.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” she continued, deliberately slowing her pace, a wide smile creasing her plump face as Alec pushed himself to his feet and gave an elegant bow.
He said, “Forgive us for calling on you at this ungodly hour. I know it’s unorthodox.”
She tittered. “One might say that it is more unorthodox that you are calling upon me this morning instead of embarking on your bridal tour, my lord.” Her brown eyes gleamed with sly amusement.
“My dear friend Lady Atwood informed me that after the wedding you would be traveling to Venice to introduce your bride to your relatives. You were wed yesterday, were you not?”
“We were indeed.” Alec waited politely until Lady St. James and Kendra sat down before he took his seat again. He gazed at the matron. “Unfortunately, we were forced to postpone our honeymoon.”
Lady St. James snapped her fan shut. “Does this have anything to do with the tragic death of Grace Taylor-Clarke, the Countess of Westford?” She smiled at their surprise.
Reaching for a small pitcher, she splashed milk into her porcelain cup before pouring tea.
“Everyone in town is talking about the poor creature.”
“What are they saying?” Kendra asked.
“Well . . .” The countess picked up her teacup and studied Kendra over the rim. “Word is that it was a bizarre accident, falling off the balcony in the Bowden Theater. Of course, no one believes it.”
“What do they believe?”
“Why, that Grace threw herself off the balcony, of course. Though now I’m thinking that she was murdered.”
Kendra raised her eyebrows. “Why do you think that?”
Lady St. James’s laughed lightly. “Why? Because you are here, my dear.”
Kendra acknowledged that with a smile. “What can you tell us about Lady Westford?”
“What precisely do you want to know?”
“What kind of person was she?”
The countess took a slow slip of her tea as she considered.
“She was, as I’m certain you know, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting,” she said finally, setting down her teacup.
“I found her to be a serious sort. Always reading—and not interesting books, either. They were about natural philosophy or medicinal plants. Can you imagine? And she attended lectures at the Royal Society. Quite unusual for a lady.” She leaned forward slightly.
“Then there is—was—her association with Mr. Goldsten.”
Kendra regarded her. “Mr. Goldsten?”
“He’s a surgeon.” She hesitated, then lowered her voice to add, “And a Jew.”
“What exactly was her association with him?”
The matron offered Kendra a teasing smile. “I suppose I can discuss this with you, since you are now a married lady. You could say that Grace had a particular fondness for Mr. Goldsten.”
“They were having an affair?”
Lady St. James gave a surprised laugh. “You are very blunt, my dear. Yes, that’s the on-dit.
However, I will concede that they conducted themselves with great discretion.
Most likely because the Queen is a stickler when it comes to propriety.
A bit hypocritical, if you ask me, since her own son, the Prince Regent, can hardly claim to be a paragon.
Or her other sons and daughters, for that matter.
” She sniffed. “Though I will allow that Queen Charlotte has always been straitlaced, with nary a word spoken against her when it came to her marriage vows.”
Kendra wasn’t interested in royal gossip. “Did Lady Westford’s husband know?”
“Certainly.” Lady St. James flicked her hand in a gesture of casual dismissal before reaching for a cake. “They’ve led separate lives for ages. It’s common knowledge that Westford has had a left-handed wife for nearly thirty years.”
“A what?”
Alec was the one who answered. “A mistress,” he told Kendra, then asked Lady St. James, “Who is she?”
“Hetty O’Leary. Or is it Heather? No matter.” Lady St. James bit into the cake, chewed and swallowed. “She was an actress when she met Westford. By all accounts, they fell madly in love and his lordship set her up in a villa. In St. John’s Wood, of course.”
Seeing Kendra’s confusion, the countess explained, “St. John’s Wood is famous—or is it infamous?
—for housing the mistresses of gentlemen.
’Tis where Prinny set up his morganatic wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert.
Though she may have moved there after their relationship ended.
’Tis difficult to keep up with his many loves.
Mrs. O’Leary has been giving Westford a score of by-blows ever since. It’s all very . . . domestic.”
Kendra didn’t know why she was startled by this information.
She’d been here long enough to know that for all its rules and regulations that restricted behavior (mostly the behavior of women), the Beau Monde had a hedonistic streak as wide as the Atlantic Ocean.
No one batted an eyelash when gentlemen kept mistresses—or, apparently, an entire second family—on the side.
But it was hard to reconcile the haughty man she’d met yesterday with this story of a double life.
“How many children do they have?” asked Alec, taking a sip of his tea.
“Oh, good heavens, I’m not certain. It’s not like that family is part of proper society.
The eldest son, though, was trained as a barrister, and is currently working in the House of Commons as a clerk.
” The countess finished her cake. “I believe Mr. O’Leary has ambitions to hold office in Parliament—a desire no doubt fostered by his lordship. ”
“And Lady Westford? How did she feel about her husband’s second family?” Kendra asked.
Lady St. James’s lips curled in an indulgent smile.
“You and Sutcliffe have clearly formed a love match. Of course, I knew that the instant I saw this rapscallion cast his eyes at you.” She picked up the feathered fan to give Alec’s arm a playful rap.
“Not everyone is so fortunate, though. Lady Westford had her first season the year after I was presented, you know. She was Miss Grace Morton then. Such a dainty thing. I was positively green with envy over her figure—which she maintained throughout the years, despite having three children. Not an easy thing to do. Children wreak havoc on one’s form,” she said, sweeping her hand to indicate her own plump figure.
Then, without a hint of self-awareness, she picked up another cake to nibble.
“I’m certain she could have had her pick of beaux, but her father had already arranged a match with Westford’s father.
Henry was Viscount Dorsten at the time; a good catch, but the estates were impoverished. ”
“And Miss Morton supplied the fortune,” Alec murmured.
“Yes. It’s been said that the union was satisfactory for both parties.”
Alec said, “I was presented to their daughter during her first season several years ago.”
“That must have been the youngest. Lady Matilda Taylor-Clarke—now Lady Ross. Married an Irish lord, of all things. Although a step up from the match made by their eldest daughter, Lady Hannah, who married beneath her with Mr. Charles Nettlemyer. His family is in the banking trade. Excessively wealthy, which, I suppose, helps one overlook their lack of pedigree.”
“It does indeed,” Alec agreed easily.
“Their youngest is a son, thank goodness. The estates are secure, although the viscount is a bit of a scapegrace. Then again, young bucks ought to sow their wild oats before doing their duty.”
“How old is he?” Kendra asked.
“Five and twenty, I think.”
“And Mr. O’Leary? Is he younger or older?”
“Older. Why does that matter?”
Kendra had some thoughts on that, but pivoted. “Mrs. O’Leary was married before?”
“I don’t believe so. Why do you . . . oh, because she styles herself as Mrs. O’Leary?” Lady St. James shook her head. “Sometimes mistresses, like unmarried housekeepers, adopt the title of Mrs. It’s a mere formality, nothing more.”
“Do you know if Lady Westford was having any difficulties with Mr. Goldsten?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Mr. Goldsten is hardly in my social circle.”
“No, but Lady Westford was.”
“True, but as I said, they have been most discreet in their relationship.”
“What about if she was having trouble at . . . work?” Was being a lady-in-waiting, work? What did a lady-in-waiting actually do? Kendra realized she had no idea.
Lady St. James laughed delicately. “Oh, there’s always troubles.
Royal court is rife with politics and petty jealousies, and squabbles between the Mistress of Robes and Lady of the Bedchambers, vying for Her Majesty’s attention.
I honestly don’t know how our poor Queen can abide their cattiness in addition to the King’s indisposition.
Especially when he is in one of his spells and imagines he’s in love with one of the Queen’s ladies.
Her Majesty was quite distraught when the king pursued her Lady of the Bedchamber, Lady Pembroke. ”
“I suspect they are careful not to expose their rivalries in front of Her Majesty,” Alec commented, adroitly sidestepping the reference to the King’s madness.
“Very true,” conceded Lady St. James, pausing to refill her cup with milk and tea. “Grace was the Queen’s lady-in-waiting for six years. While one must always tread cautiously in court, she may have confided in one of the other ladies. I would imagine she formed friendships there.”
She took a dainty sip of tea before setting the cup down carefully.
“I heard that Lady Melville, Lady Macclesfield, and Lady Bath have accompanied Her Majesty to Windsor Castle this week, but Lady Harrington is having a ball tonight. She is one of the Ladies-of-the-Bedchamber. If Grace confided in anyone about what was happening in her life, it would be the Saint—Lady Jane Harrington. I would be delighted to introduce her to you if you are attending this evening, my lady?”
Kendra managed to bite back a sigh, glancing at Alec. “I guess we’re going to a ball.”