Chapter Thirteen
Lady Mary
Although she made a merry chase, I finally tracked down my quarry on The Strand at Twinings.
Mrs. Amelia Massey had her arm hooked loosely with her daughter’s as they browsed the aisles of tea leaves, the girl out just this season.
Mrs. Massey graciously nodded her head to the other patrons, the green feather in her turban fluttering with the motion.
I cut across the store, ignoring the enticing scents coming from the bins, and joined the two Massey women. “I have been trying to speak with you for many days.”
Mrs. Massey turned to me. “Lady Mary.” She slowly inclined her head, the action almost unwilling. “I must have missed seeing your card among my callers.”
My card was near impossible to miss. It was printed on a thick, ivory cardstock, with my name in a bold font that took up almost all the space of the card. “How fortunate, then, to find you here.” I eyed her daughter. “This is a conversation best kept between us, I believe.”
“Mother?” Miss Massey asked.
Her mother sighed. “If Lady Mary wishes to speak privately, I am happy to accommodate her. We passed Miss Smythe at the haberdashers next door. Why don’t you go speak with her? I know you wish to discuss your gowns for the upcoming Vauxhall gala.”
“All right.” The girl hurried away, seeming eager to chat with her friend.
“Now.” Mrs. Massey lowered her voice. “What is it you wish to say?”
Seeing no reason to dither, I asked her directly. “Your fight with Lady Richford at my club. What was its cause?”
Mrs. Massey pressed her lips tight, her cheeks flushing nearly as dark as the puce of her muslin gown. After several moments of silence, she said, “It was private.”
“You threw a chair at her in my club.” I pushed my spectacles up my nose. “If you wanted it to remain private, you did a very poor job of it.”
She shot me a glare from the corner of her eye. “A broken chair is hardly the worst damage that occurs at your club. With the arrow holes, that catapult accident, and the lawn bowling dents, I’m surprised you even noticed a broken chair.”
A gentleman jostled my elbow as he reached for a sack of assam tea.
Tired of blocking the shoppers, I herded Mrs. Massey out of the way and into a shadowed nook.
“Come, come. You cannot be unaware that with the death of Lady Richford your actions would come under scrutiny. If the officer from Bow Street hasn’t been to question you, he soon will. ”
“There is nothing to say.” She shifted her wrapper higher up her shoulder. “You know how Lady Richford was. Always trying to win a point when she spoke with you. Looking for any weakness to exploit. I lost my temper, but it was nothing to kill her over.”
“You threw a chair.” And my chairs were made out of solid oak. It wouldn’t have been easy. “You weren’t angry over just a cruel word. It was something more.”
Mrs. Massey slid her gaze to the left and frowned. “It was a personal matter.”
I waited. People tended to abhor silence. Mrs. Massey was no exception. She spoke to fill the void, her voice unnaturally airy.
“Lady Richford was a bit too free with her attention to members of the opposite sex.” She fussed with the feather in her turban, adjusting it so it stood more upright.
“When she turned that attention on Mr. Massey, I objected. The attention was one-sided, of course, but she was interfering with my family.”
Mrs. Massey lowered her hands and gave me a hard stare. “I won’t let anyone harm my family. A set-down was required.”
The only portion of the woman’s statement I knew to be true was that last one, that she wouldn’t let anyone harm her family.
The other bit, about Lady Richford’s roaming eye landing on Mr. Massey, rang untrue.
It would support Edgar Bannister’s assertion that his mother looked outside her marriage for companionship, however, so perhaps Mrs. Massey was merely uncomfortable telling me, or anyone, about it.
Perhaps Mr. Massey had returned the attention.
How far would Mrs. Massey go to protect her marriage? Could the prim woman in front of her commit murder? And if Lady Richford and Mr. Massey were having an affair, would Mr. Massey have killed the woman to hide it?
I rubbed my forehead. I’d come for answers but only came away with more questions.
We said our farewells, mine a bit annoyed, hers frosty, and I had my driver return me home. I loved my club, but with all the problems surrounding it, my house was my only refuge.
Mr. Stavers greeted me at the door and took my cloak and walking stick. “Your nephew called on you, milady. He said to tell you that he’s available if you need any assistance with The Minerva Club.”
My chest tightened. Dear Marcus. As the Duke of Montague and one of the wealthiest men in England, I could only imagine in what form his assistance might come. His inquiry agency, of course, but with his money he might also offer to buy The Times to ensure no more filth was printed about me.
But Marcus was a new father. He’d had enough trials in his life without taking on his dotty aunt’s problems, too. Unless facing the direst need, I wanted to handle my club’s problems myself.
Mr. Stavers held up a silver platter, his nose close to touching it because of his stoop. “The correspondence that arrived today, milady.”
“Thank you, Stavers.” The man had been in service to my husband’s father. It was past time for him to retire, but whenever the offer was made, he flatly refused. And if I was being honest, I didn’t want to lose him, either. He was a connection to my husband, and there weren’t many of those left.
I took the four missives. Two were from friends, one was a bill. The other only had my name scrawled across the front with no indication of whom it was from. I started walking to my sitting room and opened that one first.
When I read the first line, my feet froze. “Who delivered this?” I asked Stavers.
He seemed taken aback by my tone. “A young lad. He seemed impressed upon receiving a shilling on delivery as well as pick-up.”
“Not one of our usual couriers then?”
“No milady.” He ran his needlelike fingers through his thinning hair. “I’d never seen him before.”
I nodded and changed my course from the parlor to my library. I kept brandy in the library. After I’d settled myself in my favorite wide upholstered chair with a tumbler of liquor on the table next to me, I reread the note.
Those that inquire into an area often become the subject matter.
It didn’t have to be a threat. It could be someone’s idea of a joke. Or merely a warning from a concerned party.
I took another sip of brandy, letting the sweet heat from the alcohol warm my chilled body.
It didn’t have to be a threat. But it certainly felt like one.