Chapter Ten
Lady Mary
“I saw Montague just this morning. His daughter is improving,” I told Mrs. Bromwell.
I was seated in the Tea Room at The Minerva Club, a stack of invoices before me.
The Tea Room was the central gathering spot of the club, and recently refurbished.
The new windows, with their lotus-shaped lead-iron filigree embedded in them, gave a lovely view onto Jermyn Street.
Several round tables rested atop the new plank flooring, a couple of settees and low tables scattered in between.
A long bar ran the length of the side of the room where beverages stronger than tea were available.
The ample lighting and proximity to a footman ready to refill my teapot whenever its contents got low made it an ideal place to get some work done.
Its proximity to the club’s members, however, made accomplishing said work more difficult. Every lady inside my walls seemed inclined to offer a greeting, question, or observation as they passed by, heedless of my ducked head and sour expression.
In addition, a corner table had been taken over by two women who were running bets on this year’s marriage mart, and a loud crowd frequently gathered about them as wagers were laid and gossip delivered about which eligible bachelor seemed taken with which young miss.
The odds on a particular wallflower entering the matrimonial state tempted many a member to empty their reticule.
I sniffed. As the gambling was occurring under my roof, I should demand a cut of the profits.
It also didn’t help my productivity that Southey was at my feet. All the women loved to coo over the beast, sneaking him treats when they thought I wasn’t looking.
Mrs. Bromwell leaned forward, her opal necklace dipping inside her bodice. “And have you learned anything more about that poor soul who died at your house? Does Bow Street know who killed him?”
I bit back a sigh. I should make a public announcement instead of answering each member individually. I couldn’t blame them for their curiosity. I was curious, too. I was most likely annoyed because I had no answer. “No one has been arrested yet, but I’m sure it will come.”
I forced a smile. “If you want to hear the lecture on gunpowder, I believe it will begin shortly in the Great Room. The seats will fill up quickly.”
Mrs. Bromwell jumped up from her seat across the table from me. “Quite right. I don’t want to miss that. If you’ll excuse me.” And she scurried out the double doors and down the central hall to the back room.
Southey gazed after her, probably missing the little bits of scone the woman had snuck under the table. He licked crumbs from his muzzle.
I turned back to my invoices. I suspected the bakehouse I ordered from had double charged me last week. Either that, or Southey had been severely eating into my profits.
“Lady Mary!” Marie hurried in, waving a piece of paper in her hand. Mr. Burton was a step behind her. “I’ve discovered something you will want to know.”
“As have I.” Mr. Burton pulled out the chair across from me for Marie before pulling out his own next to mine.
Marie elbowed him aside and took his seat.
She spread her piece of paper before her, smoothing out the wrinkles.
“I found a sweet shop a street over from Mrs. Shaw’s house.
That’s Mrs. Trent’s sister,” she informed me, as though that were something I would have forgotten.
“One of her maids stops there every morning for a confection. I’ve struck up a conversation with her the past two days. ”
Mr. Burton took the other seat. He leaned down and scratched the dog behind his ear. “I don’t suppose you brought any sweets with you?” He dropped his gaze to the reticule on her lap, looking as hopeful as Southey.
She tugged it closer to her abdomen. “I have not. What I have brought is information. Edith, that’s the maid, isn’t too happy about having another child in the house. Apparently, the Trent daughter is particularly messy. Edith isn’t too fond of Mrs. Trent, either.”
I shoved the invoices in their envelope, giving up on them for the day. “That is information, I agree. It isn’t particularly useful information though, is it?”
Mr. Burton smothered a snicker.
Marie flushed. “That wasn’t the interesting bit. Edith told me that every Friday and Sunday night Mrs. Trent has been living with her sister, she takes her carriage out at eight in the evening until early the next morning.”
“And goes where?” I scooted to the edge of my seat.
Marie pushed a lock of crimson hair behind her ear. “Well, she wasn’t exactly sure, but rumor is Mrs. Trent is going to meet her paramour.”
I drummed my fingers on the table. If true, that could be one more motive for the victim’s widow. But how reliable were rumors spread by a sweets-obsessed gossip? “Someone must know where she goes. Her driver would.”
“I mentioned that.” Marie rested her elbows on the table, dropping her chin in her hands. “She says he’s a most disagreeable man and doesn’t talk to her.”
But he might talk to someone more his station. I’d ask Ernest to see if the man was more communicative with him.
I pursed my lips. Or have my driver follow the other this Friday night. If the widow stuck to her pattern, it could be most interesting to see where she ended up.
Raucous laughter erupted by the long bar that ran along the far wall. Two members might have imbibed one drink too many, if their rosy cheeks were any indication.
I signaled my bartender to start the coffee.
“Well, that is an interesting bit of information. And don’t put your elbows on a table.
” I tapped her arm until she slid them off the wood.
If Marie wanted to become a lady’s companion, she would have to stop forgetting basic proprieties.
Though she was doing admirably with her diction.
“What’s on the paper?” Mr. Burton asked. He leaned closer to Marie to angle his head to read it.
She snatched it away. “Nothing. Just a recipe Edith gave me.”
“A recipe?” Mr. Burton and I both said.
“To explain why I was in the shop both days, I told her I was making a pudding with a bon-bon topping and needed ingredients.” Marie shrugged. “We got to talking about desserts, and, well, she gave me a recipe for her favorite. It sounds good,” she said defensively.
Mr. Burton rested his hand on the seatback behind Marie. “I’d be happy to taste it after you bake it.”
So would I, but that wasn’t relevant right now. “And what have you learned?” I asked my under-butler. “Or did you merely escort Marie about?”
“I don’t need escorting.”
Burton grinned at her and gently nudged Southey off the boot he’d been chewing. “No. When I told her I was coming here to find you, Miss Murphy nearly raced me the whole way. A bit competitive, this one is.”
“You ran from home? You didn’t take a hackney?” My eyebrows shot up.
“We walked. Quickly,” Marie admitted. “It’s not that far.”
Indeed, one of the reasons I chose this location for my club was its proximity to my home.
I still preferred taking a coach.
The two women at the bar pointed in our direction, whispering loudly behind their glasses.
Not wanting to get engaged in yet another pointless conversation, I picked up my envelope of invoices and stood. “Let’s continue this in my office.”
They followed me out the doors and down the hall to the left.
Southey’s bell tinkled as he brought up the rear.
My office was in the corner of the building and past the kitchens.
Loud bangs emanated from that room, and I scurried past. It seemed as though there was always something needing repair at the club, and now one of the ovens was down.
I wouldn’t worry about it. I strode into my office and circled behind my desk. Southey made a circuit around the room, sniffing each corner and potted plant. “And what have you learned, Mr. Burton?”
The under-butler ducked under one of my hanging ferns and pulled out the guest chairs, waiting for Marie to sit before taking one for himself.
“Nothing as interesting as Miss Murphy’s intelligence, unfortunately.
For the price of two pints, one of Mr. Platt’s footmen was happy to speak with me.
Or I should say, one of his father’s footmen.
Mr. Platt lives at one of the viscount’s properties. ”
I’d known that Platt and Mrs. Trent’s father was wealthy in his own right. I wondered how much he’d gained when he’d married his daughter off to the canning magnate. “What did this forthcoming footman have to say?”
“That Mr. Platt isn’t a man known for his virtue.
Or constancy.” Burton tugged at the knot of his neckcloth.
“He might have lost his temper when he’d learned about his brother-in-law’s infidelity but by the next day he was joining a revel with a friend of his, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. ”
“So not a strong motive for murder.” I steepled my fingers together. A particularly loud bang rattled the wall between my office and the kitchen. I glared at the wall.
“Not likely,” Burton agreed.
“He’s a right rude sot.” Marie frowned. “Speaks much too freely to his betters. Old biddy,” she muttered.
I bit back my grin. He wasn’t the only one with a loose tongue. “I found his lack of pretense refreshing. A person knows right where she stands with the man.” But did that lack of verbal control indicate he was impulsive in other ways? Violent ways?
Southey trotted to my side. He sat on his haunches and rested a paw on my knee, gazing at me with soulful brown eyes.
I managed to ignore him. “Who else can we talk to?” I knew there was one person I needed to question. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Mr. Cooke didn’t appreciate being questioned.
“I’ll speak to some of the men at the cannery.” Burton ran his hand up the back of his dark-gold hair. “See if they know anything about their employer’s doings.”
“We’ll speak to them.” Marie lifted her chin.
I clapped my hands together. “Good. I’m glad you’ve decided to work together. It will be much safer for both of you.”