Chapter Eight
The following afternoon, Prue looked around the pretty bedchamber in Mayfair, assigned to her for their brief stay, while a housemaid unpacked her trunk.
Outside the window, smoky, gray skies loomed low overhead, the pavements drenched from a recent downfall.
People rushed about as more rain seemed imminent.
London was so noisy with knife-sharpeners and hawkers selling anything from clocks to pies, the streets clogged with traffic: horse riders, drays, and carriages.
She felt hemmed in here, having been used to the outdoors and riding since childhood.
But she hoped to meet Lord Hereford at one of the few engagements Gramma had accepted.
Although that seemed unlikely because they would be unable to attend large functions or public balls during the six months of mourning and could do little other than promenade in the park until the modiste had finished their new gowns.
It made her jittery and restless, thinking Lord Hereford might have discovered who the murderer was.
Would he come and tell her about it? Prue’s stomach tightened.
It could be a mistake to rely on him. She must begin her own investigation.
But where to start? She tapped her cheek with a finger.
One of Papa’s friends might know something helpful.
Sir Eric, who lived not far from here in Mayfair, had been her father’s closest friend, and he knew her well.
If Papa had made an enemy, Sir Eric might know about it.
Having decided on a course of action, Prue penned a note to Sir Eric and went downstairs to give the letter to a footman to deliver, feeling as if she’d accomplished something. She and Gramma planned to go to Hyde Park after church.
Their mourning gowns were to be made by Gramma’s modiste, Mrs. Triaud, in Bolton Street, who had designed Princess Charlotte’s wedding gown of silver lamé and intricate embroidery.
The woman was about to retire and leave London but came to Gramma’s aid, promising to have two gowns delivered before the week was out.
Gramma had chosen black bombazine and Prue, black crepe, a lighter fabric trimmed with cream.
After breakfast, they ventured out in refurbished gowns; Prue’s gray wool walking gown now had bands of black satin ribbon added to the sleeves and hem.
Gramma wore a lavender dress trimmed with black ribbon, beneath a dark wool cape.
After attending church in Grosvenor Chapel, they set out for the park, a brisk two blocks walk from South Audley Street. Prue’s pelisse was trimmed with fur, and she wore a dark straw bonnet of Gramma’s, which she’d trimmed with black ribbons, and black doeskin gloves.
Fitful clouds rolled across the gray sky, driven by a sharp breeze, but the rain earlier had stopped, and the air was fresh and cool.
The gloomy weather and incessant rain matched Prue’s deep sadness, and her frustration at not knowing who had come to their home with murder in his heart.
Why had he perpetrated such an act of brutality on a fine, upstanding gentleman as her father?
She wouldn’t be able to rest until she knew the truth.
And there was Roland, who was sure to try again to gain the upper hand.
He would relish gaining control over her.
Even when they’d been young, he’d delighted in ordering her about, and because she’d always fought him, it had made him angrier.
She shivered at the unwelcome memory of how, when he’d been home from his first year at university for the long summer vacation, he and his stepmother had come to stay at Sedgwick Hall.
Prue had been only fourteen but stood up to him when he’d bullied her.
At the lake, he’d angrily pushed her, and a curious light had come into his eyes.
Suddenly afraid of him, Prue had backed away, trying to put distance between them, but he’d come after her.
When he’d grabbed her by the shoulders, she’d heaved him with all her might, both hands on his chest. Surprised, Roland had lost his balance and toppled backward into the water.
She’d laughed at him as he’d sat in the mud among the reeds, the ducks squawking around him, while he’d furiously cursed.
Prue rubbed her arms, remembering how he had told his stepmother, Mrs. Stanton, his version of events when she’d scolded him for his muddy clothes.
She’d immediately complained to Papa. Prue had struggled to warm to her and suspected Papa hadn’t liked Mrs. Stanton much, either.
But he’d sent Prue to her bedchamber without dinner.
It had been so glorious a victory that she hadn’t minded missing supper.
Especially when Jeannie, one of the kitchen maids, had stolen up the back stairs to Prue’s bedchamber with bread and cheese, as well as a muffin from the pantry.
Over the years, they’d seen Roland less often.
On the rare occasions he’d come to visit them, she’d stayed out of his way.
She’d never forgotten that look in his eyes, which had sent an icy shiver down her spine.
He’d become good at hiding those emotions, but she knew they were there, smoldering beneath the surface.
In the ensuing years, he’d spent time on the Continent, and she’d expected that they wouldn’t see him again, hopefully for years.
But she’d never believed for a minute her father wouldn’t be there to protect her and to lead her down the aisle when she married.
As her and Gramma’s walk took them toward Rotten Row, a group of riders appeared, trotting their horses.
Three men accompanied two stylishly dressed ladies.
Lord Hereford! He glanced over at them, spoke to his companions, and turned his horse, riding across the grass to greet them.
At the sight of him, Prue’s heart beat faster.
“Lord Hereford.” She tried not to sound so pleased and hopeful of news. “I see you are enjoying the fine day.”
“It is pleasant, indeed, after the rain, Lady Prudence.” He removed his hat and bowed in the saddle. “Lady Aldridge, it is good to see you again. Are you in the city for the day?”
“How do you do, Lord Hereford?” Gramma gazed up at him. “At present, we reside in Mayfair at number ten, Chelmsford Place. But for only a few days. Should you wish to call on us, we are available to callers in the afternoons.”
Gramma was outrageous. While appreciative of the invitation, Prue felt her cheeks burn.
“I should be delighted to call on you.” His gaze rested on her. “And will certainly do so when I return from a sojourn into the country.”
Was it to consult the magistrate? Might he discover something there? Hope warmed her as she waited for the right opportunity to ask him.
While he and Gramma indulged in polite conversation, Prue’s gaze was caught by his immaculate riding clothes, the rifle green riding coat, buff waistcoat and breeches molded to his muscular thighs.
The glossy top boots made his legs seem even longer.
Her gaze flicked quickly upward to his face.
His dark hair had been disordered when he’d removed his hat.
It made him appear less stern and most appealing.
His gaze settled on her, affording her the same scrutiny she’d given him.
“I hope the distress of losing your father is easing a little, Lady Prudence.”
She flushed, wondering if he had been aware she’d been studying him. “Thank you. I will feel better when I find out who shot my father and the reason why. Have you heard anything more, Lord Hereford?”
“Not yet. But if I do, I will let you know.”
“You promise?”
He smiled. “You can be sure of it, Lady Prudence.”
He ran a long-fingered hand encased in a leather glove through his dark locks, replaced his hat, and wished them good day, riding away to join his companions, who waited, chatting, in the Row.
Prue risked another casual glance at his two lady companions.
One lady had dark hair; the other was fair.
They were both exceptionally pretty and appeared very much at ease with their gentlemen companions.
It made Prue feel like a country bumpkin.
She took herself to task. Why should it matter to her?
Surely, she wasn’t jealous. She chewed her lip, aware it would be foolish to care about him when she meant nothing to him, beyond his offer to find the information she sought.
If he had been interested in pursuing her for even a light-hearted flirtation when he’d kissed her, he must have decided against it, having discovered who she was.
Could Gramma be right? Was he a rake? Was she not worthy of a rake’s attention?
How would it be if she were married to him and socializing with these people?
She wasn’t sure she’d be at ease with them.
Prue’s first Season had been a disappointment.
She had danced with gentlemen she had not admired.
Dandies, or insufferably conceited fellows who thought themselves God’s gift to women.
Yet from her Bible readings, she was certain God meant men and women to be equal, and her father had conferred with her and treated her as a person of value.
She could bear nothing less. Her chest tightened as she faced the bald fact that her father’s love and protection was no longer.
Lost, and incredibly lonely, despite Gramma’s soothing presence, she shivered.
“Are you cold, my dear?”
“No, Gramma.”
“That wind is quite fresh. We’ll go home for a hot cup of tea.”
They turned to retrace their steps through the park to the gates.
Gramma gazed at her sympathetically, as if she guessed Prue’s thoughts. “Or shall we indulge in coffee and cake at Gunter’s Tea Shop in Berkeley Square?”
“Oh, yes, let’s.” Prue smiled, trying not to appear too sad. Gramma was dealing with her own deep sense of loss. Prue turned back for one last glimpse of Lord Hereford. He was riding away down the Row with his companions.