Chapter Nine
Sir Eric Wallace’s reply to Prue’s letter came the next day, delivered by his footman. His lordship offered his sincere condolences and stated that he would be pleased to call on Lady Aldridge and Prue the following day at two o’clock.
Prue tossed about in bed that night, trying to think of the best way to put such a delicate question to Sir Eric. Every attempt she came up with failed to soften the brutality of her father’s death. And just thinking about it brought tears to her eyes.
Prue dragged herself from her bed the next morning. At the breakfast table, Gramma eyed her over her teacup and commented on Prue’s woebegone face.
“You shan’t beguile Sir Eric into confessing to any knowledge, while you look so wan. You’re as pale as porcelain, Prudence,” she said, surveying her. “I have just the thing to restore your fresh, youthful complexion. Come to my chamber after breakfast.”
“But Sir Eric won’t notice how I look,” Prue protested. “He’s older than Papa was.”
“‘Won’t notice’? My dear, all men take notice of a pretty girl, even when they are on their deathbed.”
Gramma had a remarkable array of lotions and creams, one deliciously perfumed, she applied to Prue’s face. Under Gramma’s light touch, the shadows beneath Prue’s eyes faded.
“It’s a good thing you have skin like smooth cream. Very much like your mama’s,” Gramma remarked, adding a touch of rouge to Prue’s pale cheeks. “Now I defy any gentleman to refuse to help you.”
Not very long after, the women freshly adorned and ready, Sir Eric entered the drawing room with a somber expression.
Kissing their hands, he expressed his deep sorrow at the appalling news.
He held himself like the soldier he once had been, his shoulders pushed back, his gray hair ordered, while no wrinkle dared mar his marine-blue tailcoat, fawn pantaloons, and highly polished Hessians.
He seated himself in an upholstered chair, pulled his cuffs down, and crossed his legs. “In your letter, you mentioned your father’s memorial, Lady Prudence.”
“You and my father were friends of such long standing. Gramma and I would be terribly grateful if you could say a few words at his memorial, Sir Eric.”
He smiled. “I valued your father’s friendship, my dear. I should be delighted.”
Under his compassionate, yet worldly-wise green gaze, Prue sat upright on the edge of the seat as if a poker had been attached to her spine.
She considered again how best to broach the subject of her father’s murder.
Might he be prepared to reveal more about the business partnership he and her father were involved in?
She had little confidence he would. Women were excluded from such matters.
“It’s my hope you can throw light on why my father was murdered,” she said, deciding to come right out with it.
“Who could hate him so much that he wanted Papa dead.”
Sir Eric’s bushy, gray eyebrows snapped together, his expression wary. “I wish I had something to tell you that might ease your suffering, Lady Prudence. But I regret I am stunned that anyone would want to hurt as good a man as your father.”
“Perhaps you can make anything of this? Did my father mention this to you?” Prue handed Mr. Everton’s letter to him.
He read it, then glanced up. “I have no idea who would write this or even to what it refers.” He rubbed his brow.
“I advise you to be patient. We must wait and see what the investigation turns up.”
Gramma stirred beside Prue. Earlier, she had mentioned the old proverb: you catch more flies with honey.
Prue had never felt less like appeasing the gentleman; if he knew something, he wasn’t about to reveal it.
This had been a waste of time. Would she face a brick wall when she tried to delve into the world men inhabited, which had never been available to her and certainly wouldn’t be now?
As the tea tray was brought in, Gramma adroitly drew the conversation in a different direction, discussing the unseasonable weather.
“It was as if summer never arrived.” Gramma handed him a cup of tea she had poured and offered him the plates of tiny wedges of cress sandwiches and seed cake.
“So cold and wet! We were all far too housebound and cast into the doldrums.”
“Indeed!” He stirred a lump of sugar in his tea with a spoon. “Ah, my favorite.” He placed a slice of cake on his plate. “I read about gales in Scotland playing havoc with ships.”
When he rose to take his leave, Prue delayed him with another question.
“Could you tell me, then, sir, if there was a change in Papa’s demeanor when you saw him last?
” Before he could deny it, she rushed on.
“Did he tell you about the carriage accident, which was passed off as a rusty bolt on a wheel?”
His eyes were gentle and filled with sympathy. “He did tell me of it. And now that you mention it, he was a little distracted when we last dined together. But he did not mention any fear he might harbor for his life.”
Prue accompanied him to the front door, where a footman handed him his hat, gloves, and cane. “Papa considered you a dear friend, Sir Eric. I know he would have wanted me to turn to you for advice. I hope I may do so again, should it be necessary?”
He held her hand to his lips. “But of course, my dear. Anything. I shall be pleased to speak at the memorial service once the magistrate releases your father’s body for burial.” He took her hands and gently squeezed them. “Do feel you can come to me at any time.”
Through the window, Prudence watched his carriage draw away. “Well, that was a waste of time,” she said bitterly. “I’m sure he knew something, but for some reason, he didn’t want to tell me.”
“You might be misjudging him, my dear,” Gramma said, coming to slip an arm around her. “But how would it help if he did have something to tell you? What would you do with the information? You must leave it to the law to catch the villain and ensure he faces the gallows.”
Prudence hadn’t thought that far ahead. She clamped her teeth together in frustration.
Never in her life had she felt so ineffective.
She loathed it. “I’m not driven by revenge, Gramma.
I want to learn the truth and see justice done,” she said.
“For Papa’s sake. People will be wondering what Papa did to provoke such violence.
If he was he involved in some shady deal.
Roland suggested a gambling debt, which I dismissed out of hand.
But this has involved Papa in a scandal he never deserved. I want his name cleared.”
Gramma patted Prue’s arm. “As do I. But I would hate for you to become involved in something dangerous, my dear.”
“No, nor do I want to, Gramma. But I don’t see how I can find out. Women have no power at all,” she said bitterly.
“Perhaps not. But they often find a way around it.” Gramma smiled. “But as we are to return to Richmond soon, you must give up any idea of pursuing it.”
Gramma was right; she would be helpless to continue to search for clues in Richmond. It was doubtful Lord Hereford would come there to see her. But he was her only avenue of hope. “I believe I’ll hire a hack and ride in the park tomorrow at five o’clock.”
Gramma raised her eyebrows. “At the fashionable hour? I wonder whom you wish to meet? You are up to something, Prudence,” she said with a wry glance. “Of course, my groom, Phillip, will accompany you, with my instructions not to take his eye off you for a minute!”
*
Since he’d returned from Guildford, Jack had spent the better part of the last two days searching for the man he was now convinced had shot Lord Sedgwick.
While it appeared he had acted alone, Jack was confident someone had hired him.
Find the culprit, and whoever was behind the murder and his motive for such a dastardly act would become clear.
So, it was Jack’s intention to capture the assassin alive.
With little to go on, during the evening, he called at the East End tavern called The Camden’s Head, located in Bethnal Green Rd. It was a little out of the range he had set for himself, but frustration at failing to find any sign of the fellow had made him broaden his search.
After an hour had passed fruitlessly, he deemed it time to go home and change for a dinner engagement.
No one of interest had appeared, and he’d never hear the end of it from Damian if he failed to show.
He’d accuse him of being a shoddy friend.
While he waited for his groom, Joseph, to drive the curricle back to him, Jack chanced to see two men walking toward him.
One broad-chested, short in stature with a wild crop of red hair, the other, taller and leaner, his hair as black as soot.
Jack had dressed in workmen’s clothes with a shabby hat.
He leaned against a lamppost and lit a cheroot, biding his time.
They reached him and walked past. The dark-haired fellow glanced back at Jack, a furtive manner about him, as if he were used to checking for trouble.
The pair entered the tavern Jack had just left.
Jack signaled to Joseph to walk on. With a kick of excitement due to intuition, which reliably told him when he was onto something, Jack stepped into the gloomy interior, smelling of rancid, male sweat, smoke, and stale hops.
The two men sat at a corner table, hunched over it, talking intently, cradling their tankards.
The fellow’s dark hair was longer than most, a red belcher tied around his throat.
While he might have fit the bill as to why a young girl would find him interesting, it wasn’t enough for Jack to go on.
From his nearby table, Jack searched for a tattoo, but the man’s red kerchief frustratingly hid his neck from view.
Jack ordered another ale and remained seated, hoping to pick up something from their conversation to confirm his suspicion.