Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
The backs of Hugh’s eyelids burned from lack of proper sleep.
He’d spent a second night pacing his study until he could stand it no longer and had his driver bring the carriage around.
He and a sleepy Norris had traveled the streets of Mayfair before bracing themselves and heading east, toward Whitechapel and Wapping.
He’d kept his flintlock pistol primed and ready, as did Norris in the driver’s box.
But though he saw countless young boys around Sir’s age loitering about, none of them had been him.
After a few hours, he’d taken pity on Norris and directed him to return to Bedford Street. Norris had likely dropped like a sack of turnips into his bed, while Hugh had been too wound up to do more than tip a hefty pour of whisky into a glass. But then, he’d dumped it out again.
During the autumn and early winter, he’d started drinking to excess, using spirits as a salve for the wounds Audrey’s silence from the Continent had inflicted.
He’d come home pickled most nights, and it had driven Sir away.
He already had a drunken brute of a father; he likely feared the same would happen with Hugh.
Once he’d gotten that through his thick skull, he’d vowed to not use spirits to numb himself during some hardship, and he had followed through.
He now forced his brain to stay alert as he and Audrey waited at a corner table inside Gunter’s Tea Shop, the hour hand closing in on three o’clock.
It was cold inside the shop on Berkeley Square, which helped him in his endeavor to stay awake.
The sweet scents of flavored ices permeated the air, but the tension that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside his stomach had eliminated any desire to eat.
“She should be here by now,” Audrey murmured, her spoon slicing easily through the pistachio sorbet that had already been melting when it was delivered to their table.
“She might have suspected the ruse.”
Audrey put her spoon in her mouth and glared at him. He would have apologized for doubting her plan, but he was too entranced by the sight of her lips sliding the creamy sorbet off the curve of her spoon.
The woman was going to be the death of him. Especially if he could not marry her and make good on his promises of the previous afternoon outside 37 Berkeley Square. He’d sent immediate word to his solicitor, Mr. Potridge, to proceed with the purchase of the house, which was currently unoccupied.
“I believe Gwendolyn was rattled enough by my visit to believe it,” Audrey argued.
She’d sent a note to Miss Bertram that morning, and with any hope the young lady would heed the brief message: Come to Gunter’s at 3 o’clock, alone. I need to see you. She’d signed it Bethie, saying that was what Flora had called Bethany the day before.
“That might only be what Flora calls her,” Hugh had cautioned when she’d outlined her plan. But it was worth the try.
They’d selected a table in the back, away from the front windows and from view of the conveyances lining this side of the square.
Waiters were busily rushing back and forth across the street, receiving orders for ices, and delivering them before they could melt.
As the weather had improved, some of the ladies and gentlemen were in the gardens of the square on benches, too.
The buds on the trees were still young and compacted, allowing for a view of number thirty-seven, across the square.
Another reason for his sleepless night and restless mind had been due to taking too much pleasure in imagining himself and Audrey, married and making their home there together.
He'd decided at the last minute to bring her around Berkeley Square and show her the house. Getting down on one knee and formally proposing had also been spontaneous, so he hadn’t even had the ring.
It was in his pocket now, of course, but there hadn’t been a suitable moment to present it to her.
A table at Gunter’s certainly wasn’t it.
The front door opened, and a young woman fitting the description Audrey had given of Gwendolyn Bertram entered.
She was alone and seemed to be searching for someone.
Hugh pushed back his chair and rose with his task while Audrey, her back to the door, quickly swallowed her sorbet and touched a napkin to her lips in preparation.
“Miss Bertram, I believe?” Hugh said as he approached her.
She went rigid with caution as she glimpsed him over.
In any other place, it would have been unforgivably rude for a gentleman to approach and speak to a lady he didn’t know, but at Gunter’s, the rules were a bit looser.
Men and women could meet here, unchaperoned, though in full view of society at all times.
“Yes?” she replied with appropriate wariness.
“Your friend is waiting for you. This way,” he said, and then turned to lead her to the corner of the shop.
From this perspective, Gwendolyn would not have a view of Audrey’s face.
So, it wasn’t until she came to stand next to the table that she saw her, and with a flare of her eyes, put the pieces of the ruse together.
“This was a trick,” she gasped.
“Please, Miss Bertram, do sit,” Audrey said, but then, when the young woman continued to huff, added, “Causing a scene won’t do if you don’t want this getting back to your mother.”
Hugh applauded her for the arm-twisting tactic. It worked. Gwendolyn Bertram sat in the chair that Hugh pulled out for her, her back straight and her reticule clutched in her lap.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“The truth,” Audrey replied.
Hugh re-took his own seat as Gwendolyn eyed him suspiciously. “And who are you?”
“Lord Neatham,” he replied, and as expected, recognition spread over her tight expression.
“Oh.” Her shoulders and spine stiffened again. “You were a Bow Street officer.”
“I was. And we would like to ask you some more questions about Miss Bethany Silas’s whereabouts.”
Gwendolyn started to say something quick in return, but Audrey cut in. “We know she didn’t elope with Mr. Comstock.”
Hugh looked to Audrey, who had been stalwart in her belief that Bethany had not gone to Gretna Green, as Comstock’s letter to Mr. Silas stated. He’d once told her to follow her instincts, and she was doing just that.
When Gwendolyn sealed her lips and raised her chin without making any argument, Hugh bit back a grin. Apparently, Audrey had been correct.
“What is the sanctuary?” she continued.
A sharp breath shuttled down Gwendolyn’s throat as she gasped, and her coloring, flushed from being cornered, paled. She looked over her shoulder, toward the door.
“You shouldn’t speak so loudly,” she hissed.
“Who do you worry will overhear?” Hugh asked.
The patrons here were all upper class, mostly belonging to the peerage and landed gentry. Though most were having their orders delivered to their carriages or to the square, a handful occupied the tables inside.
“You aren’t supposed to speak of it,” she said in a raspy whisper.
“Of the sanctuary?” Audrey asked, and when the young woman winced as if in pain, decided to spare the girl and lower her voice. “Why not?”
Gwendolyn squirmed in her chair, and Hugh could see she was trying to formulate a way out of this undesirable situation. The only remedy for that was to keep the pressure consistent.
“Tell us,” he said. “Miss Silas’s mother is concerned for her daughter’s welfare, and by the way you are acting, so are you.”
The door to Gunter’s opened, the bell chiming.
Gwendolyn snapped a look over her shoulder, but only a waiter entered, transporting a tray of empty crystal bowls and dishes.
With a small slump of relief, she closed her eyes a moment before saying, “It is the name of a society. I don’t know much about it, I promise.
Just that its members are all very prestigious. ”
Hugh sat back in his chair. London’s upper crust had all manner of societies to which one could belong.
Most had a common focus. Art, music, literature, science.
At White’s, Hugh had been extended a few invitations.
He’d never taken up any of the offers. There were also secret clubs, those that delved into darker and more dangerous territory, like the occult.
Of those, he’d only heard whispers. Never an invitation, not with his Bow Street background.
He wondered what sort of society the Sanctuary was.
“And Bethany learned of this society through Mr. Comstock?” he asked.
She pressed her lips thin and nodded.
“That is where Bethany has gone?” Audrey asked.
A waiter came to the table then to take Gwendolyn’s order, preventing her from answering. She sent him away with a shake of her head.
“I don’t know,” she answered after it was safe to speak again. “She was invited, and I know that she had planned to go.” She still darted little glances around the shop with an edge of paranoia.
“When was this?” Hugh asked.
Gwendolyn frowned. “A week ago. The arrangement was for Mr. Comstock and his sister to fetch her for an evening at Vauxhall.”
“He does not have a sister,” Audrey said.
“But of course he does. Bethie met her. She said Miss Comstock was quite nice if a bit shy.”
Hugh met Audrey’s concerned glimpse. If Bethany had not known the truth about Comstock’s lack of a sister, what more had she not known?
“Were they truly to go to Vauxhall? Or was the real outing to the Sanctuary?” he asked.
Gwendolyn cast her eyes down to the table, as if shamefaced. “The Sanctuary,” she said, so quietly that Hugh had barely heard the words.
“Where is it?” Audrey asked, her impatience evident. Hugh felt the same; if this young woman had known all along where Bethany could be found, why had she stayed silent? To safeguard her own responsibility in the scandal?