31. The Key
The Key
Quitting Lady Marlstone’s gracious household had been no trifling matter. Though her godmother had protested that no whiff of scandal could ever tarnish her precious goddaughter’s name—Lucinda had remained steadfast.
“For the sake of the cause, Godmama!” she had said.
Lady Marlstone had been prevailed upon to yield, though with heightened color and a fluttering of handkerchiefs.
It had helped, of course, that the Admiral had thrown in his lot to persuade the lady that Lucinda’s temporary removal to the Pulteney was prudent.
“The girl has shown backbone,” he’d declared. “Dashed rare thing these days, especially among females of quality.”
In the end, Lady Marlstone had agreed to the arrangement with a sigh, a flounce, and the stipulation that she would stand behind Lucinda when the trial came—as a character witness if need be.
“Though if it comes to that,” she’d added with a shudder, “we shall all require smelling salts.”
Though the Pulteney boasted every fashionable comfort, no amount of open windows could dispel the warmth. It was going to be a very warm day for the Bittermann trial.
Having secured the last rebellious curl with a pin, Lucinda gazed unseeingly at her reflection. Weeks had passed since that night.
Some memories were her own: the dank chill of the cellar, the narrow twist of a staircase, the brushing aside of heavy velvet drapes, and Periwinkle’s plaintive cries urging her forward. She recalled the roar of Rudi’s fury—and then, darkness.
But between that last conscious moment and waking the following morning, her mind remained stubbornly blank. With each attempt to revisit it, her mind recoiled when she attempted to draw near.
With a sigh, she reached for her reticule, thinking vaguely that she might retrieve the little bottle of lavender perfume her godmother had pressed upon her. She upended the reticule onto her lap with a clink and a tumble.
A small brass object bounced once, twice, then skittered to the floor, landing on a handkerchief. Lucinda blinked at it. The mystery key just lay there—tarnished, mundane, and wholly out of place on her lace and lavender-scented muslin.
Her investigation among her godmother’s servants yielded no results as to its owner, yet the sight of the object on a piece of cloth laying on the floor, prompted a fresh insight.
She realized something new concerning the key—it was not hers, but she had taken it from someone—no, from something. A desk? A drawer? The details danced just beyond reach, but she could feel the certainty of it rising.
As her fingers closed around the cool metal, something in her memory shifted.
The shadows tilted.
Her breath caught.
She was there again—not in the soft elegance of the Pulteney’s best chamber, but in the bowels of the Sixes & Sevens gaming hell.
She saw the apron on the wooden floor and recalled pushing the key out of the lock to draw it under the door.
The image was there—more clearly than any that had come before.
She had picked the lock! The certainty of it rang through her.
And then—the lock giving way with a satisfying snick.
A most exhilarating sense of liberation coursed through her.
Lucinda came back to herself with a gasp. The key was still in her hand, heavier now with the weight of knowledge. She turned it over in her palm, wondering what more had she done? How much more was locked away within her mind?
“Well,” she murmured, setting it carefully on her dressing table. “I daresay that might come in handy.”
She crossed the room to the small writing desk near the window. Without pause or deliberation, her hand moved of its own accord, forming the image as her mind supplied the details. She stared at it when it was done. It was not mere speculation. It was a memory.
A rap at the door brought her back to the present.
“Come in,” she called, rising to meet her father.
The Admiral entered, impeccably attired in his morning coat and exuding the air of a gentleman who had perused three newspapers before breakfast and sternly directed the boot boy to bestow a second gloss upon his Hessians.
“We leave within the hour,” he said briskly. Then, more gently, “Are you ready, my dear?”
“Not quite,” she said, removing the sketch from her book. “But I shall be. Do you think I’ll be called to the witness box, Papa?”
“Your written statement is thorough,” he replied, pulling a pair of gloves taut between his hands. “But the law is an uncertain creature. Be prepared, but do not borrow trouble.”
She nodded uncertainly.
Sir John’s expression softened. “If they dare call you to the stand, well—just speak the truth. You’ve already bested the Bittermanns once. What’s a few judges and clerks compared to that?”
She smiled at him, but as they left the hotel and neared the Old Bailey, the looming sense of dread returned.
But it was leavened, too, by the knowledge that she was not alone.
She had her godmother’s unfailing loyalty, the Admiral’s stolid support—and a mind that, piece by piece, was returning to her.
She would enter the courtroom with every ounce of composure at her command—and if a summons to the witness box could not be avoided, well, she would recount every particular her memory could supply. It was all she could do.