Chapter Ten
Ten
SUNDAY
Ever since Charlotte had run away, Livia had been under an interminable interrogation, conducted by ladies Avery and Somersby, Society’s leading gossips. One of the ladies, or both, was always tapping Livia on the shoulder, to ask whether she’d had any news from her scandalous baby sister.
But the moment Livia wanted to find them, they disappeared.
Or at least that was how it felt.
She even asked her mother whether the gossips had left town, only to be told that she was an idiot. “Why would they, when everyone is still in London? Besides, I saw them yesterday.”
Which was patently false as Lady Holmes had suffered from a headache the day before, took laudanum for it, and didn’t leave her bed all day.
But Livia didn’t argue. Arguing with her mother was like arguing with a brick wall. Worse, in fact—at least one could kick the brick wall when one tired of the argument.
“Oh, you stupid girl,” hissed Lady Holmes all of a sudden. “Why did you bring them up? You’ve conjured them.”
Livia couldn’t locate the gossip ladies immediately. It was only after her mother had absconded that she saw them on the opposite side of the Round Pond. They saw her at the same moment and immediately headed in her direction.
When they were about twenty feet away from where she sat, a miracle happened. The young man, her young man, sauntered into view and took a seat on the next bench.
She couldn’t be this lucky, could she? No, not her.
Never. Some people won prizes. Some had loving parents.
Some arrived home before the rain came down and didn’t need to go anywhere until the sun was shining in the sky again.
Livia was always the one who did get rained on, the one whose skirt got mangled in the wringer, the one who stood in line behind the person who would receive the last ladle of punch.
But there he was in his Sunday suit, neatly turned out and presentable, but not so gleamingly dapper as to make her suspicious.
And goodness, was that a reddish hint to his beard—and hair, too?
She’d never given a single thought to redheads, but if they all looked like him she would happily praise their existence in the world.
Was it possible—was it somehow within the realm of possibility—that he had come to the park specifically to look for her? After all, they had been in the same general area last Sunday, when they had first crossed paths.
“Miss Holmes, just the person we wish to see!”
Oh, damn Lady Avery and Lady Somersby. Last Sunday he had departed at the faintest stirring from her mother. Surely this time, seeing her surrounded, he would again make himself scarce.
She parried the gossip ladies’ questions, a labored smile on her face. Two questions. Three questions. Five questions.
He was still there.
She relaxed a little. When she’d answered seven questions and he still remained in place, she began to grow giddy.
And then she remembered that she wasn’t there to meekly suffer through another interrogation: She had been tasked by Charlotte to obtain answers from ladies Avery and Somersby. But how to steer the topic to Lady Ingram without appearing as if she were transparently scheming to do so?
A lesser miracle took place, but still a miracle: Lady Ingram, her children in tow, passed into view, a vision in an apricot walking gown and matching parasol.
“Oh, it’s Lady Ingram,” she said.
“So it is,” murmured Lady Somersby.
Charlotte had become a topic of gossip of late, but Lord and Lady Ingram had been the subject of speculation for years, from the most admired young couple in Society to the most estranged.
When there was so much beauty, wealth, prestige, and—at least initially—love involved, everybody wanted to know what went wrong.
Lady Ingram nodded, but her squared-back shoulders spoke eloquently of her desire to be left alone. Livia, Lady Avery, and Lady Somersby returned the acknowledgment and watched as she and her children receded from view.
Livia seized the opportunity. “Do you know what I sometimes wonder? I wonder whether there wasn’t someone else before Lord Ingram. That might explain things, might it not?”
“Not for me,” said Lady Somersby. “Have you seen him at a game of polo? If I were Lady Ingram, I’d have instantly forgotten whomever I’d been fancying the moment I saw Lord Ingram on a polo pony.”
“Oh, you naughty old woman,” said her sister.
“Thank you, my dear.” Lady Somersby laughed heartily.
“That said, I believe you are correct, Miss Holmes. We have heard that Lady Ingram, before she made her debut, had hoped to marry a rather unsuitable young man, unsuitable not in terms of personal qualities, mind you, but because of irregular parentage.”
“I was surprised,” said Lady Avery. “Hadn’t suspected that of Lady Ingram. She always struck me as someone with her gaze up, not down, if you know what I mean.”
Livia longed to check again on her young man, but she and the gossip ladies had turned as one to follow Lady Ingram’s departure and now he was behind her—if he was still there.
She began to scheme how she could extricate herself, but—would miracles never cease?—the ladies spied someone else they wanted to speak to and excused themselves with unholy haste.
She stood in place, waiting impatiently for them to disappear from sight—with Charlotte’s scandal still fresh, Livia didn’t want them to see her running after a man.
The moment the gossip ladies were well and truly gone, before she could turn around, his voice came, a few paces to her left. “I thought they’d never leave.”
Livia felt the tremors in her heart as a pulsing sensation in the back of her head. “Same here,” she managed to reply.
But now that she knew he wasn’t going to depart before he’d spoken to her, she realized that she wasn’t without misgivings about the situation.
London was a city of four million souls.
Three chance meetings in a short span with the same stranger?
Their second encounter could still be explained away as a coincidence.
But this one? No, he’d intended for it to happen.
Strangers, especially those of the well-dressed, well-spoken variety who appeared to be gentlemen, were considered a grave peril by Lady Holmes.
Scoundrels and fortune hunters, one and all, she’d often said.
Livia had secretly scoffed at her concern: A fortune hunter would have to be especially inept to come after the Holmes girls, given how little wealth the family actually possessed.
She didn’t think the young man was a fortune hunter. But it would be stupid of her not to wonder, at this point, what it was that he wanted.
“May I interest you in a walk—and perhaps a bit of conversation?” he asked.
It was a dangerous proposition. They hadn’t been introduced. To take a walk with him . . . Why, even before Charlotte’s scandal, Lady Holmes would have locked Livia up without supper for such an infraction.
But Livia wasn’t prepared to repudiate all further contact with him, starting this moment—not when she faced eight months in the country without Charlotte, without even a somewhat ally like Mott. The next best course of action would be for her to ask detailed questions.
And pray that she had the ability to correctly judge the sincerity and legitimacy of his answers.
“Yes,” she said, turning to him, her heart leaping in spite of herself at the sight of his warm eyes and bright smile. “Yes to both a walk and a bit of conversation.”
MONDAY
Oddly enough, now that Charlotte had warned Mrs. Watson that they were under surveillance, the surveillance evaporated. They observed carefully, but no one loitered unduly near any of the exits of either Mrs. Watson’s house or 18 Upper Baker Street.
Still, on Monday, Charlotte took extra caution to make sure that they were not followed, going so far as to enter the de Bloises’ hotel and exit from a service door on a different street.
The three women visited two other houses first, per Miss Redmayne’s recommendation, before knocking on Mrs. Woods’s service entrance. A nervous-looking young girl opened the door.
“Afternoon,” said Miss Redmayne warmly. “I am Miss Hudson and this is Mrs. Hudson, my aunt. I study medicine at the University of London. As part of our curriculum, we are required to spread medical knowledge and combat misinformation, especially among those who might not otherwise have access to physicians. May I come in and speak to the staff?”
The girl looked uncertainly behind herself. “Let me ask Mrs. Hindle.”
She closed the door, which was opened again a minute later by a brisk, large-boned woman in her forties.
Miss Redmayne offered her hand. “You must be Mrs. Hindle.”
“That I am, and who are you?”
Miss Redmayne introduced herself and Mrs. Watson, and reiterated her purpose.
“A woman doctor? Well, I’ll be.”
“A woman doctor-to-be—I’m still in medical school. May I have your permission to come in? I’d be delighted to answer any questions you might have concerning your health—and to dispense such cures as I have brought with me. Free of charge, of course, all part of our program.”
The sound of remedies she didn’t need to pay for clearly appealed to Mrs. Hindle. But she wasn’t yet convinced. She pointed at Charlotte. “And who is she? A lady doctor, too?”
Charlotte, in a brown wig and a pair of spectacles, kept her face turned to the side.
“This is my sister, Miss Eloisa Hudson,” said Miss Redmayne apologetically. “She isn’t studying medicine, unfortunately. As you can see, she needs looking after. No one else is home today, so we brought her with us. She is no trouble at all as long as someone keeps an eye on her.”
Charlotte had decided to come as a facsimile of Bernadine. People tended to be alarmed about Bernadine at first, if they ever saw her, and then quickly forget her existence.