He sat down heavily in the gravel, hunched over, and wheezed and snorted and gulped, as she surreptitiously wiped her hand on her petticoat.
“Sir…I’m going to go and find someone to help,” she said, and made to do so, but his hand had shot out and grasped the fabric of her skirt. He shook his head, speechless, but after a moment got enough breath to say, “No. Be…all…right now.”
She doubted that very much. Still, being conspicuous was the last thing she wanted, and he did seem, if not exactly better, at least less in danger of dying on the spot.
She nodded uncertainly, though she didn’t think he saw her, and after looking about helplessly for a moment sat down gingerly on the rim of a raised bed full of what looked like pincushions, varying from things that would have fit in the palm of her hand (had they not been equipped with quite so many thorns) to ones much larger than her head. Her stays felt tight, and she tried to slow her breathing.
As her alarm subsided, she became aware of the distant chatter in the orchid house, which had just become noticeably louder and higher-pitched.
“Fred…rick,” said the hunched form at her feet.
“What?” She bent over to look at him. He was still a bad color and breathing noisily, but he was breathing.
“Prince…” He flipped a hand toward the distant noise.
“Oh.” She thought he meant that the Prince of Wales had come in to view the orchids, this causing the rising tide of excitement next door. In that case, she thought, they were probably safe from interruption for the present—no one would abandon His Royal Highness in order to look at pincushions and Chinese…whatever-they-weres.
His Grace had closed his eyes and appeared to be concentrating on breathing, which she thought a good thing. Moved by the desire to do something other than stare at the poor man, she rose and went over to the Chinese bowls.
All her attention had been for the porcelain, to start with, but now she examined the bowls’ contents. Chrysanthemum, that’s what he’d said. Most of the flowers were smallish, little tufty ball-like blossoms in cream or gold, with long stems and dark-green leaves. One was a pretty rusty color, though, and another bowl held a profusion of small purple blossoms. Then she saw a larger version, snowy white, and realized what she was looking at.
“Oh!” she said, quite loud. She glanced guiltily over her shoulder, then put out a hand and touched the flower very gently. There it was: the curved, symmetrical petals, tightly layered but airy, as though the flower floated above its leaves. It—they—had a noticeable fragrance, so close to. Nothing like the voluptuous, fleshy scents of the orchids; this was a delicate, bitter perfume—but perfume, nonetheless.
“Oh,” she said again, more quietly, and breathed it in. It was clean and fresh and made her think of cold wind and pure skies and high mountains.
“Chu,” said the man sitting in the gravel behind her.
“Bless you,” she said absently. “Are you feeling better?”
“The flowers. They’re called chu. In Chinese. I apologize.”
That made her turn round. He’d made it up onto one knee but was swaying a bit, plainly gathering his strength to try to rise. She reached down and gripped his hand as solidly as she could. His fingers were cold, but his grip was firm. He looked surprised but nodded and, with a wheezing gasp, staggered to his feet, releasing her hand as he did so.
“I apologize,” he said again, and inclined his head an inch. More than that and he might have fallen again, she thought, bracing herself uneasily to catch him if he did. “For discommoding you, madam.”
“Not at all,” she said politely. His eyes were rather unfocused, and she could hear his breath creaking in his chest. “Er…what the devil just happened to you? If you don’t mind my asking.”
He shook his head, then stopped abruptly, eyes closed.
“I—nothing. I shouldn’t have come in here. Knew better.”
“You’re going to fall down again, I think,” she said, and took him by the hand once more, guiding him to the raised bed, where she made him sit and sat beside him.
“You should have stayed at home,” she said reprovingly, “if you knew you were ill.”
“I’m not ill.” He ran a trembling hand over the sweat on his face, which he then wiped carelessly on the skirts of his coat. “I—I just…”
She sighed and glanced at the doorway, then behind her. No other way out, and the chatter in the orchid house was still going strong.
“You just what?” she said. “I’m not dragging it out of you one word at a time. Tell me what’s the matter with you, or I’m going in there and fetching His Highness out to look after you.”
He gave her an astonished look, then started to laugh. And to wheeze. He stopped, fist to his mouth, and panted a bit, catching more breath.
“If you must know…” he said, and gulped air, “my father shot himself in the conservatory at our house. Three years ago…today. I…saw him. His body. Among the glass, all the plants, the—the light—” He looked up at the panes overhead, blinding with sun, then down at the gravel, patterned with the same light, and closed his eyes briefly. “It…disturbed me. I wouldn’t have come—” He paused to cough. “Pardon me. I wouldn’t have come here today, save that His Highness invited me, and I needed very much to meet him.” His eyes, bloodshot and watering, met hers directly. They were blue, pale blue.
“In the unlikely event that you haven’t heard the story: my father was accused of treason; he shot himself the night before they planned to arrest him.”
“That’s very terrible,” Minnie said, appalled. Terrible in a number of ways—not least in the realization that this must be the Duke of Pardloe, the one her father had in mind as a potential…source. She avoided even thinking the word “victim.”
“It was. He was not a traitor, as it happens, but there you are. The family was disgraced, naturally. His regiment—the one he had raised, had built himself—was disbanded. I mean to raise it again.” He spoke with a simple matter-of-factness and paused to mop his face with his hand again.
“Haven’t you got a handkerchief? Here, have mine.” She squirmed on the rough stones, digging for her pocket.
“Thank you.” He wiped his face more thoroughly, coughed once, and shook his head. “I need support—patronage from high quarters—in that endeavor, and a friend managed an introduction to His Highness, who was kind enough to listen to me. I think he’ll help,” he added, in a meditative sort of way. Then he glanced at her and smiled ruefully. “Wouldn’t help my cause to be found writhing on the ground like a worm directly after speaking to him, though, would it?”
“No, I can see that.” She considered for a moment, then ventured a cautious question. “The sal volatile—” She gestured at the vial, fallen to the ground a few feet away. “Do you often feel faint? Or did you just…think you might need it today?”
His lips pressed tight at that, but he answered.
“Not often.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I’m quite all right now. I’m sorry to have interrupted your day. Would you…” He hesitated, looking toward the orchid house. “Would you like me to present you to His Highness? Or to Princess Augusta, if you like; I know her.”
“Oh. No, no, that’s quite all right,” Minnie said hastily, getting up, too. Regardless of her own desires, which didn’t involve coming to the notice of royalty, she could see that the very last thing he wanted to do was to go anywhere near people, disheveled, shaken, and wheezing as he was. Still, he was pulling himself together before her eyes, firmness straightening his body. He coughed once more and shook his head doggedly, trying to rid himself of it.
“Your friend,” he said, with the decisive air of one changing the subject, “do you know him well?”
“My fr—oh, the, um, gentleman I was talking to earlier?” Apparently Mr. Bloomer hadn’t been quite fast enough in his disappearing act. “He isn’t a friend. I met him by the euphorbias”—she gestured airily, as though she and the euphorbias were qu
ite good chums—“and he began telling me about the plants, so we walked on together. I don’t even know his name.”
That made him look sharply at her, but it was, after all, the truth, and her look of innocence was apparently convincing.
“I see,” he said, and it was obvious that he saw a good deal more than Minnie did. He thought for a moment, then made up his mind.
“I do know him,” he said carefully, and wiped a hand under his nose. “And while I would not presume to tell you how to choose your friends, I don’t think he’s a good man with whom to associate. Should you meet him again, I mean.” He stopped, considering, but that was all he had to say on the subject of Mr. Bloomer. Minnie would have liked to know Bloomer’s real name but didn’t feel she could ask.
There was a short, awkward silence, in which they stared at each other, half-smiling and trying to think what to say next.
“I—” Minnie began.
“You—” he began.
The smiles became genuine.
“What?” she asked.
“I was going to say that I think the prince has likely left the orchids to their own devices by now. You ought to go along, before anyone comes in. You don’t want to be seen alone in my company,” he added, rather stiffly.
“I don’t?”
“No, you don’t,” he said, his voice softer, regretful but still firm. “Not if you have any desire to be accepted in society. I meant what I said about my father and the family. I mean to change that, but for now…” Reaching out, he took her hands and drew her toward him, turning so they faced the entrance to the orchids. He was right; the conversation there had subsided to the mildly threatening hum of bumblebees.
“Thank you,” he said, still more softly. “You’re very kind.”
There was a smudge of rice powder on his cheek; she stood a-tiptoe and wiped it off, showing him the white on her thumb.
He smiled, took her hand again, and, to her surprise, kissed the tip of her thumb.
“Go,” he said, his voice very low, and let go her hand. She drew a deep breath and curtsied.
“I—all right. I’m…very happy to have made your acquaintance, Your Grace.”
His face changed like lightning, startling her terribly. Just as fast, he got it—whatever “it” was—under control and was once more the civil king’s officer. For that split second, though, he’d been pure rooster, an enraged cock ready to throw himself at an enemy.
“Don’t call me that. Please,” he added, and bowed formally. “I have not taken my father’s title.”
“I—yes, I see,” she said, still shaken.
“I doubt it,” he said quietly. “Goodbye.”
He turned his back on her, took a few steps toward the Chinese bowls and their mysterious flowers, and stood still, gazing down at them.
Minnie seized her fallen fan and parasol, and fled.
12
WERY WENGEFUL
Dear Miss Rennie,
May I beg the Honour of an Appointment with you at your earliest convenience? I wish to propose a Commission that I think very well suited to your considerable Talents.
Your Most Humble Servant,
Edward Twelvetrees
MINNIE FROWNED AT THE note. It was commendably brief but odd. This Twelvetrees spoke of her “talents” in a most familiar sort of way; clearly he knew what those talents were—and yet he gave no introduction, supplied no reference from one of her existing clients or connections. It made her uneasy.
Still, there was no sense of threat in the note, and she was in business. No harm in seeing him, she supposed. She’d be under no obligation to accept his commission if it, or he, seemed fishy.
She hesitated over whether to allow him to come to her rooms—but, after all, he had sent the note here; plainly he knew where she lived. She wrote back, offering to see him next day at three o’clock but making a mental note to tell one of the O’Higginses to come a bit early and hide in the boudoir, just in case.
“OH,” SHE SAID, opening the door. “So that’s it. I thought there was something a trifle odd about your note.”
“If you feel yourself offended, Miss Rennie, I willingly apologize.” Mr. Bloomer—alias Edward Twelvetrees, evidently—stepped in, not waiting for invitation, and obliging her to take a step back. “But I imagine a woman of your undoubted sense and experience might be willing to overlook a bit of professional subterfuge?”
He smiled at her, and, despite herself, she smiled back.
“I might,” she said. “A professional, are you?”
“It takes one to know one,” he said, with a small bow. “Shall we sit down?”
She shrugged slightly and gave Eliza a nod, indicating that she might bring in a tray of refreshments.
Mr. Twelvetrees accepted a cup of tea and an almond biscuit but left the latter lying on his saucer and the former steaming away unstirred.
“I shan’t waste your time, Miss Rennie,” he said. “When I left you in the princess’s glasshouse, I abandoned you—rather cavalierly, I’m afraid—to the company of His Grace, the Duke of Pardloe. Given the scandal attached to his family, I assumed at the time that you knew who he was, but from your manner when I observed you speaking with him, I revised this opinion. Was I right in thinking that you did not know him?”
“I didn’t,” Minnie said, keeping her composure. “But it was quite all right. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I left.” Just how long were you watching us? she wondered.
“Ah.” He’d been watching her face intently but at this broke off his inspection long enough to add cream and sugar to his tea and stir it. “Well, then. The commission for which I wish to engage your services has to do with this gentleman.”
“Indeed,” she said politely, and picked up her own cup.
“I wish you to abstract certain letters from the duke’s possession and deliver them to me.”
She nearly dropped the cup but tightened her hold just in time.
“What letters?” she asked sharply. Now she knew what it was about his note that had struck her oddly. Twelvetrees. That was the name of the Countess of Melton’s lover: Nathaniel Twelvetrees. All too plainly, this Edward was some relation.
And she heard in memory Colonel Quarry’s words when she’d asked if she might speak with Nathaniel: “Afraid not, Miss Rennie. My friend shot him.”
“Correspondence between the late Countess Melton and my brother Nathaniel Twelvetrees.”
She sipped her tea, feeling Edward’s gaze as hot on her skin as the breath from her cup. She set the cup down carefully and looked up. His face had an expression she’d seen on the faces of hawks fixing on their prey. But it wasn’t she who was the prey here.
“That might be possible,” she said coolly, though her heart had sped up noticeably. “Forgive me, though—are you sure such correspondence exists?”
He uttered a short laugh, quite without humor.
“It did exist, I’m sure of that.”
“I’m sure you are,” she said politely. “But if the correspondence is of the nature I surmise you mean—I have heard certain speculations—would the duke not have burned any such letters, following the death of his wife?”
Mr. Twelvetrees lifted one shoulder and let it fall, his eyes still fixed on hers.
“He might have done,” he said. “And your immediate task would of course be to discover whether that is the case. But I have reason to believe that the correspondence still exists—and if it does, I want it, Miss Rennie. And I’ll pay for it. Handsomely.”
WHEN THE DOOR closed behind Edward Twelvetrees, she stood frozen for a moment, until she heard the door of her boudoir open, across the hall.
“Well, that’s a rum cove,” Rafe O’Higgins observed, with a nod toward the closed front door. Eliza, who had come in to take away the tray, inclined her head in sober agreement.
“Wengeful,” she said. “Wery wengeful, ’e is. But oo’d blame him?”
Oo, indeed? Minnie thought, and suppressed th
e urge to laugh. Not from humor so much as from nerves.
“Aye, mibbe,” Rafe said. He went to the window and, lifting the edge of the blue velvet curtain, looked carefully down into the street, where Edward Twelvetrees was presumably vanishing into the distance. “I’d say your man’s inclined toward vengeance, sure. But what d’ye think he’d be after doing with these letters, if there are any?”
There was a brief silence, as all three of them contemplated the possibilities.
“Put ’em on broadsheets and sell ’em at a ha’penny a go?” Eliza suggested. “Could make a bit o’ money out o’ that, I s’pose.”
“Make a lot more out of the duke,” Rafe said, shaking his head. “Blackmail, aye? If the letters are juicy enough, I daresay His Grace would pay through the nose to keep just that from happening.”
“I imagine so,” Minnie said absently, though the echoes of her conversation with Colonel Quarry drowned out further suggestions.
“…he requires proof of the affair for a…a…legal reason, and he will not countenance the idea of letting anyone read his wife’s letters, no matter that she is beyond the reach of public censure nor that the consequences to himself if the affair is not proved may be disastrous.”
What if numerology was less penetrating an art than usual and Harry Quarry wasn’t a bluff, transparent four, after all? What if his care for Lord Melton was a charade? Twelvetrees had just openly engaged her to be his cat’s-paw; what if Quarry had the same end in mind but was playing a double game?
If so…were the two men playing the same game? And if so, were they in it together or working in opposition, whether known to each other or not?
She brought Quarry to mind, reliving their conversations and analyzing them, word for word, watching the emotions play out in memory across his broad, crudely handsome face.
No. One of the chief tenets of her family credo was “Trust no one,” but one did have to make judgments. And she was as sure as it was possible to be that Harry Quarry’s motive was what he had said: to protect his friend. And after all…Harry Quarry not only was convinced of the letters’ existence but had a good notion of their location. True, he hadn’t asked her to steal the letters, not explicitly, but had certainly done everything but.
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