Title Sinful Tales of Desirable Ladies

by Lucinda Nelson

  “Brampton, in Sussex. No one can really say that she packed her things and left of her own accord, yet no one can attest that she was killed.”

  “A servant leaving a Baron’s house is remarked upon and gossip worthy,” Solomon replied. “She would not leave in the middle of the night, and she would need the means to get to Sussex. I remember she was not a young woman.”

  “That is exactly why I believe Beaulieu either killed her himself or had someone, Holt perhaps, do it.”

  “A quick trip to the Thames with her body and belongings and no more lady’s maid.”

  “Exactly. If you can, sound out any reports of dead bodies found in the river. The news of some corpse does not always get around, as that is more common than noble folk realize.”

  “I will do that. What of Beaulieu?”

  Mr. Simms pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not good. He is awake long enough to demand more laudanum.”

  “Dying?”

  “If he does not cease the laudanum consumption, yes. Within a week or two. He guzzles it like wine.”

  “And no doubt gaining a terrible addiction. If he does not stop, you’re right, it will kill him. Are you trying to stop it?”

  “Of course. When I refuse to give it to him, his valet does. He is threatening to dismiss me, so I may have only a few more days. I am headed to the apothecary to purchase more laudanum.”

  “And his knee?”

  Mr. Simms shrugged. “Healing. It will take months for it to fully heal, but he may not live that long.”

  Solomon shrugged. “There is not anything you can do about it, so let it happen. My only regret is that he did not hang.”

  “Unless we can prove his guilt in the murder of his wife before then.”

  “Any other gossip or rumors among the staff as to what happened?”

  “It is just the same – fear. So thick you can almost taste it. I have been busy becoming the understanding uncle to many of the servants. One may finally talk to me that he or she witnessed His Lordship throw his wife over the bannister.”

  “We need a credible witness.” Solomon frowned. “A commoner cannot testify against a peer of the realm.”

  “A commoner can be the beginning,” Mr. Simms replied. “Once we have that much information, we might be able to use it against the steward. If he confesses, then Beaulieu is finished.”

  “Very sound thinking.” Solomon once again glanced around. “I think we might be gathering too much attention. If you have not been given the sack, the same time in two days.”

  “If I am, I will meet with you at the Wolcott residence.”

  “No. It was set on fire. Come to my house.”

  Mr. Simms’s eyes widened. “Was anyone hurt? Killed?”

  “Miss Wolcott. But she will be all right.”

  “Thank God. I like that little woman. Give her my best, will you?”

  “I will. Take care.”

  Mr. Simms continued on his way, while Solomon lingered, watching the street around them and the Beaulieu home. The gardeners worked on lawns, the flower beds and the shrubs, the only people he saw there.

  Feeling eyes on him, Solomon turned his head and found a lord watching him with a frown. It took a moment for Solomon to recognize him – the Earl of Firthwaite. The elderly lord stared at him from a massive landau drawn by a team of four black horses.

  Before the old man might beckon him, and demand why he was not working, Solomon lowered his head and hurried back toward the park where he had hidden his horse and his clothes.

  “I say, come back here.”

  Pretending he had not heard, Solomon rounded a corner and vanished from the old man’s sight. Tossing glances over his shoulder to make certain he was not followed, he quickly changed, hid his work garments, then mounted his horse. Riding back to the main avenue, he discovered Firthwaite had indeed set one of his footmen into searching for him.

  The liveried footman strode toward the landau, and spoke to Lord Firthwaite. Turning his head the other way, Solomon passed him by, yet heard Firthwaite clearly say, “These workmen are so lazy, they should be paid in pennies not shillings.”

  Grinning to himself, Solomon went home.

  ***

  Miss Teresa Wolcott

  “I had no idea there were so many warehouses in London.”

  Tired, yet freshly changed and washed, Thomas sat down at the supper table with Teresa, Solomon and Amelia. “I still have had no luck in finding a possible location where your miscreant has been hiding the goods.”

  Hiding her pain, her back stiffly straight, Teresa glanced between Thomas and Solomon. “If they have been sold already,” she asked. “What is there to find?”

  Clad in all black as was his wont, his dark hair with its rakish locks that defied a brush tumbling over his brow, Solomon regarded her with a small smile. “Even if the imported items were gone, the owners would know what had been in them. And who owned the goods. So far, none of the owners either rented their structures to anyone answering either Edward’s or Aldric’s descriptions, nor did they share their buildings with anyone like that.”

  “I see.”

  “One came close, Sol,” Thomas said to him. “A youngish man with blond hair, blue eyes, but spoke with an Irish accent and dressed shabbily. He rented the warehouse for one month only, but the owner was in Scotland for most of that time and did not know what he kept in there.”

  Solomon stared at him. “Edward is adept at languages.”

  Thomas nodded. “If we can connect him to it, then we have our proof.”

  “Not necessarily. The owner may not be able to identify him if we say took Edward there. If Edward spoke in his concise English and dressed in his usual fashion, then he may say Edward was not the man.”

  “Draw his face.”

  All three ceased their meal and stared at Teresa. “Get someone to draw what Edward Crane looks like, and show it to the owner. If he says, that is him, then you know.”

  Solomon glanced at Thomas. “Has she always been this smart?”

  “Yes, it is the bluestocking in her.”

  Solomon rubbed his brow with his fingertips. “But we cannot ask Edward to sit down for an artist.”

  “A good sketch artist can draw to your specifications and description,” Teresa went on after a sniff in Thomas’s direction. “You know him well. Describe him and see to it he draws the exact likeness.”

  Solomon’s brow rose. “And I suppose you can even tell me the name of the artist.”

  “I do not know his name,” she replied, frowning, trying not to squirm and get a more comfortable position on the chair. “But he draws pictures for people at the market near our house.”

  “I know who you mean,” Amelia said suddenly. “He is very good, Your Grace.”

  “Then I should perhaps send for the gentleman,” Solomon said, taking a sip of his wine. “I will pay him more than he can earn in a month drawing for people at the market.”

  “I will go ask him to come here,” Thomas offered. “I know who he is. He might be more comfortable coming with a familiar face than a servant sent by the Duke of Thornehill.”

  “Better not use my name or he may not come at all,” Solomon advised dryly.

  “Did you learn anything of value?” Thomas asked, cutting his meat.

  “Oh, yes.” Solomon sat back, twirling his wine goblet. “Lord Oakshire laughed at my suggestion he might be the one stealing, the Baroness’s maid came from Brampton in Sussex and Baron Beaulieu is actively dying from laudanum consumption.”

  Teresa shook her head. “That is dangerous stuff. Too much can kill.”

  “This is also further evidence that there is someone else directing these assassins,” Thomas added. “A man in that state cannot think comprehensively.”

  “Perhaps His Lordship’s conscience is bothering him enough that he wants to die,” Solomon said, but his tone suggested he did not believe it. “Oh, and Thomas. Can you find out if the river yielded any corpses
that may have once been an older woman?”

  “The Baroness’s missing maid?” Teresa asked.

  “Yes.”

  Thomas nodded slowly. “I can make inquiries. When? Shortly after the Baroness herself died?”

  “Precisely. I will send a man to Brampton to find out if the woman retired with a pension as the story has been told. You see if there are any women matching her description having washed up along the shorelines.”

  Teresa observed Amelia blanching, and apparently Solomon did as well.

  “I apologize for my crude chatter, Mrs. Wolcott,” he said. “I fear I am not used to gentle ears listening to my uncouth words.”

  Amelia smiled, blushing bright red. “It is quite all right, Your Grace. Thomas tends to forget himself at times and talk as though he were discussing someone’s misfortune with a constable.”

  Teresa’s swift glance at Thomas showed him blushing nearly as pink as Amelia. “Ahem, yes, well. Albert Johnson still refuses to talk, Sol. Even my best interrogator has made no progress.”

  “Keep at him. He will break down eventually. And I should mention this. Mr. Simms may get himself dismissed from the Beaulieu household, but he is trying to get a servant who may have seen something to talk. If we do, we may need your interrogator to work on the Beaulieu steward.”

  “He may prove as tough and loyal as Johnson,” Thomas commented.

  “I would think the Beaulieu steward would rather face life in confinement than hanging, if it were known he covered for the Baron murdering Elize.”

  “Maybe,” Thomas replied, doubtful. “Stewards can be very loyal, and if he killed the maid, then surely he will hang. He has much to lose by talking, and little to gain.”

  “Not if I promise to spare his life,” Solomon told him. “I might use my influences to have him gaoled for life rather than hang.”

  Thomas shook his head. “In truth, Sol, hanging is far easier to face than a life in prison. Have you seen Newgate?”

  “I have. And a noble soul might prefer death by hanging than that fate, but a coward who kills women? I think such an evil man would sell his own mother rather than face hanging.”

  Later, with Thomas’s permission and Amelia as a chaperone, Teresa walked with Solomon in his courtyard after supper. “You are still hurting,” he said quietly, strolling with his hands behind his back. “I can tell.”

  “I will not belittle you with a comment that it is nothing,” Teresa replied, smiling up at him. “Yes, I am in considerable pain. But I refuse to let it rule me.”

  “Are the balms helping?”

  “Yes. The burns are crusted over and are healing, but when my skin moves.” Teresa grimaced then changed the expression to a grin. “Well, let us understand I will not make any unlady like comments in your presence.”

  Solomon laughed. “You would not offend me.”

  “Even so, I will deign to be as genteel and well bred as possible.”

  “Your intelligence and wit never cease to make me feel I am the luckiest man in the world.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Most women will not venture their opinions to a man, will not curse as I have heard you to on numerous occasions, and do not implement much humor. Talking to you is refreshing, like a clean sea breeze.”

  “Filled with the tang of salt.”

  “See what I mean? You, your wit, make me happy just talking to you.”

  Teresa paused to stare up at him. “Just in my conversation, Sol?”

  With Amelia not currently watching them, Solomon brushed a tendril of her hair from her cheek. “Your presence alone makes me happy, Teresa.”

  Despite knowing that by telling him what was in her heart, Teresa risked frightening him away, she blurted, “I am glad to hear that. For I think, I know, I am falling in love with you.”

  In the dim light, Teresa watched him hesitate, his expression close down. Her heart pounded as his face turned away from her, her stomach in tight knots. “I appreciate that, Teresa. Know this. I am fond of you, truly I am. But whether I can return your love, I confess I do not know.”

  Her blood turning to ice in her veins, Teresa turned away. I never should have said that. You knew better, you stupid fool. “Well,” she said, her mouth feeling as though it were filled with sand. “I expect that is not as bad as hearing you say, ‘Teresa, I can never be more than a friend to you’.”

  “I do not know what I can be to you,” Solomon admitted, his voice low. “My father – was a cold man. He had little love for his family. He loved not his wife who bore him children, nor me or my sister. My mother drank to forget, then died of a broken heart. I do not want to be like my father, Teresa. But I fear commitments, firm relationships. What if I am like him? Marry, but cannot love. Have children, and see them as only carrying on the family line.”

  “If you fear that it is within you,” she said, “then it is not. A truly cold hearted person would not care whom he or she hurts.” Teresa tried to smile. “But that is my opinion. Take it or leave it, for whatever it may be worth to you.”

  Teresa turned away, already feeling her heart shatter. “Good night, Solomon.

  Chapter 23

  Miss Teresa Wolcott

  “Teresa, what is wrong?”

  Seated in the courtyard with Amelia, Teresa tried to focus on her embroidery, one of her possessions salvaged from the burned townhouse. Without glancing up from her task, she merely said, “Unrequited love.”

  With Solomon closeted with the artist from the market and Thomas once more hunting for the warehouse the thief might have used, Teresa and Amelia enjoyed the late morning air in the shade of a tall tree.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Amelia set her own sewing down in her lap and gaze at her.

  “You are in love with His Grace.”

  “It would seem so.” Teresa chuckled bitterly. “And he is ‘fond’ of me.”

  “Fondness is only a start, a beginning toward true love,” Amelia told her, her voice quiet.

  “Perhaps. But he believes he is not capable of loving someone. He fears he is like his father whereby a wife and children are merely a means to continue the bloodline.”

  “I do not believe that for a moment, Teresa,” Amelia replied firmly. “His Grace is reserved, certainly, but he is a very warm, kind-hearted man as I have recently discovered. Please do not despair, my dear. Give him time.”

  “Time for what?” Teresa snapped, glancing up at last and meeting Amelia’s eyes. “Once this investigation is over and our house is rebuilt, Solomon will forget all about me.”

  She stabbed her needle viciously into the cloth. “I feel he only wanted to see me in order to get Thomas to work with him in finding his thief.”

  “If that was true,” Amelia began, “then why continue to take you to balls? He would not have to at that point.”

  “To curry Thomas’s favor, Amelia.”

  Amelia laughed. “A Duke currying favor with Thomas? I am sorry, but that cannot be possible. His Grace is paying Thomas’s fees and has no need to curry anything.

  And what with the fire at our townhouse, Thomas has become personally involved.

  No, the Duke accompanied you to the party because he wanted to.”

  Silent, Teresa pondered what Amelia said. While she agreed with her for the most part, her injured feelings refused to let her be comforted. “I cannot help but feel that he used me.”

  “I am sorry that you do.” Amelia picked up her embroidery again. “If he did, perhaps at first to gain Thomas’s trust, then he continued seeing you long after he got it. Give the Duke a chance.”

  “We shall see, I suppose,” Teresa admitted, feeling torn over wanting to believe Amelia’s words and never wanting to see Solomon ever again. Needing to change the subject, she commented. “That tea seems to be helping you. You have not been feeling as sick lately.”

  “That is true,” Amelia confessed. “Either it has been helping or perhaps this stage of the pregnancy is finally passing
.”

  Teresa forced a smile. “Just think, in half a year your little one will arrive. I am so happy for you.”

  In spite of her cheerful words, Teresa’s thoughts turned to how few her own chances were of getting married and having children really were. No one will marry me, even if I finally got my condition under control. I am too old to marry now. Depression filled her heart even as her throat thickened with tears she would never let fall.

  “Someday you will have your own children,” Amelia replied with a smile in direct contradiction of Teresa’s thoughts. “You will make a wonderful mother.”