by Lynn Kerstan
Perhaps Tallant had returned. Or perhaps the memsahib was simply making mischief. “I shall convey her message,” he said. “But you should inform her that Mr. Keynes does not like surprises.”
When the servants were gone, Hari took the bundles into the bedchamber, retrieved Mr. Holcombe from under the tent of lumber, and told him what had occurred.
“Wht r they?” Mr. Holcombe asked when the alphabet card was put under his hand.
Hari opened the two large parcels and showed him each fantastical disguise. The memsahib had spared no expense for Mr. and Miss Holcombe.
But the parcel containing the costume for Michael was a good deal smaller than the others. No larger, to be truthful, than a book. Unable to resist, he carefully unwrapped the contents and held them—it—up for inspection.
Mr. Holcombe’s eyes sparkled, and the left side of his face curved, only a little, in a smile.
To wear at her masquerade ball, Beata Neri had sent Michael a loincloth.
Chapter 13
Michael arrived at the Lion and Lamb shortly after one o’clock to find David Fairfax waiting inside near the door. “I’ll see to your horse,” Fairfax said. “The others are in a private parlor, up those stairs and second door to the right.”
“Miss Pryce?”
“She was here before us. Too much female talk, so I came down to watch for you.”
“How’s the duchess?”
“Tired. Scared. Sharp tongued. Can’t blame her, with her daughter gone missing.”
“And Miss Pryce?”
Fairfax thought a moment. “Energetic. Precise. Also sharp tongued. Oh, and she has a problem with her eyes. They can’t be exposed to light. She wears odd spectacles to protect them, smoked and hinged at the temples. The glasses cover her eyes altogether, and when you look at them, you wind up looking at your own reflection. Disconcerting, that’s what it is.”
Michael shrugged. “If there’s no wine up there already, bring some with you.”
The parlor was a low-ceilinged room with a small window overlooking an alleyway, and a fireplace that gave off more smoke than warmth. The women were clustered on benches at the far end of a trestle table, Miss Holcombe and the duchess on one side and Miss Pryce across from them, their heads bent over an open sketch pad. He couldn’t see what was on it. At the other end of the table lay two bonnets, one blue and one brown, and a hat belonging to Mr. Holcombe.
The conversation ceased when he entered, and three faces turned to look at him.
Only the duchess scowled at his disheveled appearance. Miss Holcombe and Miss Pryce regarded him with bland uninterest, as if he were a servant come in to clear away the dishes.
He swept off his hat and bowed. “Ladies. Shall I assume you have resolved every difficulty without me?”
“Indeed not,” said Miss Pryce briskly. “We are gathering information. Her Grace has provided a list of her daughter’s schoolfellows, those who live in England, and of the places she has visited on previous occasions. Just now she has been describing Lady Corinna while I attempted to capture her likeness with a charcoal stick. We shall require a better artist, I’m afraid.”
Miss Pryce, it seemed, was accustomed to taking charge. He lowered himself onto the bench, deliberately choosing a spot where he’d have a good view of Miranda Holcombe, prim in a dark blue dress with a high collar, her hair combed back into a knot. Aware he was breathing unevenly, he took a moment to remember why they had all come together at the inn.
“You are well, Norah?” he asked, noting the shadows under her eyes.
“As can be expected,” she snapped, “with my child nowhere to be found.”
Put in his place, he folded his arms and left Miss Pryce to get on with it.
She did so without delay. “In her letter, Miss Holcombe explained Her Grace’s circumstances and the urgent need to conceal her. There is a place I know of where she will be safe for an extended period of time, although it is certainly not the sort of accommodation a duchess would be accustomed to.”
“I’m not fussy, young woman. Just put me somewhere, anywhere at all, and get on about finding Corinna.”
Fairfax came in with two open bottles of claret and five glasses on a tray. The women ignored him as he took a seat across from Michael and, with a look of resignation, passed over a bottle and a glass.
“The house I have in mind is clean and self-contained. Meals are served there, and each resident has a bedchamber, a small sitting room, and a privy closet.”
“It sounds ideal,” said Miranda.
“In those respects, yes. And the location is such that no one is likely to seek her in that neighborhood. The house stands on Little White Lyon Street.”
“But that’s in Seven Dials!” Fairfax erupted. “She can’t stay there!”
Seven Dials meant nothing to Michael. Miranda wore a little frown of puzzlement.
The duchess appeared unconcerned. “I’ll not be on the streets, young man. Go on, Miss Pryce. What recommends the house to you?”
During the pause that followed, Michael studied the composed young woman sitting straight as a spear, her hands folded on the table in front of her. Her spectacles were as Fairfax had described them, darkly smoked, cupped over her eye sockets and folded back at the temples, admitting no light to eyes that could bear none. Her dark brown hair, smooth and shiny, sat atop her head like a turban. Despite her drab schoolmistress dress, he could tell she had a trim figure, and her complexion was, like Miranda’s, smooth and pale.
“I was born there,” she finally said. “Until my mother died when I was eight, we lived there. At the time it was the sort of house one would expect to find in that section of the Rookeries. But now it serves the ladies, those who might once have plied their trade there, in quite another fashion. They come to stay, usually for several weeks at a time, to take the cure.”
Silence.
Michael, biting back a laugh, watched the expressions pass over Miranda’s face and the duchess’s. Fairfax flushed redder than the wine he had just spilled.
“For the pox?” the duchess choked out.
“Yes,” said Miss Pryce, entirely unperturbed. “And ailments of that sort. The establishment is managed by Mrs. Teale, formerly the proprietress of a brothel, now a woman of strict religious convictions. She has three large sons who see to it no undesirables enter the house. I stopped by this morning to make sure there was a vacancy, and if Her Grace is agreeable, she can move directly into a set of rooms on the third floor. It will be quiet that high up, and I shall bring in whatever she requires for her comfort.”
“Oh, my,” said Miranda, regarding Miss Pryce with undisguised wonder. “What an astonishing idea.”
Everyone’s attention went to the duchess, whose brows had lifted practically to her hairline. “I am to pretend that I, too, am there for the cure?”
“That would be best,” Miss Pryce replied. “Naturally you must wear a disguise, and I have taken the liberty of providing one that will get you into the house without arousing the suspicion of the other residents or the servants.” She gestured to a portmanteau on the floor beside her. “Later I shall bring more clothing, books, needlework, and the like. And news as well, because of course you will wish to be kept informed about the search for Lady Corinna. I come and go in that area on a regular basis, so no one will think it unusual to see me there.”
For some reason, at just the moment Michael was draining a glass of wine, everyone suddenly looked in his direction. He looked back at them with surprise. “Don’t ask me,” he said when the glass was empty. “I’m partial to back streets and whorehouses. No perspective to offer here.”
“I am asking,” the duchess said. “It was you I came to for help.”
The more fool she. “I won’t say you’ll fit right in,” he said carefully. “But I expect
you can carry it off. In your place, I’d rely on Miss Pryce.”
“So would I,” said Miranda. “If it matters.”
“Very well. Shall we move on to plans for locating my daughter?” Her voice quavered at the end, a measure of her distress.
“She hasn’t showed up at Tallant House,” Michael said. “We need to check Longview, but none of us can go there.”
“We could hire a Runner,” Fairfax said. “Of course, Tallant will probably do the same. And how can we determine which of the Runners is to be trusted? I’ve heard that some accept bribes, while others are shiftless. Why are you all staring at me? I’ve never employed a Runner, but some of my friends have done so. Not all of them have been glad of it.”
“Mr. Fairfax is entirely correct,” said Miss Pryce. “As when employing a physician or a solicitor, one must take care when hiring a Bow Street Runner. Fortunately my own acquaintance includes an assortment of thieves, robbers, confidence artists, and scoundrels of various persuasions. They are well aware which Runners are susceptible to bribes and which can be relied on to honorably fulfill a contract. Shall I seek out a recommendation and report back to you?”
“Never mind reporting. Find someone and hire him,” Michael said. “Hire as many as you like.”
“The expense—”
“I’ll open an account for you with my banker. You already know how to contact him. Draw upon the funds for whatever you need. Which reminds me.” He fumbled through the folds of his greatcoat, found a thick wad of folded banknotes tied with a string, and slid it down the table. It came to a stop directly in front of Miss Pryce.
The ladies studied it as if a snake had just wriggled into their company. Then they looked up at Michael.
What the devil had he done wrong now? “For immediate expenses, is all. I said there’d be more. I’ll see to it after I leave here.”
Another of those silences that made his skin itch. At length Miss Pryce said, “You are generous, sir.”
Approval, he decided, was even worse than disdain. “I’m buying my way out of taking further responsibility or doing any of the work.” He stood and pulled on his coat. “Is there anything else you require, or can I be on my way?”
“By all means,” said Miss Pryce in the dismissive tone she might have used with a battlefield deserter. “Mr. Fairfax, perhaps you can help us with a small dilemma. If the clothing on the wheeled chair is to pass for Mr. Holcombe, we shall need materials to stuff into it. While Mira and I see to the duchess’s disguise, will you find towels or blankets or something of the kind?”
Michael got out of the room during that speech, desperate to escape. And inexplicably, not wanting to go. He was still hovering in the dim passageway when Fairfax caught him up.
“Where do I buy sheets?” Fairfax asked.
“How would I know? Where did you stash my horse?”
“You needn’t snarl at me. I’ll go find stuffing and bring the horse when I come back. You can go down to the tavern and drink.”
He would have done, except that he was too conspicuous to hang about in public. And it had occurred to him that if he stayed upstairs, there might be another opportunity to see Miranda. If he gave it some thought, he could probably devise an excuse to go back into the parlor.
He did his thinking on a small bench a little distance down the passageway, where he whittled on a piece of wood that had started out to be a dog but was turning out to be a duck. After fifteen minutes he’d scratched up one plausible reason to speak again with Miss Pryce, one to speak again with Norah, and none to come within a mile of Miranda Holcombe. Then Fairfax returned, his arms full of horse blankets, and Michael followed him to the door and made himself useful by knocking.
“Come.” It had to be Miss Pryce speaking.
Michael opened the door, let Fairfax enter, and came in behind him. His gaze searched for Miranda and found instead the back of a woman with long, curly chestnut hair. She was wearing a purple dress that had seen better days and too many washings. “Norah?”
She turned, and at first he thought he had been mistaken. A fringe of hair met dark, arched brows. Her cheeks were painted, as were her lips, and there was a mole on her cheek. “Not Norah, m’boy.” She grinned, and he saw that one front tooth was noticeably yellowed. “I be Rosie Bell. What will ye gi’ me fer a toss?”
“Don’t overplay it,” Miss Pryce said sternly. “Indeed, I believe you had better have a sore tooth. When we’re nearer the house, I shall wad up some fabric in your cheek to cover that educated diction.” At Norah’s slumping shoulders, she relented a trifle. “You cannot help but be what you are, Your Grace. If you speak, you will reveal yourself as an aristocrat.”
“I understand, my dear. I was merely attempting to shock my brother-in-law.”
“You succeeded,” he told her sincerely. “I believe you’ll carry it off very well.”
“For Corinna, I will do whatever is necessary.” She stepped forward, and with a degree of hesitation, placed her hand on his forearm.
It was, he understood readily enough, an expression of gratitude, one he did not deserve. With difficulty, he refrained from pulling away.
“Do you know,” she said, “the transformation from Duchess of Tallant to poxy doxy seems to me a decided improvement.”
Laughing, he lifted her hand from his arm and held it as their gazes met. “You are not to worry yourself ill, Norah. You have done all you can, and now your task is to remain hidden while we find your daughter.”
“Your niece.”
That relationship, the girl to him, struck him for the first time. When his mother died, he had ceased having a family. There was only his enemy, who happened to be his brother. “Yes. I look forward to making her acquaintance.”
He went then to Miss Pryce of the pursed lips and invisible eyes. “I owe you a service,” he said.
“The documents have been of use to you?”
It took a moment to realize what she was talking about. “Indeed. I know rather more about the man than anyone should. You are thorough.”
“To a fault. You should know, sir, that Lord Varden returned to England two days ago. It is likely he will appear at Beata Neri’s masquerade tonight, and beforehand, I understand he is to make a report to the East India Consortium.”
Bad news. The worst news. It was all coming together, and all at one time, or nearly so. He had to stay free until Tallant returned. Then act quickly, devil take the consequences. He looked down at Miss Pryce’s protective spectacles, saw his reflection looking back. “If you need me, send a message to David Fairfax. Under no circumstances are you to make direct contact or be seen in my vicinity. Understood?”
“Of course. Reports of the investigation will be delivered to your banker. You may safely rely on me.”
Nodding, he turned to Miranda Holcombe and located her by the window. Pale winter sunlight streamed over her, cast a halo around her. She gazed at him without expression. He felt, as always, that he was looking at her through a sheet of ice. At the end he could find nothing to say to her, could not bring himself to bid her farewell, so he left without a word.
Chapter 14
“There you are, then.” With a flourish, Miranda placed the wreath of laurel leaves atop her father’s head and secured it in his white hair with pins. “Ave, Caesar, rex convivii.”
His eyes approved the jest. Immobile in his chair, he could scarcely play Master of the Feast. But the notion of dressing up as Marcus Aurelius, his personal hero, had caught his imagination. And that made it impossible for her to disappoint him, although she longed to drop onto her bed for a good night’s sleep.
Instead, draped in a filmy drift of soft muslin that no self-respecting Vestal Virgin would have dared to wear in public, she wrapped the gilt cincture around her waist, secured the jeweled filet on her head, and donned the sof
t golden gloves Beata had provided. They were made to reach above her elbows, but she let the fabric drop into folds that concealed the outline of her dagger.
She would need it, her deadly little knife, perhaps this very evening. The Beast had returned to London. “He will appear at Beata Neri’s masquerade tonight,” Miss Pryce had told Mr. Keynes. Mira overheard only a few words of their conversation, but who else could she have meant?
Hari Singh, wearing traditional Punjabi garb, was to escort her father, freeing her to enjoy the ball. At first she had been sorry for it, but perhaps all would work out for the best. Later, if the opportunity presented itself, she might be committing a murder.
The letter to her father, brief and apologetic, had long since been composed and left where it was sure to be found. She meant to take responsibility for her crime. She meant, this time, to tell the truth.
The night was clear and cold, the villa a blaze of lights. Colorful Japan lanterns cast rainbows over the terraces and in the courtyards. Servants bearing flambeaux escorted guests from their carriages to the entrance hall. Music floated above the sounds of voices and laughter as several hundred guests danced in the ballroom, dined in the supper room, mingled in the salons. With some regret, Mira watched Hari wheel the chair into a parlor near the library, where her father was quickly surrounded by his cronies. Leaving her to get on with having a wonderful time and, if Papa had his way, meeting the man of her dreams.
Not that she had any such dreams, she was thinking as she made her way to the ballroom, where she planned to conceal herself in the crowd and watch for her quarry.
No such luck. She was barely inside the door, scanning the room for a corner where she might sit, when Beata Neri materialized alongside her.
“Vieni,” said Beata, splendidly baroque in a wealth of gold satin and blonde lace encrusted with jewels. “The two most fascinating women at the party will pose side by side over there, by the fountain, so that the beau monde may draw near and pay homage. And when they move on, I shall relate to you the most salacious gossip about them. Oh, and there is someone I especially wish you to meet, but I see he has not yet arrived. Gentlemen and their business meetings. Mah!”
