He opened the next drawer. It held her makeup kit, and he looked down at it for several measures. “Her fingerprint is still in the rouge.”
Without thinking, I put my hand on his back, a harmless reassuring gesture I would offer any friend in need of comfort. My friends, however, are not British aristocrats. After a moment, I realized what I’d done and quickly pulled back.
He looked at me and handed over the box. “No offense taken, Miss Shane.”
I took it and almost immediately realized there was nothing but pots, powders and a small packet of hairpins inside. “I doubt we’ll learn much from that. Other than that she used the same brand of stage makeup as I do—”
“Miss, there’s something in the hem!” Rosa interrupted, holding up the skirt of the last dress.
“Get a seam ripper.”
She went to the mending box and pulled it out. Saint Aubyn watched as I picked up the dark blue skirt Frances had brought from England and set to work.
“You’re far too practiced at that.”
“I did some piecework as a child.” I spoke briskly, hoping to stop any further discussion. And the memories. I did not need to be reminded of sewing with Mama, during those last weeks in our cold tenement room. Often I’d put down my book and take the work out of her bony hands as she coughed, then just start in without a word. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes as she watched me stitch, as fast and cleanly as I could.
I hope she can see me as I am now.
Saint Aubyn was studying me with an unnerving intensity. I just shook my head as I neatly ripped the hem, quickly revealing something shiny and hard. It came free easily enough; Frances had just slipped it into the sleeve of the hem without really securing it.
“A necklace. Or part of one.” I handed it to him. It was an elaborate circlet of clear stones in white metal, but it looked to me like several pieces were missing. I’d have thought it was one of the paste gewgaws like Lentini wore while she was on stage, except that a couple of the stones caught the light. Paste doesn’t flash like that.
“Well, now we know how she was funding her flier,” he said dryly. “This was a wedding gift from Frances’s father to her mother. Alberta didn’t tell me it was missing.”
“Would she even know? I know the ladies of the Four Hundred wear their jewels at all times, but I understood British women were more reserved.”
“It is more suited to a presentation or coronation, and we haven’t had any of that lately.” He held the piece to the light. “I’ve never seen her wear it.”
“So . . .”
“I believe her mother keeps her important jewels in a locked box in her dressing room. Probably simple enough for Frances to nick it.”
I nodded as he studied the piece.
“It seems to me that four or five of the diamond drops are gone. I’m certain she didn’t get anything near what they were worth,” he observed.
“She wouldn’t have to. And the individual pieces are unremarkable enough that she wouldn’t excite much interest by selling them.”
“I suppose pawnbrokers are as loathe to ask awkward questions on this side of the Atlantic as they are at home.”
“You’d lose no money on that bet, Your Grace. But we also have no way to know when or where she sold them.”
“I don’t suppose you know anyone who knows a good pawnbroker.”
“I did as a girl. Thankfully, I don’t now.”
Saint Aubyn smiled faintly and turned to the last drawer, which yielded programs, a box and a couple of envelopes.
The programs were from our tour, all the same except for the venue, with Violette’s name on the front below mine and the title, and inside as Giulietta. Her biography was short, and I now knew, entirely false, listing a Canadian conservatory and roles in Ottawa, Toronto and Chicago.
Saint Aubyn took a moment to look at mine. It listed me as the final student and protégée of Madame Suzanne Lentini, and the highlights of credits from New York, London and other places I’d amassed before starting my own company. It made no mention of anything personal, and listed me only as a native of New York.
“You don’t give much away, do you?”
“People aren’t coming to hear about my life. They’re coming to hear me sing.”
“True enough.”
The box and envelopes were still in my hands. The box, from a bottle of Mrs. Redfern’s Beauty Tonic, whatever that might be, held cartes de visite. Our Violette had a fascination with the famous. Lillie Langtry, Sarah Bernhardt, and a selection of divas all stared soulfully from the small collector’s cards. I handed them to Saint Aubyn.
“Some of these are British.” I pointed to Langtry. “She may have brought them with her.”
“I don’t believe the box is . . . I’ve never heard of that particular tonic.”
I remembered Dr. Silver. “We may wish to investigate Mrs. Redfern. It could have been an emetic with nicotine.”
“A trip to the chemist may be in order.” He nodded.
“I have a good druggist. I’ll take you to him.”
“Once again, I’m in your debt.” He nodded, then sifted through the cards, stopping at a picture of a woman in doublet and hose.
“Bernhardt’s Hamlet?” I asked, trying to get a closer look. I knew the famous actress was tackling the great role, but I hadn’t seen it.
Saint Aubyn grinned and held the card up to me. “Shane’s Romeo.”
I blushed, as only a pale Irishwoman can. “Yes, I did that one. Divas do.”
“And a lovely one it is.” He chuckled. “Just the one?”
“I hate standing around with a soulful look. I’ll do it once in a great while to promote a tour, but . . .”
“Well, it’s better than Langtry, for sure. She’s been eating a bit too much at the Prince of Wales’s table.”
The squeak from Rosa, a fancier of the yellow press, reminded Saint Aubyn what he’d just obliquely referred to in the presence of females. To his credit, he managed a very nice blush of his own. “My apologies, ladies, I meant no offense.”
“I didn’t think you did.” I took the apology gravely and Rosa nodded, as I realized I still had the envelopes in my hands. One seemed to hold pictures, the other was addressed in an unremarkable, but neat, copperplate hand to Lady Alberta Saint Aubyn.
I handed them over silently, realizing what they must be.
He took them and first opened the one with the pictures. It was exactly what I expected. Three family photographs: a group, a couple of boys, and a woman.
“Her family,” he said slowly. “She must have taken them as mementoes.”
“Yes.”
He looked at the letter, then shook his head. “Not now, I’m sorry.”
“It’s none of my business. None of it is, really.”
“I’ve made it your business by asking your help. And it’s been invaluable.”
I nodded quietly and helped Rosa finish folding the clothing and other things back into the trunk as he carefully put the necklace in his pocket; then he got up and walked to the window, still holding the letter and the pictures. It had started to rain, as it often does on a spring day in New York, and the room was turning dark.
I locked the trunk and walked over to him.
“I had this hope that we’d find some answer.” As he spoke quietly, he kept his eyes on the wet cobblestones and deserted street.
“It may be in the letter. Or there may be no answer.”
He nodded. “And I will have to live with that.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” I handed him the key.
Our fingers touched, skin to skin for the first time; electricity suddenly arced between us, and we both froze for a moment as he turned back from the window to look at me. Neither he nor I moved; neither of us even breathed in that instant, and something changed in the balance between us. I didn’t know enough about men to know what any of this meant, but for a fraction of a second, his eyes dropped to my lips, and I thought he might hav
e been thinking about kissing me.
The amazing thing was, it didn’t feel like an insult, but like what I’d been singing about all those years as Romeo. The lightning bolt.
I don’t know what might have happened next, because he dropped the key, and Rosa called to me, and it all vanished as if it had never happened. Except that it had.
“Thank you for your kind help, Miss Shane.” The duke briskly pocketed the key and snapped back to his normal, cool demeanor. But I was relieved to see something different in his eyes, because it meant I wasn’t the only one.
“Glad to help. I will let you know what I learn from my booking agent.” I spoke equally coolly as I walked him to the door.
“I’ll send a porter to pick up the trunk this evening.”
“Thank you.”
“Not singing tonight, Miss Shane?”
“Not for a few days. I will likely catch up on my reading, and my beauty sleep.”
“Ah. Not out on the town with your many admirers?” He was teasing.
“I’m far happier with Anne Boleyn, and perhaps even Henry VIII.”
“Well, now that he’s safely dead, at least.”
“ ‘I may be a big woman, but I have a very little neck.’ ”
“Marie de Guise.” Saint Aubyn laughed. “Probably the single best refusal ever given.”
“I think so.” I was also more than a little impressed that he recognized the comment, which the lovely, and undeniably tall, Marie had made when Henry tried to come courting after “divorced, beheaded, died.”
“In any case, I hope to see you soon.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“As will I.”
I closed the door after him, then leaned on it for a moment. “What in the name of Hades was that?”
Rosa looked sharply at me. “Miss?”
“Nothing. Sorry. Thank you so much for your help.”
“Of course, miss. Wicked Duke, huh?”
“Maybe.”
“Not my place, miss, but maybe you should find out.”
And with that, and a cheeky little smile, she headed back downstairs.
Chapter 18
Milady in Her Bath
Tommy was spending that Thursday evening out with a bunch of old boxing chums, so I had a rare night at home alone, with no engagements or obligations. Other ladies may have their own ideas of what they like to do at such times, but my preference is very clear: I take a long bath and wash my hair.
In addition to Montezuma, the previous owner of our town house had left us with a modern water closet, to our eternal gratitude. But the bathing arrangements were pretty much as they were in any other comfortable, modern home. Which is to say, neither especially comfortable nor modern. We have hot water for a good basic wash each morning, but hair washing and a long soak in a hot tub are things that can only happen when the kitchen is quiet and no one else is around. It may be almost a new century, but no proper lady wants to be surprised in her bath by a bunch of reporters. I would have sent Toms out to play if I’d had to wait another day or two.
With the house deserted, I could drag the giant copper tub out into the center of the kitchen, fill it halfway with hot water from the boiler on the stove, then add cold water till it was comfortable. I added a little lavender oil to the water, an unthinkable luxury in a poorer home, where entire families would share the bath and be grateful for it, and happily sank in.
A hot, scented bath probably ranks as one of the greatest sensual pleasures available to humans, even in our modern day and age. No less authorities on decadence than the Romans considered a good soak a special, and healthful, treat. Whatever unpleasantness one may be dealing with in daily life, the luxury of being able to loll for a time in hot, scented water goes a long way toward easing it. And there’s also the plain Irish practicality of it all. If you’re going to all the trouble and expense of a hot bath, you’d damned well better enjoy it!
I made sure to do just that, soaking until the water started to cool, then washing my hair before it got too cold. Hair washing itself is a project, requiring a carefully calibrated solution of soap, thorough rinsing, and a light application of oil and combing through after, probably my least favorite part of the process, since my hair has more than a little natural curl, and it resists the comb. I put the oil on before I wrapped my hair in a towel, to let it sink in until I could get upstairs to my room. I could comb out at my leisure in front of the nice, hot fire I’d had Rosa set up for me before she left. Once the hair was all combed out into nice smooth waves, I’d sit in front of the fire and let it dry naturally for a few hours before braiding it up for sleep. All in all, a good night’s work.
But, work or no, the evening was precisely what I needed after a trying few days. We’ve noted before that the instrument works best in a healthy and happy body.
Since I was, after all, staying in for the night, and no one would see me, I put a generous coating of almond oil on my face, to smooth and nourish the skin. Other ladies use all manner of exotic things to fight wrinkles or whiten their complexions—and it usually ends badly. I’ll stick with the almond oil, plus rose water for cleansing, and cold cream to remove stage makeup. All of it comes from my druggist’s daughter. Hermione Chalfont also makes a rose petal lip salve that is most definitely not rouge, but does give a natural glow where it does the most good.
A night like this is one of the great treats of being home. On the road, bathing arrangements are rather more primitive, and one manages what one can. Good hotels, of the sort we choose whenever we can, provide excellent facilities, of course, and anyone who tours learns to take full advantage. I’ve been known to soak in my hotel tub in the wee hours of the morning in San Francisco, simply because I could. That’s my personal idea of the decadent pleasures of the road.
The most recent tour had been in large Eastern cities, so we’d been quite comfortable. I wondered, though, if Lady Frances had found it so. What I, a grateful child of the Lower East Side, consider a treat might well have been a comedown for her. But by the time she got to us, she’d likely have been used to life out of the aristocratic nest. And her things told me she’d been living quite simply, even by the standards of the road.
Poor girl. When I was her age, I was still working so hard I didn’t have time to think. Or feel much beyond a burning desire to succeed. When I wasn’t on stage, I was practicing my French and Italian, or taking dance and fencing lessons, or reading the literature and etiquette manuals Lentini selected. As I got a little older and more polished, I was allowed more freedom with my reading, but the lessons continued. Still do.
For me, of course, the prize was always in sight. If I did my part and worked hard, I would succeed. Lentini entertained no other possibility, so I didn’t, either. Only now did I understand what a gift that was. Frances, of course, had no such certainty. I wondered if she’d had doubts, and if they’d helped destroy her.
The water was getting too cool. I carefully climbed out, dried off with a nice, slightly rough Turkish towel (good for the skin), put on clean cambric underthings and nightgown, and bundled up in my warm purple plush wrapper. Then I had to get rid of the water, first by scooping it up in a tin, then by dragging the tub to the kitchen door and dumping the last into the yard. Even the grass got to smell nice!
It was just starting to get dark by the time I was done. Mrs. G had left some good brown bread in the keeper and her excellent bean soup on the stove for dinner, and I made myself a tray. There were cookies in the jar, and I decided to have one. Why should the boys get all the treats?
As I went through the foyer to the stairs, in wrapper and towel turban, another thing I could only do when no one else was about, I noticed that Rosa had left a few cards and messages from the end of the day on the table under the mirror. Most were routine matters, invitations, calling cards, even a few advertisements, but one was a card from Gilbert Saint Aubyn, with a brief message on the back: Thank you for your time and kindness this afternoon. I
am in your debt.
That was all it said, but the fact that he’d troubled to actually stop by the house and drop the card said a great deal more. I was smiling as I stopped in the drawing room to pick up the Anne Boleyn book, adding it to my tray and heading upstairs for my luxurious quiet night. And what—or who—I dreamed of is no one’s business but mine.
Moreover, if it occurred to me later that Saint Aubyn was also a tall, dark man who might just bring me trouble, it was most definitely none of Aunt Ellen’s business.
Chapter 19
A Fine Promenade in the Park
Saturday, the first one in May, dawned as yet another perfect morning for a velocipede ride, but since Hetty was at long last preparing for the Giants game, I would not have had my usual partner, anyway. I am, I admit, old-fashioned enough that I do not like to ride alone, and besides, it’s much more fun to share the pleasure with a friend. So, I was at least a little disappointed about missing the chance, if glad for Hetty to finally cover her game.
My discontent had been somewhat eased by the duke’s invitation for a walk in the park, which had arrived as I was again watching my candles burn and puzzling over matters Friday evening. This time, though, Tommy had joined me for the blessings before Father Michael arrived for checkers and an amiable argument.
All in all, a far less moody Sabbath than I’d passed the previous week.
Since I wasn’t going to get the thrill of speed on my velocipede that day, I made sure to enjoy another treat: wearing a new spring morning dress in lavender silk, with only a little puff in the sleeves, per the current fashion, and some pretty ribboned trim in a slightly darker hue. I added a light wrap and pulled out my wide-brimmed straw hat and parasol for the first time of the season, since being a la mode was all well and good, but freckles and sunburn were not becoming on a diva.
His Grace, immaculately turned out in a light gray day suit with a silver-gray tie, and still the black armband, of course, was waiting for me at a bench near the fountain when I walked up, and this time, he stood when he saw me, smiling.
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