A Most Discreet Inquiry (The Regent Mysteries Book 2)

by Cheryl Bolen

  “You must ring if you need anything, and I must return to a most sour-looking Mrs. MacInnes, who wishes to be our housekeeper.”

  As she entered the morning room, it occurred to Daphne she knew very little about a housekeeper's duties and even less about interviewing a housekeeper. A pity she hadn't thought to ask her mother for guidance. She took a seat in a faded rose wingback chair facing Mrs. MacInnes. The woman was quite short and quite round. Her black eyes were much the color of Jack's, and Daphne suspected when she was younger, her hair would have been dark like his, but now it was predominately gray—as was her plainly cut dress that was impeccably clean.

  “You understand I've just married, and my husband and I are setting up our first home,” Daphne began.

  “Then this is your first marriage?”

  What an audacious woman! Daphne did not need to be reminded she was withering upon the shelf when Jack came into her life. “Indeed. I was quite the spinster.”

  “Oh, my lady, I didn't mean. . .”

  Daphne waved off her apology. “I would prefer in my husband's home not to be addressed as my lady. It's my wish to be known as Mrs. Dryden.” She truly loved the sound of it. But then she loved everything about Jack, even the smell of him after he'd been riding hard.

  “Very well, my. . .Mrs. Dryden. I meant to ask you a question about the girl who let me in. She said she was your cook, but surely she could not be old enough?”

  Daphne sighed. “I daresay she isn't.” Lowering her voice, Daphne proceeded to tell her Annie's background—and the dilemma she was presenting to the Dryden household. “I don't know what to do. I cannot hurt her feelings, and I cannot have a cook who cannot cook.”

  “It's very commendable of you giving the girl a chance. My last employer, Mr. Poyntz—who died several weeks ago—was opposed to taking on servants who had no experience. I always fancied being around young people, and I enjoy teaching young girls how to smoothly run a house. But I do understand you're not planning to have a large staff.”

  Perhaps Mrs. MacInnes was not so audacious, after all. “Since it is just the two of us. . . You said you were housekeeper to Mr. Poyntz? Would that have been George Poyntz?”

  “Aye. I was there these past twelve years.”

  “His late wife was dear friends with my great aunt Harriet. I used to visit there as a child, but I daresay that would have been before your time. The Poyntz home, as you can easily see,” Daphne looked around the small morning room, “is a great deal larger than our home. Would you not be disappointed to come to us where you would not have a large staff to command?”

  “I will miss the people with whom I worked, but not the mountain of never-ending responsibilities.”

  “In a large establishment the housekeeper has to see that her staff sees to all their duties. In a small house, you are the staff. You will have to perform tasks that may now seem far beneath your level of experience, things like . . . “ Daphne thought of things she only recently realized her staff had always done for her. “Like lighting fires and . . . and making beds—things you won't have had to do in years.”

  Mrs. MacInnes smiled. “I shan't mind it. Later, after the children come, I daresay you'll need a larger staff.”

  After the children come. What a lovely thought! “I must tell you we have a chambermaid, but not at present. She's been called away to what may be her mother's death bed.”

  Mrs. MacGinnes' eyes narrowed in sympathy. “The poor dear.”

  “If you don't object to starting with virtually nothing, I believe I shall engage you, Mrs. MacInnes.”

  “Since it appears your need is dire, I would be willing to start immediately.”

  “You are a jewel!”

  “I shall just collect my things and be ready to pitch in wherever I'm needed.”

  “Good.” Daphne rose. “I was to conduct more interviews this afternoon, but I have many other pressing matters to attend. Would it bother you terribly if we do not procure a man servant right away?”

  Mrs. MacInnes rose. The top of her head was level with Daphne's chin. “Give me a ladder, and I can handle anything a man can!”

  “Excellent!” Daphne was happy to acknowledge her own mistaken first impression of Mrs. MacInnes.

  “And. . .” the new housekeeper lowered her voice. “Just leave your problem with the young cook to me. I learned a thing or two about cooking at my mother's knee.”

  “You are wonderful!”

  There was a rap at the front door.

  “Should you like me to get the door, Mrs. Dryden?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Daphne was very pleased with herself. She now believed Mrs. MacInnes was just the person to manage their home.

  The new housekeeper showed Cornelia into the morning room, and as Daphne faced her, she put her index finger to her lips and whispered. “I don't want Jack to know you're here.”

  “Why, pray tell?”

  “Because I told him a haughty duchess expected others to come to her—and he believes I've already been to see you today.”

  Scowling at her sister, Cornelia plopped onto the faded brocade sofa. “Lying to one's husband is no way to start a marriage.”

  Daphne rolled her eyes heavenward. “Quoteth Isabelle de Merteiul to Hannah More.”

  “I did not know my Hannah More-admiring sister had actually read Les Liaison dangereuses.”

  “I'm the sister who's always reading, and I have the deficient vision to show for it. But we must hurry and get to the point.”

  “Which is? Why have you summoned me here? I'll have you know I had many important things to see to this afternoon.”

  Daphne thrust hands to hips and glared at her sister. “Do you have any idea at all what my husband and I have gone through to get those wretched letters back for you?”

  “Oh, I am dreadfully sorry, Daf. I truly am utterly grateful to you and Cap--- what is this Virginia was telling me about Sir Ronald saving your captain's life?”

  “Virginia would see Sir Ronald as the hero.” Daphne frowned. “I will admit he was wonderfully helpful. I had to call him when Jack did not return from visiting Major Styles' widow.”

  Cornelia's brows hiked.

  “He was followed—and attacked.”

  “Oh, how horrid! That Styles woman must be responsible!”

  “I don't think she was behind it at all. She's a perfectly nice woman.” Daphne lowered her voice. “Jack's in bed upstairs now, assuring me that he will be back to walking in two more days.”

  “He cannot walk?”

  “Well, he can hobble, but it's still quite painful, but that's enough talk of Jack now. I asked you here because I believe we have learned who has the letters.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord Lambeth. I'm assuming you know him?”

  The duchess's eyes widened. “Indeed. He and Major Styles were very close friends. They'd been at Harrow together.”

  “Apparently, they were so close that he knew you had written romantic letters to the major. I believe he may have murdered Major Styles' batman in order to take possession of the letters.”

  “What a detestable, contemptible, vile, odious, wicked, wicked man! And to think, he always treated me with such great admiration. How could the fiend do this to me?” She clutched at her chest with a great dramatic flair.

  “He did much worse to the poor batman!”

  “There is that. Added to Lambert's other disgusting offenses, he's a sinister murderer.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Daphne. “What do we do now?”

  “Jack and I need to search his house. I'm hoping Jack will be up to it tomorrow night. I will be counting on you to insure that Lord Lambeth's not at home. Do whatever it takes to have him come to you tomorrow night.”

  Cornelia's eyes widened. “But the man's a murderer!”

  “He's not going to kill you. If he's always treated you with admiration, he will likely hope to start a flirtation with you. Promise him a flirtation. You only have to see him for one nig
ht.”

  Cornelia gave a bitter laugh. “That shouldn't be difficult. He's always had designs on me. Though I daresay I don't know how I could possibly be civil to the vile, disgusting, larcenous, murdering swine.”

  In this, the two sisters were in perfect agreement.

  After she saw her sister to the door, Daphne began to mount the stairs. She drew in a deep breath. Now she would have to tell more lies to her husband.

  Chapter 14

  “Oh, my dearest, we’ve been positively brilliant!” She eyed her handsome husband sitting in the big bed glaring at her. The purple around his eye socket was turning black and his swelling had gone down, but the cut on his lips did not appear to be healing. He did emanate a strength that had been absent the day before. And it was not just because of his massive shoulders and long trunk—attributes no prospective murderers could diminish.

  “Brilliant?”

  “I know. I know,” she defended. “You do not want me to use that word in connection with you.”

  He was still out of charity with her, and she wished like the devil she knew why. “Cornelia has just been here, and she has virtual proof that all of our deductions have been correct.”

  His brows lowered above shimmering obsidian eyes. “About Lambeth?”

  “Indeed.” She came to sit on the side of his bed and stroke the smooth planes of his tanned face. “You’re looking much better. Your voice is stronger, and look at you! You’re sitting up, looking your old supremely masculine self.”

  “Supremely?” He glowered.

  She shrugged. “I cannot help speaking my mind. It is, after all, just the two of us, and we are man and wife.”

  “You, madam, are incorrigible, but you are correct about the state of my health. I do feel much more the thing.”

  “That is very good since we have a mission to accomplish tomorrow night.”

  “Whoa! Back up. What has the duchess confirmed?”

  “While we cannot know that with certainty, it seems obvious that Lambeth is the blackmailer.”

  “And why does it seem so obvious?”

  “Because mere weeks ago the viscount was deeply in debt, and now he’s positively oozing funds, paying off all his debts and engaging once more in high-stakes play.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “Cornelia has just confirmed everything.” Daphne hated lying to her husband but consoled herself with the knowledge that everything she was telling him was true—except for the source of her knowledge regarding Lord Lambeth. “First, she confirmed that Lord Lambeth and Major Styles were extremely close friends. They were at Harrow together.”

  He nodded. “So it's likely Lambeth knew about the relationship between his friend and your sister.”

  “And he probably knew, too, that she’d written him letters. A husband who would be unfaithful to such a lovely woman as Mrs. Styles would be just the sort to brag to his friend about a duchess writing him love letters.”

  Jack nodded in agreement. “What else did the duchess confirm?”

  “The duke was witness to Lambeth engaging in very deep play at faro the past several nights at White’s—after settling all his debts.” Daphne made a silent vow that when all of this was over, she would never again lie to her husband.

  “And now, madam, explain this mission of ours.”

  While she adored being Mrs. Dryden, she did not adore being referred to as madam. Coming from Jack’s lips, there was a certain hostility to it. Perhaps her authoritarian ways were a threat to his masculinity. Perhaps she should allow him to determine the next step. “That is really for you to decide. After all, you’re the expert at espionage. Or is expert one of those words you do not like me attaching to you?”

  He started to laugh.

  It was like blue skies after days of relentless rains. She smiled back. “What I am trying to convey,” she said, “is that you should plan our next step. You have so much more experience than me at such matters. How do you propose we get the papers from Lambeth?”

  “We steal them.”

  Exactly what she planned, but of course, she would let him take credit for their mission. “Do you think you’ll be up to it tomorrow night?”

  “I will.”

  She could not help herself. She threw her arms around him. When she went to kiss him, it pleased her that he settled soft lips over hers, groaned, then enclosed her in his strong embrace.

  Before matters could heat up in the way she wished, a knock sounded at her door.

  Jack groaned again.

  Daphne sat up, ramrod straight. “Come in.”

  The portly Mrs. MacInnes waddled into the chamber, bearing a letter on a silver tray. “This just came for you, Mrs. Dryden.”

  “Thank you.” Daphne proceeded to introduce the new housekeeper to Jack as she eyed Virginia’s seal. After Mrs. MacInnes departed, Daphne opened the letter and quickly read it. “Blast it all!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Virginia says Mama needs me this afternoon.”

  “Then you must go to her.”

  Her gaze went to his sword, and she brought it to stand up propped against the wall by his bed. “I will feel better knowing you have some protection.”

  “Why does our new housekeeper call you Mrs. Dryden? Does she not know you’re the daughter of an earl and as such should be addressed as Lady Daphne?”

  Daphne got to her feet, put hands to sides, and glared at the man she had married. “As much as I love Papa, you’re first in my life now. I’m proud to be known as Mrs. Dryden.”

  His dark eyes sparkling, her husband silently regarded her as she took her leave.

  * * *

  Daphne had not been gone ten minutes when Virginia called on Jack. Mrs. MacInnes showed her into Jack’s chamber. Impotent though he was to do anything about it, he was nevertheless embarrassed for Sir Ronald’s wife to see him so jessified. He must project masculinity with his voice. “How good of you to call, Lady Virginia.” Had he sounded strident enough?

  His gaze locked with hers. She was a remarkably lovely creature. So much like the duchess, but rather taller and statuesque. Her eyes glistened, and she immediately burst into tears.

  He went to leap from his bed in order to comfort her, but his wounded body would not oblige. He tried once more and slowly rose. He was grateful his long nightshirt covered what needed to be covered. “Pray, my lady, what is the matter?” Should he put an arm around her? Or would that be too intimate since he was standing in his bedchamber wearing a nightshirt? She was, after all, another man’s wife.

  And he was another woman’s husband.

  His gallantry extended to merely handing the weeping woman his handkerchief.

  “Your wife is secretly seeing my husband.”

  Good God, he felt as if he’d been knifed in the gut. This hysterical woman was confirming his worst suspicions. He drew in a deep breath. “I cannot allow you to malign my wife in such a manner.”

  She sank into an upholstered chair. “Why would Daphne do this to me?”

  “Why would you impugn her in this manner? Daphne is loyal to those she loves. And that includes me.” He recalled Daphne’s last words to him that afternoon. He was most important to her. No matter how things looked—and he admitted they looked rather woeful—he had faith in his wife.

  “But I saw them with my own eyes! Not once but twice!”

  He had seen them, too. But there had to be another explanation. “Please, my lady, calm yourself and explain.”

  She took a deep sniff, dried her tears, and faced him. The same haunting look he’d seen on Mrs. Styles’ face was mirrored in Virginia’s pretty face. “I confess I did not see them together the first time when they met in a hackney carriage, but the man I hired to follow my husband did.”

  What kind of obsessed woman would actually hire someone to spy on her husband? “Pray, my lady, why did you hire a man to shadow Sir Ronald?”

  She did not answer for a moment. “I need to know I a
m the only woman in his life.”

  “How do you know you can trust this man you hired?”

  “He came most highly recommended.”

  “I assure you, if Sir Ronald met with my wife, it was completely innocent. Perhaps they are planning a surprise for you. Do you have a birthday coming up? Or a special occasion?” God, he hoped so.

  She shook her head morosely, tears gathering once again.

  That walloping feeling in his gut returned. “And the second time?”

  “Noon today. She met him in his office.”

  His face fell. She’s lied to me again. “I may not know a great deal about conducting affairs, but I’m reasonably sure they are not conducted in the middle of the day at the Foreign Office. “

  She thought on this for a moment, then brightened. “I will give you that.”

  “Now, about that first clandestine meeting. . .did your man see the hackney take the accused lovers to a bagnio or some such location where adulterous . . . activities take place?” He knew very well they did not.

  “Not actually.”

  “Do you mean they just drove around in the hackney with curtains drawn, conducting their illicit affair within?” He knew very well that had not occurred, either.

  “Well, not actually.”

  “Tell me, then, what did occur?”

  “Daphne arrived at the Foreign Office in a hackney coach and summoned my husband. He came to the coach, got in, and they . . . they stayed within for a few minutes, then Ronnie returned to his post.”

  “You must admit, my lady, all of this sounds rather innocent.” God, he hoped it was. But what in the hell could it be? And why in the hell was Daphne lying to him?

  “I needed to see you today, to see if you really were injured. That’s how Ronnie explained his absence two nights ago.”

  He held out his arms. “See for yourself how pitiable I am, my lady. Your husband did, indeed, haul my mangled body home to restore me to my worried wife that night. Three men apparently wished me dead.” Jack sat on the side of his bed. “Forgive me for my state of undress.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, Captain. For everything. About Ronnie. . .one more thing. Last night, he said he was at White’s.”