by Elisa Braden
Still, the woman who had stolen and soiled the name of Edward Yarrow Aimes was attractive, in her way. Trim figure. Well-shaped hands.
“Let’s go home, Annabelle.” Jane fidgeted with her brown pelisse and glanced up at weighty clouds. “Before it begins pouring again.”
“I only need a moment,” she murmured, gathering her skirts a bit higher as she sidestepped a pile of donkey leavings. Passing shed-roofed stalls filled with dispirited asparagus, dulled radishes, and diminutive cabbages, Annabelle turned her shoulders sideways to avoid jostling a maid carrying a basket of cauliflower on her hip. “You may return to the coach if it distresses you so much.”
Behind her, Jane snorted but stayed on her heels.
The flower seller counted coins a gentleman had given her for a bundle of blue flowers. She glowered and said something he didn’t like. He dug out another coin and took the bouquet. She gave a deep, mocking curtsy as though on stage.
As Annabelle drew closer, she heard the woman’s voice—scratchy and hoarse—calling out to passersby, “Sweet hyacinths, penny a bunch!”
“I shall take two,” Annabelle said.
The woman looked her over before bending to retrieve the flowers from the large basket at her feet. “Fine bit o’ springtime, they are, miss. And much needed after the soggy one we’ve had.”
Making a show of digging in her reticule, Annabelle inched closer and murmured softly, “Now, I might be convinced to purchase the whole lot, if you were amenable to a short conversation.”
The woman’s brows flew up then crashed down just as swiftly. “I ain’t a doxy. All I sell is flowers.”
Jane, who had taken the bouquets from the woman’s hand, turned to Annabelle and blinked. “I don’t understand.”
Annabelle, too, felt bewildered. Did “conversation” mean something different in Covent Garden? Apparently so. She cleared her throat and clarified, “I only wish to engage in intercourse with you. Briefly.”
As though she’d made a lewd proposition, the woman’s dubious expression deepened.
Annabelle tried again. “I wish to speak with you. Ask some questions. Nothing vulgar, I assure you.”
“You ain’t a bawd?”
She’d heard the word rarely, but she thought it meant procuress.
Jane choked. Evidently, her sister understood the meaning, too. Good heavens, their vocabulary was taking on new dimensions today.
“No,” Annabelle replied. She gathered coins in her palm and let them clink together. “A few minutes. That’s all I ask.”
The woman chewed her lip, eyed Annabelle from bonnet to boots before casting Jane a dismissive glance. Then she shrugged and held out her cupped hand.
Annabelle gave her half the amount. “The rest comes after we’ve concluded our conver—our talk.”
Nodding, the woman gestured toward a table and chairs a few feet away. The leavings of someone’s meal—bread and fried eel—had not yet been cleared away. Once the three of them were seated, Annabelle wasted no time.
“I know who you are,” she stated calmly.
“Do ye, now?” One dark brow arched above cynical eyes. “Seen me onstage, I reckon. Some said my Cordelia made them weep. Been years since I trod the boards, though. What ye wish to know?”
Annabelle blinked as though surprised. “Oh, but you’ve taken on a role more recently, have you not? A certain caricaturist, if I am not mistaken.”
The woman’s eyes shifted to Jane and back to Annabelle. She swallowed and looked around the teeming piazza. Then, she plunked the coins Annabelle had given her onto the table beside half-eaten fried eel. “Ye can have ’em back. We’re done,” she said coldly, moving to shove out of her chair.
Annabelle grasped her wrist, tightening her grip when the woman tried to yank free. “We are not nearly done.” Her voice was low with fury. Though she’d dreaded coming here, dreaded this confrontation, righteousness put steel in her veins. “I said I know who you are, not merely who you pretend to be.” She pulled the woman close. “Mrs. Bickerstaff.”
The woman’s backside hit the chair with a thud. Shrewd eyes rounded. A grimy hand came up to swipe a suddenly pale forehead. “Who—who’re ye talkin’ about? I’ve no acquaintance with—”
“Come now, Mrs. Bickerstaff. Let’s not pretend.”
The woman’s expression hardened. “Stop callin’ me that.”
“Shall I call you Edward Yarrow Aimes, then?”
“Bugger all. Keep your voice down.” Her eyes darted to the nearest stalls with porters and barrow boys coming and going. “What do ye want?”
“I want to know how you came to work for Mr. Green. I want to know if you killed him.”
“Killed him?” She huffed in disbelief. “Man was payin’ me two percent for the etchings. Think I’d rather be here sellin’ flowers for a penny a bunch instead?” She shoved the plate of eel away with a disgusted swipe. “Bloody nobs. You haven’t a clue what it means to be desperate. To fight the hunger in your belly and know you’ll lose in the end.”
Her patience wearing thin, Annabelle drummed her fingertips on the table and snapped, “How did you meet Green? Did he approach you?”
The woman crossed her arms and sank back into an insolent pose. “Why should I tell you?”
Jane chose that moment to intervene. “Because if you do not,” she said quietly, “one of the greatest gossips in London will tell everyone your secret. Everyone you’ve maligned. Everyone your husband swindled. They will all learn precisely who you are.”
Annabelle looked at her sister—her plain, beautiful, shy sister—and felt pride swell until she might as well be glimmering with stardust. Jane was brave and loyal. She was bold when it mattered most. And she was the reason Annabelle was here today, confronting the thief who’d stolen Edward Yarrow Aimes from his rightful owner.
Two days ago, they’d been playing charades in the parlor with the rest of their sisters. While Maureen tried to coax Genie and Kate into guessing General Cornwallis rather than Cornwall, Annabelle had stewed over Robert’s absence.
“He’s visited once,” she’d whispered to Jane. “After everything that’s happened. Once. Lady Wallingham’s turbans are more attentive.”
“Mmm. Those plumes do have that air about them, always bobbing about as if to say, ‘I do concur, my lady.’” Jane chuckled then cast her a glance. “Didn’t you say he is worried you might be at risk? Perhaps he is occupied with finding the attacker. Your safety does seem Robert’s most ardent concern.”
She waved away Jane’s assumption. “Nonsense. If Green’s killer intended me harm, I should think the deed would have been done by now. No, the matter that requires investigation is finding whoever has been perpetuating lies and slander in my name.”
“Your fake name.”
“I need to know, Jane.”
Resettling her spectacles, Jane sighed before giving Annabelle’s arm a soothing pat. “I know.”
“I put everything I had into those caricatures. Do you realize how many nights I went without sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Countless, that’s how many. So much thinking and planning—the selection of each creature to properly represent my characters took me days. Days! Not to mention all the new sources I had to cultivate. Good heavens, I danced with Sir Barnabus Malby. Thrice!”
Jane wrinkled her nose. “His mother?”
“She gushes information when sotted. A gigantic, fizzy bottle of secrets, uncorked and unfiltered.”
Turning thoughtful, Jane’s brow furrowed. “Perhaps we’ve looked at this the wrong way round.”
“How so?”
“I’ve read a great many novels.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“There is always something of the storyteller in the story. You said you put everything you had into your work. But I would phrase it differently—you put everything you are into those drawings, Annabelle. Your funny way of seeing t
he world. Your insight into the character of people around you. Even your delight in their foibles.”
“People amuse me. We are all so … full of little quirks.”
“If you were not the original Edward Yarrow Aimes, what might you surmise about him? Think only of his work.”
Annabelle mulled the question while watching Genie attempt to roll on the floor without mussing her gown. Maureen struggled to interpret her wild gesticulations as having gathered no moss.
“Assuming his veracity, I would have guessed he had access to those he lampooned,” Annabelle murmured. “But not just access. Servants have that. He sees them. Understands their positions and their troubles and their … their lives, I suppose. Therefore, he must be among their ranks. Gentry at the very least.”
“Now, what would you conclude about the imposter?”
“A talentless wretch.”
“Annabelle.”
She watched Kate bow deeply before an invisible audience then stroke her chin as though she had a beard. Kate chose the same subject every time they played charades. Genie liked to torment her by pretending she’d never heard of William Shakespeare, but Maureen always stepped in to put everyone out of their misery. The routine had become as predictable as a quadrille’s forms.
“Repetition,” Annabelle whispered. “The imposter returns over and over to the same subject—Bickerstaff.”
“Bicker who?”
“The swindler who fled to the Continent. It happened last year, remember? And yet the talentless wretch keeps circling old ground. Circling and circling.”
Her suspicions had begun in that moment. And once she’d had a starting point, she’d discovered the rest by using tactics a grand deliverer of gossip mastered over the course of time.
Paying Mr. Green’s most resentful employees for information had led her to conclude the imposter must be a woman—the publisher had preferred those he exploited to be female, as they were less likely to create a fuss.
Next, she’d raised the subject of Bickerstaff’s swindle ever-so-casually within earshot of Mr. Bentley, being sure to include erroneous details. Mr. Bentley had interrupted to issue corrections, which had led her to identify Bickerstaff’s swindling partners.
Of course, upon confronting them, she’d pretended to know more than she did, so they would tell her more than they should. The actors had been very helpful, indeed. Mrs. Bickerstaff, a former actress, had brought them all into the scheme.
Bitter people made excellent sources.
Their divulgences had led her here, to Covent Garden, where Bickerstaff’s wife had been reduced to selling hyacinths by the bunch.
“You’ve been hiding a long time, Mrs. Bickerstaff,” Annabelle said now. “One wonders why you did not simply flee with your husband.”
The woman glared her resentment. “He took all the blunt we had. Fled London while I slept.” Her mouth curled contemptuously. “Left me with nothin’. Couldn’t return to the stage. Everybody there hated me. Those who’d purchased shares—”
“You mean those you swindled,” Jane interjected.
“Aye, well. They were after me, too. Thought I’d know where Zachariah went with their money. I don’t.”
“How did you come to work for Green?” Annabelle asked.
“I wanted those who were after me to be fearful for a change. I’d seen Green’s paper about. Went to his office to suggest he write about the men who’d lost fortunes in the mining venture.”
“And on that basis, he offered to hire you?”
“Nah. I kept after him. Offered details, suggested ways to make the story more interesting, like a good play. I used to sketch scenes from the plays I was in. You know, the stage, where all the actors would stand. I sketched a few scenes for Green to show him how entertaining it could be. Couple months ago, he bit. Said I could tell any story I wanted, so long as I took over sketchin’ the prints he’d been selling.”
“What did he tell you about the original artist?” Annabelle asked carefully.
The woman snorted. “Closemouthed about it. I gathered he’d been the one to do the drawin’ before me. He wrote the captions, you know. Said my writing was muck but my drawin’ was passable. That was the word he used. ‘Passable.’” She shrugged. “No matter. He paid me for doin’ what I would have done for nothin’.”
Annabelle looked at Jane. Her sister’s eyes shone with sympathy. Annabelle’s outrage, her loathing of the imposter, had carried her this far. But hearing that Green had taken advantage of a desperate woman—albeit a swindling one—to reduce the portion he had to pay “Edward Yarrow Aimes” from five to two percent made all the steel inside her soften. She sighed and examined Mrs. Bickerstaff’s worn, stained shawl and grimy, well-shaped hands.
Then, she took five pounds’ worth of coins out of her reticule and placed them beside the others on the table. “Do you know who killed Mr. Green?” she asked.
The woman looked at the money, glanced around nervously, then shook her head. “Would that I did. I’ve a fear Mr. Green might’ve given him my name before he died.”
Annabelle’s eyes met those of the imposter and saw her own fear there. It was disorienting to feel empathy for such a creature. But she did. “Leave London,” she told her, nodding to the coins. “It is all I can give you—all I will give you. It won’t be enough to take you to the Continent. But it should be enough for a mail coach. Start over somewhere else. Somewhere … far.”
Mrs. Bickerstaff blinked several times before a bewildered frown creased her brow. “Who in blazes are you?”
Annabelle pushed back her chair and stood. Jane followed suit, crowding closer and linking their arms.
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Annabelle replied. “Only that I know who you are. And while I abhor the things you’ve done, I’ve no wish to see you end as Mr. Green did.”
The woman stood and gathered her coins. Then, as they started away from her, she called them back. “Don’t forget your flowers, miss.”
Annabelle turned.
Mrs. Bickerstaff held out two bouquets, one for each of them. With a flourish, she placed them in their hands then bowed her head and offered the elegant curtsy of a dancer. “A fair bit o’ springtime brings ease to the darkest days.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“If Annabelle Huxley is a bee, then Matilda Bentley is a moth. Some creatures seek out ever more abundant gardens, create intricate homes in geometric order, build cooperative societies, and make life sweeter for their presence. Others perish because they repeatedly knock into the lantern.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock on the benefits of cleverness in a potential wife.
*~*~*
Dearest Robert,
In this sketch, I have given you a new shield. A knight might use a cane in place of a sword, but he would have to be quite skilled, I think. Something tells me you are just such an exception.
Ever yours,
Annabelle
—Letter to Robert Conrad dated January 28, 1814
*~*~*
Clearly, Thomas Bentley had the wrong idea about Robert’s visit. The whiskered man had mentioned his Northfield connection several times, once while complimenting Mortlock Manor and twice more while touting Matilda’s “excellent teeth.” All this before Robert had managed to remove his hat.
Robert accepted the chair and declined the brandy Bentley offered. “Mr. Bentley, I—”
“She requires a jot of patience now and then, I grant.” Bentley released a jocular laugh and sank into the opposite seat. The ornate rosewood chair creaked in protest. “But name me a female who doesn’t, eh, Conrad?”
“I’ve a few questions for you, sir.”
“Of course, of course.” Bentley drained his glass of brandy. “First things first. Is it true Rivermore Abbey has produced thrice the profit since you took over its management?”
Robert frowned at the abrupt change of topic. “No.”
The eager glint in Bentley’s eye dimmed as he glanced at Robert’s bad leg. “Ah. I was misinformed, then.”
Why it mattered, Robert didn’t know. “Rivermore is much more profitable than that.”
Bentley’s eyes bulged. “More?” Once again, he glanced at Robert’s leg.
“Much more. Now, I do beg your pardon, sir, but I must—”
“Well, this is splendid.”
“—speak to you about—”
“Her dowry is generous, mind. I’m no miser, and she is my only daughter.”
Robert paused. A mistake, as it turned out.
“Nevertheless, she’ll need reminding of budgetary matters from time to time. Favors amethysts, you know. Gold and amethysts.” Bentley chuckled fondly. “Daresay she takes after her mother in that regard.” He shifted his bulk, and the chair groaned. “I’ll tell you a secret. Every other month or so, I select one piece from her current collection and simply have it wrapped up like new. She’s never the wiser, and it keeps matters well in hand. You’ll find these sorts of stratagems useful, Conrad. You’re a skilled manager, so I’ve confidence in your capabilities. More than thrice?” He shook his head. “Damn me, I should have you working for my company.”
“Mr. Bentley, I really must—”
“What would you say to an apprenticeship, my boy? Chances are excellent you’ll inherit one day. My son hasn’t the head for anything more complex than bowling.”
Robert sighed. “I am already betrothed, sir.”
“What’s that you say?”
“I am not here about your daughter. Lady Annabelle Huxley and I intend to marry. Quite soon, actually.”
Bentley squinted at him. “Are you certain? Forgive me, Conrad, but Matilda reported Lady Annabelle has been filling her ears with rather unfavorable depictions of your character. Last I heard, she implied you suffer a digestive complaint which sends you to the privy at all hours of the night.”
