He eyed her but, unable to discern her ulterior motive, chose to take what seemed the easy way out and answer her question. “I went home to Wiltshire.” He paused, then, as she’d hoped, looked at Cara and explained, “That’s where m’father’s manor is.”
“What did you do there?” Cara was perfectly capable of asking her own questions. “Did you ride a lot? In Italy, we always think of English gentlemen as forever on a horse.”
Hugo grinned. “Well, I was in the cavalry, so yes, I often ride, and the countryside around the manor is all gently rolling hills, so perfect for that.” His gaze locked with Cara’s, he paused for a heartbeat, then went on in a rush, “It’s also good hunting country, and my father has kennels. I’ve always loved working with the hounds, and I realized—when I was down there last summer—that I wanted to breed them, more concertedly than my father has, although he’s laid in excellent bloodlines on which I can build.”
Barnaby threw in a comment, and Hugo—fired with zeal as Penelope hadn’t before seen him—was off.
When Cara, hanging on his every word, put in, “You mean puppies?” Penelope sat back and grinned.
Griselda, beside her, caught her eye and, grinning too, winked.
The rest of the meal passed in an animated discussion of the very English obsession with breeding hunting hounds, largely led by Hugo, but with Cara also engrossed. The other three men were drawn in, caught by Hugo’s enthusiasm. Montague was particularly interested in Hugo’s intention of building a business based on the activity; as he said, if it could be done so successfully with horses, why not with hounds?
That observation enthused Hugo all the more.
Finally, with dessert served and consumed and the talk of hounds and hunting winding down, Penelope dabbed her lips with her napkin, then laid it aside and pushed back her chair. The sound drew the others’ eyes. She raised her brows at them. “Shall we return to the drawing room and the mystery of the emeralds?”
By general assent, they rose and filed back into the drawing room. With minds returning to the case at hand, they made their way to their previous seats.
Stokes sank into his usual armchair. As soon as the others had settled, he said, “Today being Sunday, I haven’t yet reported this incident to the commissioner, but I will have to do so first thing tomorrow. Our summary”—he tipped his head to Violet—“will come in handy in that regard, but I would ideally like to lay before Sir Phillip a list of the avenues we consider worthy of pursuing. Given that, despite the lack of evidence to support her allegation, Lady Carisbrook has not withdrawn her charge against Cara—her husband’s ward—I’m as certain as I can be that the commissioner will push for a thorough and rapid investigation.” Somewhat cynically, Stokes predicted, “He’ll want what he’ll see as a tricky social situation resolved as soon as humanly possible.”
“And,” Penelope said, “in that, he’s not wrong. The ton, let alone the news sheets, will have a field day with this—it has all the hallmarks of the sort of story the gossips love—and the longer the mystery remains unresolved, the worse the clamor will grow.”
“So what can we surmise from what we already know?” Barnaby glanced around the circle, inviting speculation.
Montague frowned. “Would it be correct to say that Lord Carisbrook didn’t seem overly concerned by the loss of the emeralds?”
Barnaby, Stokes, and Penelope all stared at Montague as they reviewed their exchanges with his lordship. Stokes looked at Barnaby and Penelope. “You two spoke with him more than I did.”
Penelope met Barnaby’s eyes. “At one point, his lordship did say that the emeralds were ‘only jewelry,’ which, when you consider what they must be worth, does, indeed, seem a little…well, dismissive.”
“Yes—that’s my point,” Montague said. When the others transparently waited for further clarification, he briefly smiled and went on, “Your description of them, Lady Carisbrook’s evident attachment to them, and the care normally taken to keep them secure all suggest that the emeralds are worth a small fortune. I assume they belong to the estate?”
Penelope said, “Well, they are known as the Carisbrook emeralds, so I expect that’s the case.”
“So the loss of the emeralds should be a significant loss of the estate’s assets—if they belonged to her ladyship, that wouldn’t be so, but if they are the estate’s assets and they’ve vanished…well. Is Lord Carisbrook so flush with funds that a loss of that magnitude wouldn’t concern him?”
Penelope frowned and looked at Barnaby. “I would have said the Carisbrooks manage well enough—they are certainly not paupers. But with three daughters in all—two already established and one as yet unwed—and two sons as well, and Lady Carisbrook is known to dress ostentatiously, meaning expensively, then I can’t imagine there would be money to fling about.”
Penelope turned to Cara. “Have you ever heard anything about the family’s financial state?”
Cara looked uncertain, but then offered, “I don’t really know much about such things, but…oh, about two weeks ago, I overheard Uncle Humphrey telling Aunt Livia that she needed to watch her expenses.” She paused, then added, “Aunt Livia grew angry and stalked off in a temper.”
Penelope nodded and looked at Montague. “Having to watch her expenses sounds about right.”
His gaze on Montague, Barnaby said, “I can see where your mind is meandering, but perhaps you’d better spell it out for the others.”
Montague inclined his head. Turning to Hugo and Cara, who had been listening intently to the exchanges, their expressions suggesting they were increasingly intrigued, he explained, “I’ve handled the finances of a great many estates in my time, and”—he shifted his gaze to Penelope’s face—“I can think of many families of the ilk of the Carisbrooks who have found it expedient at some point to replace valuable stones such as the Carisbrook emeralds with the highest-quality fakes. Paste or, more recently, crystal. It’s a common enough practice, and now that the fakes are more difficult to spot, certainly at a glance, for families in straitened circumstances, it’s even more tempting, and of course, there’s no crime involved.”
Penelope put in, “Merely a sort of social sleight of hand, given they allow others to believe the stones are still real.”
Stokes sat forward. “Are you suggesting that the reason Lord Carisbrook isn’t overly exercised by the loss of the emeralds is because they’re fakes?”
“That,” Barnaby said, “would also account for his lordship’s attempts to call off the investigation.” He met Stokes’s eyes. “He pressed us over the possibility when we saw him later. If the stones are fake, then from his point of view, the less noise made about the loss of the emeralds, the better.”
“Hmm.” Griselda shifted on the sofa. “While that might be true, until you get your hands on the emeralds, you won’t be able to tell if they’re real or not. And if I understood correctly, you believed Lord Carisbrook had other reasonable grounds for wanting to quash the investigation.” She glanced at Cara. “And if the Carisbrook family have had to weather scandal in the past—such as with Cara’s mother eloping with an Italian painter—then very likely his lordship would have a very strong antipathy to the thought of the family being embroiled in another scandal.”
Penelope dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I could certainly see that being true.”
Looking dissatisfied, Stokes slumped back in his chair. “Is there any way we can determine if the emeralds as they are now—the stones that were stolen—are real or fake?” He glanced at the others. “It makes a very real difference to the importance of this case.”
After a moment, Montague offered, “It might be possible to learn if the Carisbrook estate has faced a financial crisis, although how far back the records might reach, I can’t say.” He glanced at Cara, then looked at Penelope. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the family having any financial problems?”
“I haven’t.” Penelope looked at Cara.
Cara shook her
head. “I know nothing about such things, and I doubt Franklin or Julia, or even Aunt Livia, would know, either. Uncle Humphrey is one to handle all matters to do with money quietly, without drama. He is very private in that regard.”
Montague humphed. “Most men of his generation are.” He looked at Penelope. “Do you have any idea how old the Carisbrook emeralds are?”
Penelope grimaced. “I’ve only glanced at them in passing, but given what I saw of the setting, I would say old—possibly Elizabethan.”
Montague pulled a face. “I seriously doubt I can reach back that far, but I’ll see what I can unearth.” He looked at Stokes. “Regardless, it’ll take a few days at least.”
“I’ll ask my usual contacts,” Penelope volunteered. “One never knows what facts they might have tucked under their bonnets. If the Carisbrook estate faced a financial calamity within living memory, it’s possible one or other of them will know.” She glanced at Stokes. “There’s a Cynster ladies’ at-home tomorrow morning—a private one restricted to the family and connections. I’ll ask if anyone there knows anything pertinent.”
“It’s possible,” Griselda said, “that I might be able to find someone to shed light on that question—at least if our supposed financial crisis happened over recent years.”
Violet looked up from her scribbling. “One of your contacts in the trade?”
Griselda grinned. “Exactly.” She glanced at Montague. “If you want to learn the true financial state of any family in the ton, just ask the lady’s modiste.”
Stokes and Barnaby grinned, and Penelope laughed. “An excellent idea. Do you know who Lady Carisbrook’s modiste is?”
“It is Madame Renee in Bruton Street,” Cara said. “I have gone with Aunt Livia and Julia to have dresses made there, although mostly Madame makes for the likes of Aunt Livia.” Cara gestured. “Big showy gowns with harsh colors.”
Griselda nodded. “That sounds right, and as it happens, I know Renee quite well.”
“I’ll come with you,” Violet said. “I confess I’m interested to learn of a modiste’s view of her wealthy clients and what sort of information she might glean from her interactions with them.”
“I was also going to suggest”—Griselda leaned forward to look at Barnaby—“that you might check with the family jewelers.”
“Now there’s a thought.” Penelope looked at Cara. “Do you know who the Carisbrooks deal with?”
Plainly eager to assist in whatever way she could, Cara said, “It is a firm called Rundell, Bridge, and Company. On the road near the big cathedral—St. Paul’s.”
“They’re in Ludgate Hill,” Penelope confirmed.
Stokes was frowning. “But if the emeralds are so old—”
“It’s not the making of them that you should ask about,” Griselda said, “but the cleaning of them.”
Penelope nodded. “A set of that style—very ornate—especially if worn often, and I believe Lady Carisbrook wore the emeralds regularly, would have to be cleaned fairly frequently.” She glanced at Barnaby. “I have my sapphires cleaned by Aspreys about once a year, and I don’t wear them all that often. Anyone with jewelry like the Carisbrook emeralds would have them cleaned by a reputable jeweler, most likely the family jeweler.”
“Except if the stones are fake,” Barnaby said. “In that case, the very last person to whom you would take such a set would be a reputable jeweler.”
“At last!” Stokes was jotting in his notebook. “We might have a chance of learning something about these blasted emeralds.”
“Meaning if Rundell, Bridge, and Company haven’t been asked to clean the emeralds—indeed, haven’t seen them…?” Penelope arched her brows.
“Exactly.” Stokes finished scribbling and looked up.
Barnaby said, “While asking Lord Carisbrook if the stones are fake will almost certainly get us nowhere, we could ask his lordship which jeweler last handled the emeralds. Regardless of what his answer is, his reaction will be informative.”
“As Livia Carisbrook has been wearing those emeralds frequently,” Penelope said, “they would have to have been cleaned sometime within the last few years. And since they’re so ornate, it’s not simply a matter of washing them—you would need a jeweler to do even a passable job of it.”
“Whoever of us next calls at John Street can ask Lord Carisbrook which jeweler he used—which one last saw the emeralds,” Stokes said.
“Actually”—Penelope tapped her index finger to her lips—“I rather think we should independently ask Livia Carisbrook the same question. Just to see if we get two different answers.”
“I like the way you think.” Stokes was scribbling again, presumably making notes for his meeting with the commissioner. He paused, then looked at Cara. “There’s one person in that household we haven’t had even a few words with—your cousin Julia.” He glanced at Penelope. “I really think one of us should speak with her, preferably alone, out of her mother’s orbit.”
“Indeed.” Penelope pondered for a moment, then said, “Although the Season is under way, tomorrow night—Monday night—is usually relatively quiet. Major hostesses rarely hold their balls on a Monday. However, as Lady Carisbrook is attempting to marry off Julia, then I would expect her, with Julia in tow, to be out and about somewhere in the ton—she’s not the sort to let moss grow under her feet.” Penelope looked at Cara. “Do you know what event or events your aunt and cousin are planning to attend tomorrow evening?”
Cara tipped up her chin. “Yes, because I had to write the acceptance notes. Aunt Livia chose to go to a Lady Cannavan’s soirée. She—my aunt—said that perhaps Julia would have a better chance of attracting the right sort of gentleman in a smaller, more select company.”
Penelope smiled and looked at Barnaby. “We have an invitation. It appears we’re going to make Lady Cannavan extremely happy.”
Barnaby groaned. Then he shrugged. “I suppose it’s better than having to weather a major ball.”
Penelope patted his hand. “It’ll be much quieter.” She looked at Stokes. “And a much more likely venue in which I might manage to get Julia on her own.”
“Good,” Stokes said. “Ask her everything you can think of. We can’t tell what she might know.”
They all looked around at each other. “Nothing more?” Violet asked. When they all shook their heads, she held up her book and read, “So—Stokes is off to see the commissioner first thing, and then…?” She arched a brow Stokes’s way.
“I believe I’ll visit Rundell, Bridge, and Company,” Stokes said, “and see what I can learn from them.” Stokes looked at Barnaby and Penelope. “After that—after lunch—I think you two and I should have another session questioning the Carisbrook staff. This time, one by one.”
Penelope nodded. “In the morning, I’ll quiz the ladies at the Cynster at-home for all they can tell me about the Carisbrooks, the emeralds, and any financial problems the estate might have faced.”
Violet pointed her pencil at Penelope. “Don’t forget you have a directors’ meeting at the Foundling House at one o’clock.”
“Damn.” Penelope wrinkled her nose. “I’d forgotten, but I can’t miss that.” She looked at Stokes. “Can we meet at John Street at three o’clock to take another tilt at the staff? Aside from all else, at that time, Lady Carisbrook should be out of the house.”
Stokes nodded. “Let’s make it three.”
“And before we leave John Street,” Penelope said, “Barnaby and I will contrive to ask Lord Carisbrook, and separately, her ladyship, assuming she’s returned, which jeweler last handled the emeralds. Then later in the evening, we’ll see if we can separate Julia from her overwhelming mama and encourage her to tell us anything she knows about this business.”
“Meanwhile,” Montague put in, “my associates and I will endeavor to see if we can turn up anything in the Carisbrook finances that might suggest a reason for the emeralds being substituted and sold.”
“And Violet and I,” Griseld
a said, “will choose our time and drop in on Madame Renee and see what she can tell us of the Carisbrooks.”
“This is excellent.” Violet was ticking off tasks on the list she’d made. “We’re covering a lot of potential avenues quite quickly.”
“Yes, indeed.” Stokes studied the last note he’d jotted in his notebook, then he closed it, looked at the others, and smiled. “This is more than enough to keep the commissioner happy.”
Penelope snorted. “You might point out that at least in this case, he doesn’t have a dead lady and a murderer to expose.”
Stokes chuckled as he tucked away his notebook.
Griselda glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Great heavens—we’ve talked for hours!” She rose. “We really should get home.”
Violet looked, too, and made a clucking noise. “Indeed. These meetings condense to just a single page of resolutions, but the talking to get to that eats up time.”
They all rose. Barnaby tugged the bellpull, and when Mostyn appeared, Penelope sent him to summon the nursemaids. In a group, the six investigators ambled in Hugo and Cara’s wake into the front hall.
“Given you and Barnaby are going to be busy tomorrow evening”—Griselda looked around at the others’ faces—“perhaps we should plan to meet at Greenbury Street for dinner and discussion on Tuesday.”
Everyone readily agreed.
“With any luck,” Stokes said, “we’ll have several definite clues to set our teeth into by then.”
Penelope watched as Hugo accepted his coat and hat from Mostyn, then Hugo came to take his leave of her and Barnaby and exchange nods with the others, tendering his thanks for their help in clearing Cara’s name.
Needless to say, despite Hugo’s and Cara’s transparent fascination with the way the six went about their collective enterprise, to Hugo’s mind, the only thing that truly mattered was lifting all suspicion from Cara and restoring her to her rightful place.
While waiting for their children to be brought down, Violet and Griselda edged closer to Penelope, flanking her as all three watched Hugo exchange a few careful and conservative phrases with Cara.
The Confounding Case Of The Carisbrook Emeralds Page 9
