“Your coat, Sir,” the old butler replied politely, with only a very slight hesitation before the word “coat” as he took Luke’s deep-black spencer from him. He did not acknowledge Luke’s suggestion, which he felt was inappropriate, with as much as a word. He also did not mention the missing hat.
Luke thanked him and walked up the wide marble stairs to the first floor, where his private quarters were located. His short time in captivity, but also the months before, when he occasionally explored the country as the army’s scout, had left their mark. Even here in the capital of the empire, the rift between the rich and the poor, between nobility and bourgeoisie, was becoming more and more apparent.
He smiled as he passed his grandfather’s portrait. William James Thornfield Layton, the thirteenth Duke of Somerset, glared back at him with a dark expression. His ancestor had not witnessed how the former colonies fought for their independence, which was probably a blessing. The fear of a violent revolution, such as in France, had dominated his entire life. In his own father, this fear lived on, though less markedly, Luke reflected. The current Duke of Somerset paid his respects to people who worked hard, even though he was a firm believer that the established boundaries of certain classes should not be overstepped.
“I am almost certain that you would turn in your grave,” Luke muttered towards his grandfather’s painting.
“Are you talking to yourself, or have you recently acquired the skill of talking to ghosts?”
Surprised, Luke glanced up. On the gallery of the first floor stood his half-brother, John Langleigh, staring down at him with a sardonic grin.
Felicity felt as if she had not slept one wink throughout the entire night, but when Brigid finally woke her, the pale November sun was already shining through the window. She could not stop thinking about the events of last night. Who was the man who had saved her? Everything had happened so quickly that she struggled to put all the pieces together – the noise his fist had made when it hit the body of her attacker, his deep voice, the way he had moved, which was elegant, powerful and quite physical.
“Your mother said I should let you sleep, Lady Felicity,” the maid announced and placed a cup of hot chocolate onto the small side table by the bed. Then she disappeared to fetch some hot water, as she did every morning. Felicity took the cup and sipped a little. Her error in mistaking the man for Pater O’Donnell in the first few seconds, came to mind. The two were remarkably similar in athletic build, but otherwise they were as different as night and day. All the Father’s actions reflected a soft rigour, whilst the other one…
Brigid’s arrival interrupted her attempt at a proper comparison.
“Come, Miss… I mean, my Lady. Today is Friday, and your mother will be receiving visitors. You don’t want to be missed or raise any suspicion, do you?” Resolutely, Brigid pulled aside the blankets. At Brigid’s words, the memory of the events of last night returned. Suddenly, Felicity’s eyes were filled with tears.
“At least nothing bad happened,” Brigid added, and it seemed as if she wanted to pet Felicity’s hand in an attempt to comfort her. “Just think, my Lady, ‘the priest’ saved you!”
“Do you know that man? Is he truly a Catholic clergyman?” Felicity put her feet onto the cold floor and quickly pushed them into the slippers that had been warmed for her.
“Not personally,” Brigid replied. She constantly fell back into her old habit of speaking in incomplete sentences, regardless of how often Felicity tried to remind her that a full and grammatically correct sentence had to include a noun, a predicate, and an object. This time, she let Brigid get away with it, because what she was saying was highly interesting indeed.
“How do you know who he is?”
“Everybody knows him, my Lady. But nobody knows who’s hiding behind the mask. Everyone just calls him ‘the priest’ because of his white collar.”
“Why is he so famous, if everybody knows him?”
Brigid handed her a wet cloth. “He’s the best boxer in all of London,” the maid replied. Whilst Felicity completed her toilet, she watched how Brigid’s eyes became dreamier and dreamier, the more she continued with her story.
“It was about two years ago when he first arrived on the scene. He challenged Jack the Hammer Thrower and knocked him out in the fourth round. The most fascinating thing about him is that nobody knows who he really is. Not even the landlord of the Black Heart knows, even though he always goes there for his fights. What he wins, he always gives away to the poor. Always, Miss. No exceptions.”
Felicity struggled to digest all the different pieces of information. The names were circling around in her head: ‘Jack the hammer thrower’ – she did not want to know how the man had come to earn his nickname. The Black Heart was certainly a tavern. ‘The priest’ donated his money won in combat to the needy and he had not lost a single fight. No wonder he had managed to knock her attacker unconscious with just two punches!
“And then, zap, one year ago he disappeared. Even the newspapers wrote about it, my Lady. By the looks of it, he’s returned.”
“Most likely he sat in prison for twelve months,” Felicity contemplated. Brigid pulled the camisole over her head and began to tie up Felicity’s corset in the back. “Not so tight,” Felicity complained. Brigid seemed a little gruff with her today, in the way she was pulling and tugging on the strings and laces. “I can hardly breathe!”
“He’s a gentleman,” Brigid assured her, and she sounded indignant. “If he was in prison, then that certainly would’ve been for some unjust reason.” Her words were accompanied by a rather energetic jolt on the corset strings.
“How would you know that? You do not even know his real name!” Felicity pointed out, and inhaled as deeply as she could, so she would gain a little extra space after exhaling in the damned corset.
“One can make out a true gentleman by the way he acts, not by his name. I’ve known men, who… but that was before...” Brigid said simply, and her words silenced Felicity.
It was true, the man had helped her when she had been in desperate straits, but that did not make him a true gentleman in her book. No man of high-bred blood would ever have dared to tuck a coin into a woman’s décolletage! On the other hand, Felicity also had personal experience that a noble title did not necessarily make a man a good one. She sighed. The fact that this boxing ‘priest’ had shown up and saved her from her plight had been a blessing, yes, but it did not actually solve her problem.
The man who had written that letter had not appeared. What was she supposed to do now? She had to make sure that she had not overlooked some clue in the anonymous letter. It was in that very moment that she realised her dreadful mistake. She had not only returned home without accomplishing her mission, but she had also lost the letter!
The sender had not applied a seal. The person who had written the letter was most likely not a nobleman, or was he? Also, the paper… Well, if she really thought about it, the sheet had felt more like paper of medium quality. It had not been as thick as the paper her father used to write his letters, nor had it been as strong as the papers her mother, Rose, or she used. On the other hand, it had not been the cheapest material, either, at least as far as Felicity was able to tell.
After she had put on her stockings, she had to step into a number of underskirts. Impatiently, she denied Brigid’s offer of a cushion for her lower back.
“I will wear the light-blue dress with the roses on the seam,” she said. Felicity wondered whether it made sense to drive all the way to St Botolph’s again to look for the letter. No, probably not. “I do not feel like getting dressed up.”
Brigid had an expression on her face, as if she meant to say something, but after just one glance at Felicity’s face, she decided to remain silent and to simply go and get the plainly cut muslin dress from the wardrobe. Felicity liked that one, because it was one of her lightest dresses and she could move about more freely than in her more formal day dresses or evening gowns. If she chose a mornin
g gown, she was taking a risk that her mother would send her back upstairs to get changed, because it was too casual for receiving visitors.
Today of all days, Felicity did not feel the need to endure the procedure of dressing more often than was absolutely necessary. Her thoughts kept going back to the previous evening. She had pressed the letter against her chest, and then she must have dropped it. Maybe the mysterious boxer had picked it up?
Brigid dressed up her hair, handed her the earrings, which looked like forget-me-not flowers, and took a step back. “That’s good,” she acknowledged, satisfied. She curtsied (still a little too vaguely, as Felicity noticed) and began to clean up the room.
“Before I forget,” Felicity said as she rose from her seat. “The light-brown coat in my wardrobe does not fit me anymore. Why don’t you take it and adjust it for yourself? You are slimmer than I am and a little smaller, but…” Brigid blushed and stared at her with a bright red face and eyes the size of saucers.
“M-m-my Lady,” she stuttered, and it seemed as if she would burst into tears at any moment.
“Do not mention it,” Felicity waved her hand and looked towards the door, to avoid seeing the overwhelming joy on Brigid’s face at this gift. It was something she had not gotten used to in the four weeks she had spent at Lady Blankhurst and Father O’Donnell’s sides – the unutterable joy that a small gesture, a stretched-out hand, or a few pennies, could evoke.
She quickly walked through the door and closed it behind her, before taking a deep breath and walking downstairs to the parlour.
She walked past the silver tray, where Frost, their butler, collected all the incoming mail that arrived before the afternoon. Her father preferred to work through the daily correspondence in one “fell swoop,” as he liked to call it. With a beating heart, she took the small stack into her hand and quickly looked through it, searching for any possible new letters addressed to her. Nothing. Her mouth felt dry, and when she heard Rose’s voice behind her, Felicity winced guiltily.
“Are you expecting a billet-doux, my dear sister?”
“You read too many bad books,” Felicity replied stiffly, but she felt how a treacherous heat rose up her décolletage and all the way to her cheeks.
“That is true,” Rose admitted, “but even the biggest clichés always hold a grain of truth, much like in this work.” She held up a leather-bound book so that Felicity was able to read the title: “The Whole Duty of a Woman: Or, An Infallible Guide to the Fair Sex” by T. Reade. Felicity took the book, expecting to find – hidden inside the antiquated binding of this old guide to appropriate behaviour – the very latest scandalous novel that Rose could get her hands on, but this was not the case. The book was exactly what it said it was.
“Did you suddenly find taste for etiquette and manners?” With a bit of luck, she would be able to involve Rose in a conversation about books, so her sister would forget what she had just caught Felicity doing.
“It is rather amusing,” Rose replied and took the book back from her sister’s hand. “Apart from all the recipes, which I do not need, Mr Reade seems to have a solution for every little problem. For example, there is an entire chapter about how a woman should behave if her husband turns out to be a drunkard.”
Felicity tilted her head sideways. “But you do not have a husband, and you hopefully will not ever have one who has succumbed to drink.” She frowned.
“You may be right, but I like to prepare for every possibility,” Rose replied and handed her sister the book. “Maybe you should take this work to heart. I overheard Papa telling Mama that you will be going to the theatre again tonight to meet with the Duke of Somerset and his son, Luke Thornfield, The Lord Layton.”
Felicity groaned, a very unladylike sound.
“What if Lord Layton is a drinker? That would not surprise me after his gruesome experiences during the war,” Rose continued ruthlessly.
“What kind of experiences are you talking about?” Felicity envisioned the man who had warned her about the viscount, and who had punished her by ignoring her for a full season because she had not followed his advice. This vision was then replaced by a man who limped on a wooden leg and whose empty sleeve hung lifelessly from his coat.
Rose shrugged. “I do not know. But if I were to imagine what it is like to be at war, then I know it cannot be anything but gruesome. All the blood, the dead… and the screams of the wounded, who would rather die than rot away slo–”
“That is enough!” Felicity pushed the book back into her sister’s hands and inconspicuously wiped her fingers on her dress.
“You and your warped imagination! Can you not talk about something nice for once? You have no idea what life is truly like.” Rose shook her head, but Felicity had talked herself so far into a rage that she would not allow her sister to voice any objection. “And just so you know, I will not marry Lord Layton, nor any other duke, marquess or any one of those useless noble wastrels!”
Felicity bit her lip to prevent her from saying even more than she already had. The death of Viscount Greywood and the letter from last night, returned to her mind with full force. She also thought about the face of the attractive and compassionate Bow Street Runner, Mr Hawthorne. He was a man of the law and would not keep her involvement a secret, but perhaps he would be able to prevent her family from suffering. Back then, she had gotten the impression that he was a trustworthy man, a good man.
“But instead?” Her father’s voice appeared behind Felicity’s back, ending all speculation. “I am very interested to learn how you envision your life without a husband, my daughter.” Felicity bit her lip and closed her eyes, before she turned around and looked at her father.
“We were only speaking in jest, Father,” Rose explained quickly. She smiled at the duke with her sweetest and most innocent smile, holding up the book that had originally caused the dispute between her and Felicity, in front of her chest like a shield. “Felicity has advised me to read Mr Treade’s wisdom, if I ever want to find a husband.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Felicity corrected her and meant to clarify the situation, but as always, the duke reacted to his third and youngest daughter with surprising leniency. He informed Felicity that his friend, the Duke of Somerset, was expecting her to return to his lodge this evening.
“What is the name of the play, Papa?” Rose inquired. “I would love to see the play, Hamlet, one day, since the whole world is talking about it.” She looked at the duke with pleading eyes.
“Tonight, they are showing something by that entirely overestimated Mozart,” her father grumbled, and the light immediately vanished from Rose’s eyes. Despite her preference for scandalous literature, she very much admired the great bard and all his works, but she could not bring herself to get excited about opera. She said that it confused her when the music pushed itself into the foreground, thus dispensing with the most important part of the play, which was the text after all. On the other hand, Felicity liked the opera, and she particularly admired the works of the Austrian composer. The prospect of meeting Lord Layton and having to talk to him under the watchful eyes of his parents was not exactly comforting, but she would be able to endure the three or four hours in his company – as long as Mozart was playing in the background.
“I promise you, next time Shakespeare is played, you will be allowed to come along. But tonight is an important evening for Felicity and we do not want… something to go awry.”
Felicity understood. He expected that Lord Layton would not waste a single look on her, as soon as he saw Rose. That hurt, especially since she did not think of him as the kind of father who would be blindsided by the love for his child. Rose was by far the most beautiful of the three sisters. Although Annabelle had distinctive features, Rose embodied the beauty ideal of their time. She was of medium height and half-a-foot taller than Felicity. Her skin was pearly white, but not as sickly pale as Felicity’s had been since the viscount’s death, and Rose’s complexion had just the right tone of pink
in the right places, such as her cheeks. Her eyes were big and blue, and her hair was of such a rare blonde colour that it seemed bright even under mere candlelight. Felicity, with her auburn hair and brown eyes, sometimes felt like a field mouse compared to Rose. She loved her sister and did not envy her enchanting appearance by any means, but since this last summer, Felicity felt… old and incessantly sad. Her mood lightened a little when she was helping in the Father’s house to lessen the fallen women’s misery, but when had she last felt alive? When had she felt intense feelings, regardless of whether they had been hatred or love?
In the end, it did not matter, because with the arrival of the letter, her wishes and desires had been pushed into the background. Now it was important to find the person who was blackmailing her and to pay them off. Felicity knew very well that her options were limited, at best. Paying the demand was no guarantee of the blackmailer’s silence, taking into account that the person had not even mentioned money in the letter.
The letter!
As if she had been struck by lightning, Felicity realised that she had to travel back to Whitechapel once again to retrieve the lost note. She did not know with absolute certainty that ‘the priest’ had taken it.
The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy Page 27
