Without hesitation, Victoria strode up to the first cluster of grim-faced men. She recognized a few of them—some worked for Bow Street, while others worked under their own steam as private investigators. All and sundry had come out to assist on this latest case, and for good reason. Whomsoever managed to crack this mystery would undoubtedly be lauded with fame and fortune.
“Ooh, watch yourselves, fellas. The Vixen’s sniffed out our scent.” A grizzled older man with thinning gray hair and tufty white whiskers smiled upon Victoria’s approach. Admiral Benedict Thomson; her father’s oldest friend, whom she’d known since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. Indeed, after her father passed, Benedict had become something of a father to her. As well as her continued mentor in the investigative realm.
“Ah, the name stuck, then?” Victoria chuckled, and refused the offer of a nip of whisky from another investigator’s hipflask. It might have been a cold morning, but she needed to keep her wits sharp.
Benedict nodded. “’Fraid so, McCarthy.”
“Now, how is it that you have no trouble calling me McCarthy, but the rest of these sorry sods do?” Victoria sighed, as the three other men in their group laughed. Not unkindly, though; they’d respected her father too much to be cruel to his daughter. And Benedict would not permit any lack of courtesy toward her. She had his unfettered respect and, as such, the rest of Benedict’s colleagues admired Victoria. Well, perhaps not admired, but they certainly tolerated her.
She had a keen eye and an extensive knowledge of new investigative techniques that her father had passed on in his personal notebook. An item more valuable to Victoria than gold. With its help, more often than not, she spotted things that others had missed, and that was useful in their line of business, regardless of the sex of the one doing the spotting. She supposed that was what had earned her the nickname of ‘Vixen’, too, aside from the obvious relation to her given name of Victoria—she had a way of sniffing out evidence, as a fox might.
She had yet to decide if she liked the moniker or not. Maybe the best way to stop it from becoming derogatory was to own it and make it part of her identity. Still, she wished folks would refer to her as McCarthy, as they would call any male investigator by their surname.
“Because I know you as if you were my own,” Benedict said, with a wry grin. “And I’ve taught you as if you were my own. I never had children, so you’re all I’ve got, and if you want to be called McCarthy, after your father, then who am I to call you otherwise?”
“Thank you, Ben.” She could always rely on him to keep her from feeling like the odd one out.
“It ain’t right to speak with a lady so casual-like,” one of the other investigators—a younger man by the name of Robert Elfin—replied.
Victoria grinned. “I am no lady, Elfin.”
“You can say that ‘til you’re blue in the face, Miss McCarthy. It won’t change the facts of the matter.” Elfin gave an apologetic shrug.
“Anyway, enough babbling. All I’ve heard this morning is chatter about the Pelsley girl, but no actual information about what happened, or how it may have happened.” Victoria glanced up at the imposing townhouse, with its white walls and balconettes. Here, the lamps were very much lit among the top floors. Until their beloved daughter was found, Victoria doubted they would be able to sleep again. “Have the family let anyone inside yet?”
Benedict shook his head. “Not yet, no.”
The third fellow, a man called Edgar Greaves, shot Victoria a withering look. “Do you think we’re all standing out here for the good of our health, Miss? If the Pelsleys had let anyone in, we’d be in there.”
“You must be playing some sort of jest with me?” Victoria gaped. “They haven’t let a soul into the house since yesterday? How are we supposed to help if they will not grant us access?” Lady Helena, their only daughter, had been found absent yesterday morning, at around the same time as it was now. The Bow Street Runners had been alerted which had, in turn, alerted the veritable swarm of investigators who strove to keep this city a safer place.
It makes no sense whatsoever. Why bother informing the Runners of their missing daughter, if the Pelsleys had no intention of letting anyone do their jobs? Victoria had been detained with another case in Poplar the previous day, regarding a missing child that had duly been located. As such, she happened to be somewhat late to the proverbial party. She had thought that might put her on the back foot with finding her place in this investigation, but it seemed she had not missed anything at all.
“I overheard the Duchess of Pelsley muttering that she didn’t want us trailing our filth through her home. How’s that for gratitude?” Elfin grumbled. “She won’t even open the door to the Runners, and they’ve got uniforms. We’ve got no chance.”
Victoria’s lips tugged into a smile, as an idea formed in her mind. “You’re forgetting one thing, my good men.”
“Oh? And what’s that?” Benedict cocked his head to one side, with interest.
“You’ve got a secret weapon. Well, I do.”
Greaves frowned. “What are you talking about? What secret weapon?”
“Me.” Victoria swept past them and mounted the front steps, while the entire congregation of constables and investigators turned to watch in surprise.
She knocked on the door and waited for an answer, praying this would work. If it did not, she would have to face a mass humiliation, standing center stage before the rest of these men.
The door wrenched open and the butler appeared in a bluster of exasperation. “We have told you once, and we will not tell you again. His Grace and Her Grace do not—” he stopped short as he beheld Victoria standing on the top step, finally setting his gaze upon her. He evidently had not realized that he was conversing with a young lady.
“I apologize for the intrusion, sir, and I apologize if the household feels they are being pestered by these investigators.” Victoria gestured back to her rapt audience. “They men well, and they only want to aid in finding Lady Helena. But I am no investigator, sir, so I hope you will permit me entry. You see, I have been sent to help the Duchess endure this awful experience, as part of the Bow Street Runners’ new initiative in comforting the families of victims.”
The butler faltered. “May I have your name, Miss?”
“Certainly, sir. My name is Miss Victoria McCarthy,” she smiled sweetly. She didn’t possess the fairest of faces, but there were roses enough in her cheeks, and her mother had always remarked that she could be a beauty if she took more care in her appearance. In that moment, she hoped that prettiness might shine through, if only as a tactic to persuade this gatekeeper to let her in.
“Allow me a minute or two, Miss McCarthy. I will speak with the Duchess.” He lowered his voice. “Truly, you may have arrived at the ideal moment, for she is in an awfully troubled state.”
“I will wait, sir. I hope that I may be of some help to her, in what must be her darkest hour.” A chameleon of voice and mannerisms, Victoria knew when to play upon her feminine wiles, and when to behave in a more masculine fashion. This required a tenderer touch, inspiring her voice to soften and her demeanor to appear more delicate. And it seemed to be working.
The butler disappeared inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. Victoria took the opportunity to peer through the narrow gap, beholding the elegant entrance hall beyond. A chandelier glinted overhead, and a curving staircase spiraled upward, to where the Duchess must surely be in hiding… and perhaps mourning, for her vanished daughter.
I will find her for you, I swear it. See, she was not callous in using somewhat underhand tactics. She merely wished to do the finest job she could, and she was incapable of doing that if nobody would allow her inside. It served a purpose and came from a good place, though she had long dispensed with feeling guilt over swaying people with her altered mannerisms.
She glanced back over her shoulder, where the other investigators were gaping at her, open-mouthed. Clearly, she had already advanced further than they h
ad managed.
You should learn not to underestimate me. She smiled and turned back, awaiting the reappearance of the butler. He returned several minutes later, with a hesitant look of relief upon his face.
“Her Grace would like to welcome you into the house,” he said, gesturing for Victoria to come inside. She did so, without so much as a single look back at the others. If she could gain more information, then this would become her sole investigation, free from the invasions of the waiting men. And maybe, just maybe, solving this case might be the very thing that won their respect for good.
Chapter 2
Christian Turner, the recently made Earl of Galbury, sat in the parlor with the Duchess of Pelsley. Nervous silence stretched between them, for nobody knew what to say in such times. It made matters all the more awkward every time Christian noted a tear trickling down the Duchess’ cheek. Tea had been laid, but neither he nor the Duchess had touched a drop. Indeed, it had likely gone cold by now.
The Duke had made himself scarce in his study, choosing to keep away from the turmoil, and the Duke’s only son had gone to visit with the other families who had fallen victim to the same criminal act. Christian could understand that. A man’s emotions were a private realm, and Christian knew that the Duke and his son would not want to show weakness in front of their household, wife, and mother. They would likely be in tears too, but it would not have done so to show that liquid misery in company. For his part, Christian felt dutybound to watch over the Duchess, given that he might one day be their son-in-law…
If Helena can be rescued, that is. He pushed away the dark thoughts, determined to believe that she would be found. She had to be.
“Can I fetch a blanket, or a shawl for you?” Christian asked. The Duchess had begun to shiver, though he had a feeling it wasn’t from the cold.
The Duchess shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“I am certain she will be found, Your Grace.” Christian had his doubts, but he was determined to bring comfort to the Duchess.
“Have the other young ladies been found?” A bitter note edged into the Duchess’ voice.
“It will only be a matter of time before they are located also,” Christian replied. However, even he sensed the words rang false. He had read the papers with horror and intrigue, when they had told of the five missing ladies who had been stolen away prior to Lady Helena.
Three had been taken from their beds, in the same manner that Lady Helena had. And two had been apprehended in their carriages, while making their way home from some engagement or another. Their chaperones had borne witness to their kidnapping, though they weren’t able to identify the two fellows who had snatched their mistresses from under their noses. He hadn’t read about there being two men involved, in the papers, but he had heard the story from various acquaintances who knew the bereft families.
“You cannot know that for certain.” The Duchess’ breath hitched. “How can she have been taken without a single soul within this house hearing? I cannot fathom it, Lord Galbury. I cannot.”
“It is exceedingly strange,” he paused, “Perhaps, if you were to permit the investigators to enter, they might be able to do more about seeking evidence and finding the perpetrator of this awful deed?”
The Duchess stared at him. “I will not have them desecrating my daughter’s bedchamber. I have heard terrible stories of investigators ransacking homes and stealing valuable items. I will not add theft to an already-dire circumstance. If they cannot find Helena without traipsing through her private quarters, then they cannot be very efficient at their employment.”
“As you prefer, Your Grace.” Christian saw that he wasn’t about to win this particular argument, though it seemed a waste of resources to have so many willing helpers standing in the street outside. Then again, if they had yet to succeeded in finding the other five ladies, then maybe the Duchess was right. They couldn’t be so efficient in their employment if they had yet to find a trace of those others.
The stilted atmosphere splintered a moment later, by the arrival of the butler, Phelps. A young lady walked behind him. Draped in a rather masculine cloak of thick, navy wool, she stood at an average height, with a long neck and a pale face emerging from the cloak’s collar. She possessed an elfin quality, with angular cheeks and a small chin, and large, improbably dark eyes that took in their surroundings, darting this way and that.
“Miss McCarthy, Your Grace.” Phelps bowed and allowed the young lady to fully enter the parlor.
The Duchess raised her head. “You are the comfort that has been sent by Bow Street?” She observed the newcomer with interest. “I must say, that is rather generous of them. Until now, I thought them to be uncaring brutes, who thought only of apprehending criminals. They do not appear to have cared a jot for the other poor families in my situation.”
Miss McCarthy sketched a graceful curtsy. “They are endeavoring to do better, Your Grace.”
“Then, I suppose you ought to sit and take tea with us. Phelps, will you send one of the maids to refresh this tray? I daresay the tea has gone cold.” The Duchess gestured to Christian. “This fellow is Lord Galbury.”
“My Lord.” Miss McCarthy bobbed a second curtsy in his direction. “Are you a relation of the family?”
Christian shook his head. “I am engaged to be married to Lady Helena.”
“Ah, I see.” Miss McCarthy crossed the room and sat in the proffered chair. “I am sorry to have heard the news of what happened. It seems all of London’s finest are gripped in a vise of terror. Truly, my heart aches for all those involved.”
“Gratitude, Miss McCarthy,” the Duchess murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
“Might I be so bold as to ask what occurred?” The young lady perched on the edge of the armchair cushion. “Sometimes, it’s beneficial for the family to progress through the stages of what happened, to aid in recovering from the initial shock.”
The Duchess frowned. “I suppose that makes a great deal of sense.”
“Is the Duke not at home?” Miss McCarthy glanced around the room, as though expecting him to emerge at any moment.
Christian answered first. “He has taken to some business in his study and does not wish to be disturbed.”
Miss McCarthy nodded in understanding. “Affairs such as this can be very difficult for fathers. They are not so free to feel as we ladies may.. I imagine he is coping with this terrible ordeal in the only way he knows how.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” the Duchess said, with some surprise. “I have been so furious with his perceived abandonment of me, for he disappeared into his study yesterday and has not emerged since. Not even to dine. Do you truly believe he is merely attempting to cope with his emotions?”
“I do, Your Grace.” Miss McCarthy smiled. “My own father was much the same, when he still lived. If ever a traumatic event struck our family, he would vanish for days on end. It drove my mother to distraction, but he would always return and explain that he had been seeking to come to terms with what had occurred.”
Christian listened with interest. His knowledge of the Bow Street Runners wasn’t extensive and didn’t know that they had ladies in their employ, but this particular lady’s presence seemed to be coaxing the Duchess into a more relaxed state. There was a soothing temperament to her voice. Even he found himself in a less fractious mood, as her words drifted over him.
“Your father is no longer living?” The Duchess sounded sorrowful.
“I am afraid not, Your Grace. He died in a tragic boating accident some years ago. The vessel was recovered in pieces, and my father was found washed up on the shore some days later. The storm must have battered the boat severely, for my father… well, it would not do for me to go into the details, as they are not very pleasant. And I would hate to add to your discomfort.” Miss McCarthy dipped her head, and Christian noted the slight tremble of her lower lip. Whatever had happened to her father, it could not have been good.
This poor creature.
Christian wished he had some words of comfort to offer her, but he did not know her, and he certainly did not know how to offer consolation to a complete stranger.
“Then we are, both of us, grieving.” The Duchess lifted a handkerchief to her eyes and dabbed them gently.
“Tell me of your daughter, Your Grace,” Miss McCarthy urged. “I should like to hear of her.”
The Duchess smiled sadly. “My Helena is a rare bird. Beautiful, intelligent, and full of grace. She looks a great deal like me, if you can imagine me in my youth. We share the same blonde hair, sapphire-blue eyes, and all my best features. And she dearly loved to laugh. My goodness, how I miss that sweet sound.”
“She sounds delightful, Your Grace. And I can well imagine you in your youth, for you do not look as though you would have a daughter grown.” Miss McCarthy flashed a winning smile. It disarmed Christian somewhat, though he had become somewhat suspicious of her easy charm. The more he contemplated it, the less he reasoned the Bow Street Runners would have sent such a lady to this house. It was unheard of.
An Unbending Lady for the Desperate Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 2
