The Perfect Impostor

by Wendy Soliman

  Leo quirked a brow.

  “It’s currently all the rage,” Richard explained. “Hostesses outdo each other, attempting to show their patriotic colours by raising funds for dispossessed soldiers and their families.”

  “I see. And presumably the other thefts occurred at similar events?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Our Frenchie probably enjoys the irony of the situation,” remarked Leo carelessly, sinking lower in his chair and closing his eyes again.

  “Any connection that stands out between the thefts, other than the obvious?” Richard asked in a suspiciously casual tone that warned Leo he was up to something.

  “They all took place following the balls at which the jewels were worn.”

  “So in each case the owner was staying for several days.”

  “That’s my understanding, Your Grace. We’ve looked into the other guests and found only three ladies in attendance at all the houses who weren’t unfortunate enough to lose any of their possessions.”

  “Ladies?” Richard elevated a brow. “You think this is the work of a woman?”

  “We do. The Frenchman obviously has an accomplice but all the gentlemen present can account for their activities. Besides, none were present at all three events.”

  “Servants?”

  “It’s possible but hard to see how it could have been done. Maids were left in the rooms when the items weren’t being worn. The jewels were locked in cases and hidden from plain sight. The cases weren’t taken but the locks were picked and the jewels extracted. Even if the maid left the room for a moment, it would take too long for another servant who didn’t have business in the chamber to pick the lock and spirit the loot anyway.”

  “The same problem would apply to a lady if she wished to steal the item,” Leo said, almost to himself. “She too would have to invent a reason to be in the room, dismiss the servant and then pick the lock.”

  “Good point.” Richard nodded. “All right, let’s assume for the sake of argument that one of our society ladies is a French sympathiser, a traitor to her country so set to aid Napoleon that she’s prepared to steal from her peers.” He frowned. “That’s quite an accusation to make, Sanders.”

  “I’m aware of that, Your Grace, as is the Home Secretary. That’s presumably why he asked me to bring such a delicate situation to your notice.”

  “Who are the three ladies under suspicion?”

  “Lady Ursula Chester.”

  “I should have thought she was a bit long in the tooth for such skulduggery,” Leo remarked, not bothering to open his eyes.

  “She has a number of French relations on her mother’s side about whose fate she’s been heard to publicly lament,” Richard said. “There’s a cousin, apparently, for whom she developed quite a tendre in her youth and still holds in some esteem.”

  “Ah, the infatuation of youth.” Leo took a sip of his wine. “Still, I doubt that would be enough to make her turn traitor.”

  “And the others?” Richard asked.

  “Mrs. Nugent.”

  “Unless Nugent has made unwise investments during my absence, she’d have no need,” Leo said. “I doubt it, though. He’s far too shrewd for that.”

  “Actually, I’ve heard that he does currently have pockets to let,” Richard observed. “He was grudgingly admitted into society because of his ability to turn a farthing into a guinea.”

  “He was elected to White’s because he’d helped a couple of the stalwarts with their investments, if memory serves,” Leo said. “That was his way into society.”

  “Yes, but he subsequently fell victim to his own success. He got so carried away with living the high life that he became lax in his business dealings and got fleeced. He denies it, of course, and is spending more lavishly than ever, presumably hoping to deflate criticism.”

  “So society’s doors would be closed to them if Nugent is no longer in a position to be useful to its leading lights.” Leo scratched his chin, striving to maintain an attitude of disinterest. “Hmm, possible, I suppose. Men, or in this case women, have been known to take desperate measures with much less provocation. Who’s the third suspect?”

  Sanders cleared his throat, addressing his next comment to the floor. “The Marchioness of Lanarkshire.”

  Burgundy slopped over his hand as Leo sat bolt upright, and his feet hit the floor with a resounding thud. Richard’s implacable expression didn’t alter, causing Leo to suppose that this wasn’t news to him.

  “I don’t have much time for Lanarkshire, but he’s plenty plump in the pocket and the last man in England I’d brand as a traitor,” Leo said in a bland tone.

  “But the marchioness is, by all accounts, already disenchanted with her lot,” Richard said with a casual shrug.

  “And you know that because—?”

  Richard merely smiled, telling Leo without bothering to open his mouth that he ought to know better than to ask such a question. “And Lanarkshire leaves her to her own devices quite a bit whilst he dances attendance upon the prince. Perhaps she felt the need for a little excitement.”

  Leo shook his head, refusing to be drawn. Julia could be wild but he didn’t believe for a moment that she was a traitor, or a thief, and had no intention of being sucked deeper into this thing by expressing that opinion.

  “So, having been caught in Amsterdam,” Richard said, wisely not pressing Leo for an opinion upon Julia Dupont, “do you imagine they’ll give up?”

  “Our intelligence is that they’re keen to make up their losses, Your Grace. Napoleon’s coffers are almost empty and his troops are short of equipment as a consequence.”

  “I see.” Leo could feel his brother’s eyes boring into his profile. “And when is the next beneficent hostess planning a soiree likely to attract our light-fingered friend’s attention?”

  “Lady Marshall is holding a house party next week,” Sanders said, “culminating with a grand ball on the Thursday evening at which the Duchess of Southport is expected to make an appearance wearing the famed family tiara.”

  “And all three of our suspects will be in attendance?” Richard asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Well, little brother,” Richard said casually. “That sounds like one for you.”

  “I’m on holiday, Richard. Find someone else.”

  “But you’re the perfect person. No one knows you’re back, and since Lady Marshall’s your godmother, it would be the most natural thing in the world for you to call upon her when you pass through Tunbridge Wells. Since you’ve just arrived, you wouldn’t be aware that she was in the midst of entertaining. Naturally she will insist that you stay.”

  “Tell the duchess to leave her wretched tiara at home and there won’t be any thefts.”

  “And we’ll not catch the perpetrators.”

  “Hide a couple of burly footmen in the duchess’s chamber then to await the thief. It’s straightforward enough. You don’t need me.”

  “Come on, Leo, where’s your sense of patriotic duty?”

  “On holiday, just like the rest of me.”

  “Thank you, Sanders.” Richard ushered his visitor out of his library. “Tell the Home Secretary he will be hearing from me.”

  “But not from me,” Leo called after him.

  “So, what’s the objection to a little investigative work?” Richard refilled his brother’s glass. “It would be like a holiday anyway.”

  Leo shuddered. “With all the matchmaking mamas in attendance setting their sights on me? Fending off tiresome chits wasn’t quite the sort of recreation I had in mind.”

  Richard chuckled. “I don’t suppose it was.”

  “Then don’t ask this of me.” Leo sighed. “Any competent investigator could do it. You don’t need me.”

  “An investigator would stand out like a fox in the henhouse. It requires someone of our class with a good reason to turn up unannounced.”

  Leo groaned. “Have a heart.”

  “Frightened of
facing Julia?” The ducal expression softened. “I know you felt let down by her but I thought you were over that.”

  “But I wouldn’t be impartial,” Leo said artfully. “In my desire for revenge against the woman who spurned my advances, I’ll try and pin the crime on her, regardless of whether she’s guilty.”

  “Not a chance. Your integrity will guide you, no matter what your personal feelings are.”

  “Damn!”

  “You’re right, Leo. It would be easy enough to set a trap for the culprits but I doubt whether they know who’s behind it all. If they were that sloppy, then we’d have caught our man in Amsterdam. No, we need to let them get away with the jewels and follow them to their ultimate destination. Now that sort of thing is right up your street.”

  Leo ran a hand through his hair and groaned. “What does a man have to do to earn a holiday round these parts?”

  Richard grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “I take it you’ll do it, then?”

  The door opened and two mini-whirlwinds launched themselves at Leo, wooden swords bashing at his legs with total disregard for his manhood.

  “Uncle Leo, you said you’d come and fight with us.”

  “And that was ages ago and we’ve been waiting for you.”

  He was unceremoniously pulled to his feet by his aggrieved nephews.

  “All right then, Richard, I suppose I’ll do it.” Leo picked up the smaller child and swung him onto his shoulders, tickling his ribs and eliciting a gurgle of childish laughter. “I might even stand a chance of getting a little peace at a house party,” he added, glancing affectionately at the remaining nephew, who was terrorising Richard’s gun dog with his wooden sword.

  “I haven’t dismissed the servant aspect,” Richard said. “I still think that’s worth looking into. Or it could be mistress and maid working in tandem. Take Boscombe with you. He’ll be able to look into matters in the servants’ hall.”

  “Wouldn’t go anywhere without him.” Leo’s valet-cum-fellow-spy-cum-valued-friend always accompanied him on his undercover assignations.

  “Once that tiara leaves Upton Manor, it needs to be followed. It will be interesting to see where it leads.”

  “To trouble is my guess.” Leo saved Richard’s dog from further torment by ushering his nephews out the door ahead of him.

  * * *

  Amos Fisher huddled in the doorway of a shabby building in Basing Lane and pulled up the collar of his thin coat. It did little to prevent a chill wind penetrating right through to his bones. A prolonged bout of coughing rattled his lungs, leaving him drained and struggling for breath. He spat on the ground, putting his temporary weakness down to lack of food. Scowling at the world in general, holding it responsible for his straitened circumstances, he continued his vigil. But his disgruntled attitude increased with every second he spent freezing to death, as did his desire for revenge.

  Directly opposite, a discreet sign on a modiste’s premises proclaimed it to be the territory of Madame Sinclair. Madame Sinclair indeed! Talk about ideas above her station. The nerve of the chit. Not only had she got away with murdering her husband—his brother, the best of men, an indulgent spouse who treated his wilful wife far too leniently—but she’d also calmly walked away with what, by rights, ought to have been his. No one should profit from their crimes, and yet this whore had taken her husband’s hard-earned money without a backward glance and now had the effrontery to set herself up as a fancy dressmaker.

  He passed the long hours by plotting increasingly vindictive ways in which to extract revenge, enduring the surly stares of those who thought he was attempting to invade their patch. He growled at anyone who came too close, and thus far his bulk had prevented them from taking matters further. But he knew they suspected his motives and it was only a matter of time before they organised themselves into a gang and chased him away. Life was cheap around these parts, and a man could be done to death just for looking at someone the wrong way.

  A hackney drove past at a cracking pace, spraying him with mud as its wheels cut straight through a foul-smelling puddle directly in front of him. He shook his fist at the jarvey, who blithely ignored the gesture.

  Amos shooed another urchin away and fumed. He’d spent the best part of a year attempting to track Katrina Fisher to her new lair, and a fair penny he could ill afford it had cost him too. But it was proving to be worth it. Finally a chance remark overheard in a crowded tavern had led him to this most unlikely of situations. He’d been freezing in this doorway for two whole days and had yet to get a clear view of the woman inside. Even so, he knew in his gut that he’d found the murderous doxy, and she’d soon get what was coming to her.

  The law might say she’d done nothing wrong but that was what happened when you had influential people fighting on your behalf. The magistrates hadn’t wanted to hear what he had to say, threatening to put him in gaol if he didn’t button his lip. Him! That was rich. If anyone deserved to be incarcerated it was that jade swanning about in the fancy shop across the road like she was something special.

  Well, if the law wasn’t prepared to do what was right then he would just have to do their job for them.

  As soon as she showed herself he would grab her. He didn’t like to risk going in there without first knowing how the land lay. He was no fool. Oh no. He’d learned to be patient. This might not be the most fashionable of addresses but still, she never could have afforded a place like this on what Jeb left her. So she must have a rich lover paying her way, and he didn’t fancy facing up to the gentry for a second time. The law always sided with them, so he’d fight this one on his own terms.

  Amos was just thinking about nipping round the back to relieve himself when a fine carriage made slow progress along Basing Lane. It was so out of place here that even the hardened locals stopped to gape at it.

  It pulled up in all the muck and filth directly in front of the modiste’s, and his pulse quickened. At last something interesting was happening. Little Katrina wouldn’t be attracting that sort of custom, surely? Unless it was her lover coming to call in broad daylight.

  Amos was surprised at the animosity this thought engendered. It was one thing to know she had a fancy man but entirely another to be confronted with him in the flesh. Katrina was his! He intended to exact revenge by using her in any way he wished—and there were plenty of things he’d like to do to a lightskirt who thought she was too good for her own husband’s brother. He’d had plenty of time to think about it and, doing so now, he could feel himself getting hard in spite of his chilled bones.

  A dainty foot descended from the carriage. A footman escorted the lady to the door of the modiste’s and waited immediately outside. At first Amos thought it was Katrina pretending to be a lady, but then he realised it was that childhood friend of hers, Julia somebody, who’d married a marquess. He smirked, his suspicions confirmed. It had to be Katrina in that shop. What else would bring such a lady to this derelict district?

  Just to be sure he sauntered towards the carriage, which was now surrounded by a gang of curious onlookers.

  “Who’s rig is this then?” someone asked a footman.

  “Move along,” the man said, wrinkling his nose as though he could smell something unsavoury. He probably could. “The Marquess of Lanarkshire don’t want you lot mucking up his carriage and frightening his horses.”

  “What’s a marquess then?” a grimy child with a cheeky grin asked his mother.

  “Someone what’s got more money than you could ever dream of,” she said, giving the child an affectionate clip round the ear.

  Amos wandered back to his doorway, deep in thought, and waited. For a long time.

  Finally the woman emerged, pausing in the doorway to hug another woman who was unmistakably Katrina. Amos had seen enough. He urgently needed a meal and a wench and he knew where to find a plentiful supply of both. But he’d be back tomorrow to see what transpired. He needed to be sure that Katrina’s well-heeled connections were out of harm’s
way before he started having some fun with her.

  Chapter Three

  Katrina changed her mind a dozen times a day following Julia’s visit, doubting her ability to carry off the deception. But in spite of her grave misgivings she couldn’t find it within herself to let her friend down when she required her help so desperately. Whenever her courage faltered or her conscience put up objections, she thought about all Julia and her father had done for her, and knew she would have to go through with it.

  Unless Julia came to her senses and called it off. But that was too much to hope for.

  She was giving her final instructions to her apprentices, making sure they knew exactly what to do in her absence, when Julia’s town coach arrived at her door. The grand equipage drew curious glances from passersby. The doors were emblazoned with the marquess’s coat of arms—not an everyday sight in Basing Lane. The two liveried tigers up behind looked down on their surroundings with attitudes of superior disdain, adding to the incongruity of the spectacle. They clearly thought their mistress had taken leave of her senses in bringing her custom to such a lowly establishment.

  Julia appeared even more distrait today as she entered the salon, her maid Celia following briskly in her wake. Katrina dismissed her apprentices, who curtsied and disappeared into the back room.

  “What have you told them?” Julia asked, watching them go.

  Katrina embraced Julia but her friend was rigid with tension and barely returned the gesture. “That a lady has asked me to call upon her and give her some advice on her wardrobe, and that I was going on to visit my family afterwards.”

  Julia frowned. “You no longer have any family.”

  “They don’t know that, silly. Don’t worry, they wouldn’t presume to check.”

  “I suppose not.” Julia fell into a nearby chair. “Forgive me, I’m a little preoccupied today.”

  “Julia, are you really, absolutely sure about this?”