Unmasking Lady Helen: The Kinsey Family (The Kinsey Family Series Book 1)

by Maggi Andersen

Entering the house, he was informed that Charlie was escorting Miss Groton and her aunt to a concert while Lizzie was dining with the baron. Events were moving forward without him. He buried a sense of disquiet and ran upstairs to change.

  Some hours later, Jason walked into the inner sanctum of the gaming hell in a narrow lane in St. James’s. Men and a scattering of women, some ladies and some not, clustered around the tables where the dice game hazard, backgammon, and card games were in play. Two crystal chandeliers cast their heated light over the heads of the gamblers. The windowless rooms were designed to fleece the “pigeons”—those who lost fortunes in the smoky, stale atmosphere, disorientated, and cut off from the outside world. A roar went up as a young lord staggered away, declaring he would shoot himself, after losing his estate in a game of vingt-et-un.

  It took Jason little time to locate Fred Pomfret, roaming the tables, a cheroot in his hand. Charlie had described the big, hefty man perfectly, his mean face, broken nose, and mane of red hair. He saw Jason and ambled over to him, no doubt judging him to be a plump pigeon and keen to relieve him of his blunt.

  “I should like a word with you, Pomfret, somewhere quiet.”

  Pomfret’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr.…?”

  “Peyton.” Jason handed him his card.

  Pomfret nodded. “Our best French champagne is on offer to those who fought for England, Captain. Require a stake? We can do that too.”

  “Just lead the way to your office, Pomfret.”

  With a cautious frown, Pomfret turned and led Jason to a small room. When Pomfret jerked his thumb at the cashier, the man rose and left.

  “Now, Captain. What can I do for you?” he asked, adopting a conciliatory tone. “Some young relative of yours got himself into trouble? We aren’t nursemaids ’ere.”

  Jason pulled his coat back to reveal the pistol tucked into his waistband. “The matter concerns a Miss Groton.”

  Pomfret’s frowning gaze roamed from the gun to Jason’s face. “We don’t allow firearms in ’ere. What about ’er?”

  “I am here to collect her father’s IOUs.”

  “You intend to pay his debt?”

  “No, I do not. Miss Groton has no way of paying her father’s gambling debts, as you well know, and nor should she,” he said with quiet menace, tamping down the desire to take his fists to the man. “What I will promise is not to make you significantly more nervous.”

  Pomfret rose on his toes. “I am not afraid of you, milord. I ’ave many good friends in this business.”

  “Including your partner in this club, Lord Saville?”

  Pomfret scowled. “’im too.”

  “But I happen to know, Pomfret, that you are new to London. Finding your feet as it were. And Lord Saville, who is a member of my club, wishes to keep a low profile regarding his connection to this gambling hell. If your name, linked to his, ends up in the newspapers, that will upset him, and you’ll be out on your backside if you’re lucky, or dead in some alley if you’re not. Surely even Miss Groton isn’t worth that. Pretty as she is.”

  A tick formed in Pomfret’s jaw as silence fell.

  “Come, Pomfret. Mr. Groton could not owe you much. He was not a rich man. And it appears you have done well tonight.” Jason held out his hand, aware that the prize was not money but Miss Groton. “The vowels if you will.”

  Pomfret swiveled and went to open a cupboard. Withdrawing a box, he rifled through it and returned with the signed IOUs. “Take ’em. You peers think you can rule it over everyone.”

  “You work for a peer, Pomfret,” Jason reminded him, relieving him of the scraps of paper. “If any more of these turn up, I won’t be so polite next time. And I, too, have some very good friends.”

  ***

  Helen discovered the French lady’s maid, Eloise, in her mother’s boudoir, attending to one of her mother’s hats. With brisk neat stitches, she attached a satin rose to a silk bonnet.

  At the mention of Bart, Eloise bowed her head over her work with a deep sigh. “Je suis vraiment désolée.”

  “Can you remember anything unusual Bart might have said before he became ill?” Helen asked.

  Her black eyes grew wide. “Oui. Bart believed that something ’e knew would improve ’is situation.”

  “What was that?”

  “I do not know. But he was insistent. After I teased him, he said when he became rich he would ask me to marry him.” She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I can get my way with most things, Lady Helen.” She smoothed her mobcap in the mirror. “But he would not tell me this.”

  Frustrated, Helen left the room. It would be difficult to believe anything Eloise said. It wasn’t that she told lies, but she was given to dramatics.

  Downstairs in the servants’ quarters, Jeremy had just returned from running a message. Helen drew him aside. “Did Bart say or do anything that surprised you in the weeks before he died?”

  The tall footman flushed and shuffled his feet. “No, Lady Helen.”

  “You won’t be in any trouble, Jeremy. But I need to know.”

  He scratched his head. “Just that he asked me to watch out for him while he went into the library. The family was out. I knew it was wrong, Lady Helen, but he was insistent.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few weeks ago, now.”

  “What was he looking for?”

  “Refused to say. Said it was better if I didn’t know.”

  “Did he remove anything from the library?”

  “I didn’t see it if he did, but when he put his hand on my shoulder to thank me, he was shaking like one of Cook’s jellies. Went straight up to his room. Said he had a letter to write.”

  “Think carefully, Jeremy. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “Bart asked me to deliver the letter for him, as it was my afternoon off.”

  “Where did you take it?”

  Jeremy’s gaze darted away from hers. “Whitehall, Lady Helen. Fair put the wind up me, it did.”

  “It’s good that you told me. But you have no reason to worry. That will be all, thank you, Jeremy.”

  After the footman hurried away to return to his duties, Helen, worried about the reason Bart felt it necessary to write to the government, made her way to the kitchen. But it made Peyton’s explanation more believable. Surprised at the extent of her relief, she entered the kitchen. The kitchen maids bobbed a welcome, but as she was often here discussing recipes with Cook, they continued with their work. Jinx, the young kitchen boy, greeted her, pausing from his task of peeling potatoes at the big scrubbed wooden table. As Cook was in the larder taking an inventory, Helen slipped into a chair.

  “Are you fully recovered, Jinx?”

  His narrow face was still pale beneath his freckles. “Yes, thank you, Lady Helen.”

  “Do you remember anything you and Bart might have shared? A drink or a sweetmeat, some food, which could have made you sick?”

  “No, we just ate the meals Cook prepared for us as we always do.”

  “No one else felt ill?”

  “They didn’t say so, Lady Helen.”

  “And there was nothing you and Bart shared? Think, Jinx.”

  “Only a spoonful of Bart’s tonic, if that is what you mean. He said it would cure my cold. Tasted something awful and I spat most of it out.”

  Her heart thudding, Helen rose from the table. “Please ask Mrs. Chance to advise me if you feel ill again.”

  Deep in thought, she returned to the upper floor. The information she’d gained posed more questions than answers. Why would anyone want to poison Bart? Perhaps he had known he was in danger when he’d written to the government requesting his captain’s help. In what capacity did Lord Peyton work for the government? Could he be a spy? She drew in a breath at the fluttery feeling in her belly. How little they knew about him.

  In the unoccupied library, she hurried over to her father’s desk. His secretary had a small office at the rear of the house but spent
most of his days here in her father’s absence. Her father preferred to work in the library. He liked to roam about studying his antiquities. Helped a man to think, he said.

  She searched the desk, but it proved a waste of time. So many papers and portfolios, some written in foreign languages, and she had no idea what she was looking for, except those two words, which were unlikely to leap out at her.

  She turned as the door opened. “May I assist you, Lady Helen?” Mr. Thorburn blinked behind his glasses. He reminded her of a friendly animal in a storybook she read to Alexander. With a smile, he crossed to where she stood behind the desk.

  Thorburn had been her father’s faithful and discreet secretary for several years. Helen thought to ask him if he knew anything about electric fish. But remembering Peyton’s advice to be discreet, she turned back to the desk. “Just a new pen, thank you, Mr. Thorburn.” She picked one up and, smiling, left the room.

  Out in the corridor, she paused to consider what she’d learned. It seemed unlikely that the tonic had been accidentally poisoned unless a mistake had been made by the herbalist. Why would anyone deliberately tamper with it with the intention of harming Bart? But there was that letter to the government he’d written, she reminded herself, which pointed to something more sinister. She was eager to pass on to Lord Peyton what she’d learned. But thinking of his perceptive green eyes, she expected he already knew it.

  Chapter Eight

  “I can’t believe you got hold of these so easily, Jas.” Charlie thumbed through the pile of IOUs during breakfast. “Amelia will be most grateful.” He grinned. “I wish I’d been there to see it. How did you do it, Jas?”

  Jason shrugged. “Just a little reverse blackmail. What will Miss Groton decide to do? Return to Oxford?”

  Charlie stabbed a kidney on his plate with his fork, releasing a tasty aroma. “Good heavens, no. She loves London. I’ve promised to take her driving in Hyde Park today. I thought the high perch phaeton with the grays. It’s an opportunity to show her how skilled I am with the reins.”

  Jason was aware of Charlie’s desire to become known as a notable whip. But he had yet to learn discernment. “Take the curricle, Charlie.” He was unsure his nerves could withstand Charlie demonstrating his skills in the phaeton, an unstable carriage at best, and tempted to spring the horses while driving around the park.

  Charlie looked crestfallen. “Rather a tame vehicle, Jas.”

  “Is it? I believe all the young bucks prefer it because it’s light and fast.”

  “Fast, eh? Right you are then.”

  Charlie finished his breakfast at great speed. “I’m off to the stables and can hardly wait to tell Miss Groton the good news.”

  Jason eyed his brother’s broad back as he hurried from the room. He was a good-looking young man. Would Miss Groton resist the attraction? It would be a test of her character should she be swayed by a prospective beau who was plumper in the pocket. Jason sighed. Life was filled with disappointments, but even so, he would hate to see Charlie hurt.

  He took up the broadsheet but mused over what he’d learned about Bart’s death. He’d sent a note to Bow Street and expected a runner to be assigned to the case. He hoped it would be one of their best men. Bow Street didn't always work well with the government.

  A sensitive handling of this was required, for it appeared that the answer lay within the walls of Kinsey House. Despite his warning, might Lady Helen take it upon herself to discover what had happened to Bart? Such a possibility was unnerving and made him put aside the newspaper. He would be relieved when her father returned home. Until then the family was vulnerable. Lady Kinsey was smart, but a woman’s power was limited, and Toby, as the only male member in residence, was just fifteen.

  He’d have a word with the watchman and urge him to keep a sharp eye out when he called on Lady Kinsey tomorrow. Today, he planned to seek out the herbalist named on the bottle.

  As he drank a final cup of strong coffee, bitter the way he liked it, Lizzie entered in a lavender and cream striped walking gown. “That color becomes you, Lizzie,” he observed. “You’re up early this morning.”

  “I am to assist the baron with the placement of several paintings that have just arrived in London.” She poured a cup of tea from the fresh pot brought by the footman.

  Jason knew it would be a waste of time advising her to take her maid. “I gather the exhibition goes well thus far?”

  Her eyes brightened. “Jas, I can’t wait for you to see the fine art the baron has brought to England.” She shrugged. “Although I suspect I am not a great deal of help to him. He insists that I am. While we consider the best arrangement for the paintings, he talks always of his home in Florence. Statues amongst the aged cypress trees, groves of olives, and grape-laden arbors. And the sunshine. So very different to England. It does sound appealing.”

  “You have been seen alone with him now on several occasions. Has he made his intentions clear?”

  A small frown creased her forehead. “Not precisely.”

  “Take care, Lizzie.”

  “Widows don’t come under as much scrutiny as unmarried girls. And what the gossips might think doesn’t concern me. He may not want to marry me. After all, there’s no guarantee I’ll give him an heir.”

  “Isn’t that so for every woman? Who’s to say the problem didn’t lie with Greywood.”

  She flushed and shook her head, unwilling to find any fault with her dead husband. “But the fact remains that Greywood and I were childless after five years of marriage. It may sway Bianchi’s decision.” Her eyes darkened. “I enjoy being with him, Jas. I feel happier than I have for ages. Is that so very bad?”

  He reached across and patted her hand where it moved restlessly on the table. “I understand your need to find love again.”

  “Do you?” Lizzie proceeded to butter her toast. She eyed him thoughtfully. “Why don’t you believe in marriage?”

  “I haven’t seen many good marriages to persuade me.”

  “You are thinking of our parents.”

  “That is one example, certainly. It seemed to me that Father was more content after Mother was gone.”

  Lizzie paused, her spoon hovering over the pot of marmalade. “That’s not true! He was miserable! You didn’t see it. You weren’t there very much.”

  “I was there in the early days, Lizzie. You were a baby. You didn’t witness the rows, the threats, the smashing of ornaments. Father riding off for hours alone.” Recalling it saddened him. “But toward the end, he seemed peaceful.”

  She spread jam over the toast. “Theirs was a fiery, passionate relationship.”

  “Well, I would never want that.”

  “You did want to marry, once.” She took a bite and chewed pensively. “Does your reluctance have anything to do with Phoebe?”

  Phoebe. They had both been so young and thought they had the whole of their lives ahead of them. He drew in a deep breath. “That was a long time ago.”

  Lizzie gave him a careful glance. “It was such a tragedy when she was thrown from her horse.”

  “She was always a neck-or-nothing rider. Shouldn’t have been riding Juno, her father’s stallion, let alone jumping him over that brick wall.” The memory still had the power to tighten his throat, although it had lessened over the years, leaving him with profound regret. After Phoebe had ignored his appeal, he should have pulled her off that skittish horse. He’d gone after her, but too late.

  “You joined the army almost immediately after her death,” she said. “Father was furious.”

  “He was at the time.” Father had said he’d never forgive him. He’d accused Jason of letting the family down. Father had Charlie, Jason had argued, but it fell on deaf ears. In the following years, when he’d returned from the army intact, physically, at least, they’d made peace with one another, and their relationship had been a cordial one when his father died.

  “You and Phoebe practically grew up together, on neighboring estates. I can well unde
rstand if her death has left a hole in your heart. But that doesn’t mean you should go through life alone.”

  Lizzie made him uncomfortable, forcing him to take a close look at himself. She was one of a few who could. He fought to distract her, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not a monk.”

  “Bah! What of mistresses, they care little for their patrons, beyond what they can get from them.”

  “They have to make their way in this hazardous world too. But I refuse to discuss the merits or otherwise of mistresses. I believe I know what is best for me.” He pushed away his plate. “Think very carefully about what you want for yourself. A man such as Bianchi may be personable, more demonstrative than an English woman is used to, perhaps. But finding yourself alone in Florence may not be so charming if the baron isn’t quite what he appears.”

  With a scowl, she leaned back in her chair. “I believe we’ve had this conversation. Are you making inquiries about him, Jas?”

  “It’s my responsibility as head of the family.” He wanted to say more, that he acted out of love and concern for her, but before he could explain, she’d thrown back her chair and left the room.

  Sighing, he slowly followed in her wake. He had expected it to come to this.

  ***

  The ball gowns had been delivered. Diana insisted Helen come to their bedchamber to try them on.

  “Oh, they’re exquisite!” Helen gasped with pleasure as Mary assisted her into her gown. While Mary tugged at the hooks, Helen studied herself in the cheval mirror. It was quite the prettiest gown she’d ever worn. Of white lace over a lilac satin slip, the tight-fitting bodice featured a deep square neckline decorated with a narrow rouleau, the skirt embroidered with a broad pattern of flowers and leaves and a matching rouleau puffed and corded around the hem.

  Mary turned her attentions to Diana. The simple but artfully designed white muslin was perfect. Flowers embroidered in silk thread decorated the deep, square neckline, stiffened hem, and puff sleeves.

  “We each have a beaded reticule to complement our gowns.” Diana’s eyes sparkled. “And satin shoes. Mine are white, and yours are lilac.” She removed everything from the boxes, silver paper strewn around.