Helen was caught by her reflection. She frowned and placed a hand on her chest. “Perhaps this needs more lace.”
Diana stood beside her. “Goose. It is perfectly presentable, or Mama would have told Madame Fabre to alter it.”
“I suppose so,” Helen said. “I must remember not to take a deep breath.”
Diana giggled. “You do look quite lovely; the color makes your skin glow.”
“I never liked myself in white.”
“White doesn’t suit everyone,” Diana said, turning to view the back of her gown in the mirror. “I think it’s unkind to insist girls wear white when they wish to make a good first impression. I shall wear pastels after the ball, but I look my best in a more dramatic color, such as bright yellow or crimson.”
Helen grinned. “Oh, no, not crimson! Not until you’re an old married lady.”
Mama opened the door. “You look beautiful, both of you, but take them off, please, and allow Mary to put the gowns away. It wouldn’t do to have them look shabby before you even have a chance to wear them.”
Shame-faced, Diana hurried over to Mary. “Yes, Mama.”
Mama perched on the bed, her eyes on Helen. “We are expecting a visitor tomorrow. Lord Peyton is to call.”
“Oh, good,” Diana said in a muffled voice as the maid carefully pulled the gown over her head. “I hoped to see him again.”
“But not tomorrow, Diana. This is not a social call,” Mama said. “I would like you to attend, Helen. He may have questions only you can answer.”
Diana emerged from the gown with a grimace and stood in her chemise, corset, and drawers. “What more can be said about poor Bart now he is in his grave?”
“We shall see. Shall I ask your father to invite Peyton to the ball?” Mama’s eyes twinkled. “I consider him more than capable of wrestling the other gentlemen away for a dance with you.”
Apparently mollified, Diana kissed their mother’s cheek.
Helen turned her back for Mary to undo her gown, trying to ignore the little skip in the region of her heart. Should Peyton come to the ball, would he ask her to dance? It surprised her how much she wanted him to. After all, one dance could hardly matter to anyone but her. Or would she be relegated to the corner where the wallflowers gathered, some of who had become friends over the years? She no longer feared such a thing. It had become a refuge of sorts. After the gossip of her first Season had died down, and she’d rejected two suitors who made it plain they were taking her on sufferance, there were only the fortune hunters or widowed gentlemen in need of a governess for their children who exhibited any interested in her, and they were given short shrift by her father.
Chapter Nine
Jason increased his pace as dark clouds clustered overhead and the early torrential rain threatened to return. Water dripped down the brick walls and formed pools in the narrow lanes of Whitechapel. The dank smell of mold, blended with the stink of cats and human detritus, intensified, strong enough to make his eyes sting.
A bell tinkled as Jason pushed open the door of Mr. Frank’s establishment. Hardly a flourishing business, paint peeled from the woodwork, the interior grim and badly lit, the shelves on the walls poorly stocked. A curtain was dragged aside, and a man stepped into the room. Not very old, Jason guessed, but he didn’t appear robust, his grayish skin tones not a good advertisement for his tonic. He nodded to Jason and rested his hands on the counter. “May I help you, sir?”
Jason handed him his card then pulled the empty bottle from his coat pocket. “I believe that a Mr. Bartholomew Smyth purchased this from you.”
“I wouldn’t remember the gentleman. I sell so many of them.” He reached out and took the bottle. “That’s one of ours. A popular item.”
“What is in it?”
He pushed out his chest. “That’s a secret, milord. I’m not about to have it duplicated by others.”
“I shouldn’t think you would, seeing as it killed Mr. Smyth.”
His pale eyes widened with alarm. “Killed him? No, indeed. That’s not possible. There’s nothing in my elixir to harm anyone.”
“There’s arsenic in it,” Jason said. “Enough to slowly kill Mr. Smyth within a matter of weeks.”
Frank shook his head violently. “Not in my nerve tonic, sir!” He reached behind him and removed an identical bottle from the shelf. After removing the lid, he put the bottle to his lips and drank. He slammed the bottle down and beat his chest. “As you see I am still hale and hearty. Would I take such a risk if I believed it to contain arsenic?”
“May I examine its contents?”
“You may do what you wish with it. Take it away and test it. You won’t find arsenic in it. You must look elsewhere for the explanation of Mr. Smyth’s death, God rest his soul. Did he suffer any hair loss?”
“I believe so.”
Frank nodded. “If arsenic was in it, I did not put it there. I’m not in the business of killing my customers. I use beef blood, marrow, and salt, mixed with water and a little alcohol, to strengthen the body and heal the nerves.”
“Could it have been in the water?”
“Absolutely not! I use pure rainwater, which I collect myself. Nor do I add opiates, as they are contrary to my philosophy. If there’s arsenic in this, it would smell of bitter almonds.” Frank pushed the bottle he’d drunk from across the counter. “No trace of it. Care to try?”
Jason waved it under his nose. It smelled as Mr. Frank had suggested, of salty beef and the faint tang of cheap gin.
“I suggest that arsenic was added to that gentleman’s tonic after he bought it. If I may be so bold. I hope this won’t get around, milord,” Franks added, his hands clenched on the countertop. “It would destroy my business.”
“Not unless you are found to have destroyed your customers’ health with your tonics, Mr. Frank. If you did, you can expect a visit from the Watch. Good day.”
Jason pocketed the bottles, deciding whether to give the new one to the surgeon to test. But he was already convinced that Bart’s was not an accidental death.
***
When Helen entered the drawing room, she found Lord Peyton in conversation with her mother. He rose to his feet with a smile.
As she greeted him, her heart gave another little skip. It was perplexing that he, of all people, could awaken something in her that had lain dormant for years. Especially, when Diana was determined to ensnare him. But did Peyton intend to marry? She’d never seen him at Almack’s, that select establishment nicknamed the marriage mart she’d attended with her family over the years. Or any of the debutante balls she’d suffered through. And she was sure she would remember him, as wallflowers observed far more than those on the dance floor. She sat down beside her mother on the sofa.
Today, Peyton had teamed a gray suit of superfine with a white waistcoat embroidered in silver leaves, his cravat tied in a simple knot. She admired his careless grace as he rested his long fingers on the arms of the chair, crossed his ankles encased in gleaming leather, and smiled at her.
His smile was so warm she couldn’t help smiling back.
“So, Lady Helen. Lady Kinsey informs me you have been questioning the staff. Have you anything new to tell me?”
She relayed her scant information. “I realize it’s not particularly helpful,” she said finally. “Perhaps you have learned something of significance?”
He raised his eyebrows, possibly at her presumption. “As I have told your mother, it appears that the tonic bottle was tampered with after it was purchased.”
A chill rushed through her veins. “By someone in this house?”
“That remains a possibility, of course, although there is no conclusive evidence.” He uncrossed his ankles and leaned forward. “I understand Lady Diana’s ball will keep the family in London. Lady Helen, although I do appreciate your assistance during this investigation, it would be wise for you to leave this matter to Bow Street and to me.”
“Yes, Helen. What Lord Peyton is saying, diplom
atically, is that it could be dangerous if you were to take it upon yourself to uncover the truth.” Mama gasped and put a hand to her breast, as their perilous circumstances suddenly became clear. “It is unthinkable that we might have a murderer in our midst. We might be slain in our beds!”
“Too many unknown factors remain to jump to that conclusion, my lady,” Peyton said. “One possible consideration is that the tonic was tampered with somewhere else. Do not be too distressed, I beg of you. I shall be on hand to help. If anything happens to worry you, you need only send word.”
When Peyton spoke with cool authority Helen’s panic lessened, but her questions remained unanswered. “What about the burned fragment of letter containing those strange words, electric fish?”
“I imagine your father is better able to answer that. It may bear no relevance at all to Bart’s death.”
Fiske entered the room, followed by Jeremy with the tea tray. “Excuse me, my lady, but Mrs. Chance is interviewing the extra staff required for the ball. She apologizes and asks if you may be able to spare a moment.”
Her mother stood. “Please excuse me, my lord. Helen will entertain you.”
The door closed. Helen, her pulse thudding at finding herself alone with him, seized the teapot and busied herself. “I believe you take milk, my lord?”
“I do, thank you.”
Helen placed the cup and saucer patterned with flowers on the table before him. She moved the laden cake stand closer to him. “Would you care for a sandwich, lemon cake…” Her mind became blank when she met his quizzical gaze. “Cook makes very good coconut macaroons.” What was it about him that stripped her of her composure with one glance?
“I shall sample everything.” A smile tugged at his lips. He placed two tiny ham and cress sandwiches and two macaroons on his plate. As he stirred sugar into his tea, his gaze caught hers again. “Tell me what interests you, Lady Helen.”
“My interests, my lord?” Startled, Helen took something from the platter as she attempted an answer, and then she discovered it was the lemon cake, which was not to her taste. She could hardly put it back so left it on her plate. She took a deep breath and regained her wits. “I find the exhibits at the museum quite fascinating. Many of my father’s discoveries are there. Reading, too, and long walks when in the country.” Picking crabapples for Cook to make preserves while Bertie, their terrier, barked at the finches feeding on the yew berries. Peyton would hardly wish to hear that. “Cherrywood, the family’s cozy old house in Kent, is beautiful with the walls and the chimneys covered in great splashes of crimson Virginia creeper.”
“I can imagine. Nothing better than the countryside in spring,” he agreed.
She supposed he would prefer to ride. On horseback, he must look quite splendid. Helen almost sighed aloud. “I do look forward to returning there with the family, playing charades or whist after dinner.” It would not be that way for very long. Diana would marry, Toby would go off to university, and Harry would take digs in Town…
She glanced up at Peyton from under her lashes as he ate a macaroon. He would not want to hear how she baked cakes in the big country kitchen stove, testing recipes Cook gave her. He would consider her prosaic, which she undoubtedly was. But what else could she say? That she was a keen skater when the pond froze over and played the piano and sang for musical evenings? These activities were unlikely to impress him. A man such as he, who had lived a full life and worked in some secret capacity for the government, perhaps as a spy, would want an exciting woman. That was the way of the world.
“I spend as much time as I can at my country seat, Peyton Grove, in Surrey,” he said.
“You have family there?”
“Not now.”
Wasn’t he lonely? She was curious but could hardly ask him. And she supposed he couldn’t be, or he would marry.
“You don’t speak of London,” he said, disconcerting her. “Do you not enjoy the Season?”
She should have expected the question. Her shortcomings were unfortunately too obvious. But she refused to embellish and pretend to be what she was not. “The theater and the opera and walking in Hyde Park.”
Helen bit her lip and prodded the offending cake with a fork, spreading its contents over her plate. She longed to come up with something thrilling, to see interest spark in his eyes. But had no expectation of it. “I beat my brother, Harry, at chess, and he says he was considered quite accomplished at university.” She smiled, remembering how Harry always blustered. “Toby says Harry swells up like a bullfrog. It does make him rather cross.”
He laughed. “Then I am in sympathy with him. My sister, Lizzie, is a whiz at faro. I would rather you didn’t put that about, though. It might ruin my reputation at White’s.”
The mellow timber of his chuckle sent tingles down her spine. “I’ve met your sister, Elizabeth,” she said, forking up a piece of cake and taking a hurried sip of tea. Cook always made it too sweet.
Peyton finished his second coconut macaroon. “You don’t enjoy dancing?”
“Oh, yes. I do. I love to dance.” She assumed he was trying to understand her. Most likely was perplexed by her. She was glad to offer something that might make her seem more like all the young women he would have met. But dances meant balls, which she hated. She sighed. “I’m afraid you must find me exceedingly dull, my lord.”
“Au contraire, Lady Helen.”
She risked a look in his eyes and was startled to find a gleam in them. Did he find her amusing?
Her mother’s return saved her from dwelling on the question.
“Do forgive me, the amount of organization that goes into holding a ball is astonishing! Now, where were we?” She took the cup of tea Helen had poured for her. “Please use the library for your interviews, Lord Peyton. Fiske shall send Jeremy and my maid, Eloise, to you after your tea. I’m afraid Mrs. Chance is about to leave. You might speak to her tomorrow. Helen, you must assist his lordship with anything he requires.”
The conversation turned to more mundane matters until the tea tray was removed and Fiske escorted Peyton to the library.
Mama gazed at her. “What did you and his lordship speak of in my absence?”
“He inquired about my interests. I expect I bored him.”
“I very much doubt it.”
Helen wanted to ask what her mother meant, but Fiske interrupted them. “A letter has come, my lady. I thought it best to bring it to you immediately.”
“Thank you, Fiske.” Mama opened and studied it. “It’s from your father. It appears his boat has docked safely in Liverpool. His departure will be delayed while he attends to business. He must arrange a consignment to be shipped to London.” She put the letter down in her lap with a relieved sigh. “It’s to be hoped he’ll soon be home. How good it will be to see him.”
“Yes, Mama.” Helen wondered how her mother bore her father’s long absences. Mama had once traveled with Papa to Constantinople but became quite ill in the heat. After that, she seemed content to remain at home and continue with her charities.
Helen yearned to visit exotic climes. She hoped that after a few years had passed, and her mother became resigned to her not marrying, they might allow her to accompany her father and assist him in his work. She did not express her wish now, however, because they would never believe her, and she knew it would cause a ruckus. Patience was required for timing was everything.
Her mother tucked the letter in her pocket. “Please go and see if his lordship requires anything, Helen.”
Was Mama pushing her in Peyton’s direction? She wanted to question her, but there was little point, for if she was, Helen knew the reason. Mama considered Helen spending time with a personable man to be a curative. If only it was that simple.
Chapter Ten
Jason was glad to find Kinsey’s secretary, Thorburn, absent from the library. He had no intention of including Thorburn in this investigation, as he remained high on the list of suspects.
He had learned nothing
from the male members of the staff. The nervous footman, Jeremy, had been remarkably unobservant, considering his bedroom was next door to Bart’s.
“Only the muffled voice of Mrs. Chance, who tended to him. Very efficiently too,” Jeremy had said. “Kept him as clean and comfortable as was possible. And quite firm with the staff. Wouldn’t allow us to stay long unless we upset him, but poor Bart was too ill to notice that we were there.”
Disheartened, Jason had hoped for more. The maids’ chambers were segregated from the men’s, situated in a different wing. Fiske also had rooms at the opposite end of the corridor to Bart’s and was no help at all, apart from expressing sorrow that he’d chastised Bart for his negligent appearance.
“I heard Bart arguing with Mrs. Chance,” one of the upstairs maids, Alice, her eyes like saucers, whispered in a conspiratorial manner when he questioned her. “It shocked me to hear him speak like that, so I stopped and listened.”
“When was this?”
“A week or so before he took to his bed, milord.”
“What was the argument about?”
“Mrs. Chance wanted him to run an errand, and he refused. Bart said something I didn’t understand.”
“And what was that, Alice?”
“Bart said, ‘You must think me a fool.’”
“That was all?”
Alice chewed her bottom lip. “Yes, milord. Mrs. Chance told him to be careful. He might find himself out on the street without a character.”
“What do you think Bart meant by that?”
“When Mrs. Chance had gone away, I asked him. He just said he didn’t like to go on personal errands for her.”
“But footmen are required to run messages for the house, are they not?”
“Yes, milord. And when I reminded him of it, he just shrugged.”
The French lady’s maid was of no help at all. After reminiscing about how she and Bart conversed in French, she fell upon Jason’s chest in tears.
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