A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  “In that I think you two are alike,” said Rosalind. She meant the words to be light and consoling, but Virginia only turned paler.

  What is going on here? Rosalind wondered. What is the matter between you and Margaretta? Her thoughts froze. Or is the matter between you and the captain?

  “Well,” said Virginia. “You need not worry, Miss Thorne, I will not say anything to Bertram or Johanna. I don’t even want to imagine how they would react to the revelation that Margaretta was asking questions of her own.” She paused. “But can you promise me you will act without . . . favor? You say you are Margaretta’s friend, but is it your business to make sure—”

  “It is my business to find the truth,” replied Rosalind. “I know I am a stranger to you, but I ask you to believe this.”

  Virginia met Rosalind’s gaze for a long moment. A dozen thoughts and fears swirled around behind her deep, tired eyes. Rosalind could not discern any of them, except one. Virginia was thinking of her daughters, and how, no matter what happened next, these events must fall heavily upon them.

  “I do believe you,” Virginia said finally, and as she spoke, she released her grip on her tapestry frame. “And that, it seems, would make us fellow conspirators. How can I help you?”

  Rosalind paused, considering the woman in front of her and all she had seen and heard so far. She could not help but think how Virginia was the only person in this house who seemed willing to help William. She wondered about that as well.

  “Sir and Lady Bertram are very convinced that Margaretta had been conducting a love affair with Fletcher Cavendish,” Rosalind said. “Do you know if they had any definite proof? Did . . . were there letters, perhaps, or anything of that kind?”

  “Not that I heard of. It always seemed to me the possibility of an active love affair was wishful thinking.” She shook her head at this. “But Bertram and Johanna repeated it to each other so many times that they decided it must be true.”

  “And repeated it after Mrs. Seymore announced she was with child again, I imagine?”

  “You imagine correctly, Miss Thorne.”

  Because Captain Seymore was the older brother, any son he produced would be a further block on Sir Bertram’s road to the marquisate. From the point of view of Sir and Lady Bertram, this matter had nothing to do with Margaretta personally. She could have been an empress or a beggar, and it would have been all the same. As long as there was a danger she might have a child, she must be their enemy.

  “And yet Lord Adolphus must be equally in their way,” mused Rosalind. “And he is a welcome guest.”

  “He is also very generous,” Mrs. Seymore told her. “A lot of these worldly goods you see around you are made possible by loans from the Weyland coffers, which are managed by his lordship.”

  That certainly would explain it. “But Lady Bertram seemed very certain Lord Adolphus would not himself marry or have children. Is that more wishful thinking? Or is there some reason . . .”

  “That I do not know,” said Virginia. “I do know Lord Adolphus has never shown any sign of looking for a wife, although as near as he is to title and fortune, there have been plenty of opportunities presented to him.”

  Yet more questions, thought Rosalind ruefully.

  “Tell me, how did the captain meet Margaretta?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Virginia’s brows arched. “It was Fletcher Cavendish who introduced them.”

  Rosalind could not help but draw back in surprise. Virginia nodded. “The man had, among other things, a rather mischievous sense of humor. Cavendish brought Margaretta to a house party being given by Lady Weyland, who is now the dowager marchioness. He introduced her as a rising young poetess, although I’m not sure at that time she’d actually had anything published. William happened to be there, and he was very much captivated. Margaretta has that effect on men.”

  “Yes, I had noticed.” Rosalind tried to picture the bluff Captain William Seymore being thunderstruck by a woman, and to her surprise, she found it rather easy. This must have showed in her expression, because Virginia laughed.

  “When you live with so little glamour, the touch of it is enough to make you act like a moth before a candle flame.” Virginia’s fingers danced restlessly across the leaves and flowers of her tapestry, as if she were smoothing down memories as well as stitches. “William was different then. He was a man on the rise, not . . .” She gestured weakly toward the door. “At any rate, his fascination was not reciprocated. Margaretta ignored him, but he continued to pursue her like she was a Spanish treasure ship. He even turned to me for advice, although I had only just married Cecil then.” Rosalind heard the regret plain in her voice. “I think Margaretta was rather more annoyed by his persistence than anything, at least for a while.”

  “What changed her mind?”

  “I’ve never known. One day William just came home and announced that he’d proposed and she’d accepted, and they would be married as soon as the banns were read and that was the end of the discussion.”

  “When was this?”

  Virginia tapped the edge of a neatly formed oak leaf. “’Ninety-eight,” she said softly. “In the summer. Margaretta was a very young bride, but very decided even then. This caused William’s mother to take an instant dislike to her. She would not have the two of them married out of her house, no matter how William bellowed. So it was St. Margaret’s in the early morning, and off to their own home right after that.”

  “I imagine Lady Bertram was not pleased by the event. Or were she and Sir Bertram not married then?”

  “She and Bertram were married, and Lady Bertram did not leave her room for three days. She’d been counting on William getting himself killed in action to clear the way toward the Weyland marquisate for them.”

  “What fate did she imagine for Lord Adolphus?”

  Virginia smiled bitterly. “You have to understand that Johanna is not a terribly realistic woman. In that way, she and Bertram are well matched. They both believe so very firmly that they are entitled to the marquisate that somehow the Almighty cannot fail to provide it.”

  “And if Divine Providence does not make itself felt?”

  “Then may that Divine Providence help us all,” answered Virginia softly. “Because no one else will.”

  Rosalind regarded this plain, tired, determined woman for a long moment, and made up her mind. “Virginia, I have a favor to ask of you. You have no reason to grant it, of course. I am at best a stranger to you; at worst, I am an intruder.”

  “If I was being honest, Miss Thorne, I’d say this house could use a few more intruders. What is it I can do for you?”

  “I would like an introduction to the dowager marchioness of Weyland.”

  The answer she got was not the answer she’d expected. Virginia drew her chin back in surprise. “What on earth for?”

  “Because everything I have learned so far tells me that the matters around Mrs. Seymore are tied to the marquis, the marquisate, and money. I have seen something of the Seymores’ side of that equation. I need to see the Weylands’.” And possibly find some reason to talk with Lord Adolphus, who of all the persons she had seen so far, had unlocked the secret of staying friends with both branches of the family.

  Why was Lord Adolphus unmarried? Rosalind wondered. And why was Lady Bertram so convinced he would remain so? There were in the world gentlemen who had no interest in women. Was Lord Adolphus one of that kind? Or was there something else at work?

  Virginia regarded Rosalind for a long moment before she nodded. “Let me think.” This she did, running her fingers gently across the stitching in her fine tapestry. “Are you involved in charity work at all, Miss Thorne?”

  Rosalind smiled. “I am, of course, interested in all worthy causes.”

  “Lady Weyland donates heavily to charities dedicated to providing relief to consumptives, allowing them to take
recuperative visits to the seaside and so forth. Perhaps you are connected . . .”

  In her thoughts, Rosalind opened her visiting book and leafed through its contents. “I know that my good friend Mrs. Lindsay would appreciate a donation to her Committee for the Relief of Consumptive Children.”

  “Then of course I would be willing to introduce you to Lady Weyland, Miss Thorne. I am sure she would be interested to hear about the committee’s work.”

  “Thank you.” Rosalind stood. “I have imposed on you more than enough, Virginia. I should find Margaretta and see if she has need of me, or is perhaps ready to leave.”

  “Miss Thorne.” Mrs. Seymore stopped her. “There is something else you should know.”

  Rosalind turned, and she waited.

  “A few days ago, Margaretta spoke to me in confidence.” Virginia swallowed. “She told me that I should rest easier. She said she’d prevailed upon some friend to get the money Bertram and . . . William wanted, and that we would soon have peace once again.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Bachelor Rooms

  Some of the most magnificent fortunes in England have, in the first instance been undermined by an extravagant expenditure on jewelry.

  —Captain Rees Howell Gronow,

  Anecdotes of the Camp, the Court, and the Clubs

  Rosalind was not the only one who found it necessary to be out early that morning. Adam Harkness risked his mother’s ire by insisting on limiting his breakfast to some cold mutton and bread eaten out of hand while he made his way through the streets with the rest of the workers, carters, street hawkers, and barrow men. Sir David had granted them only a single day’s grace to learn all they could about the immediate circumstances surrounding the death of Fletcher Cavendish. Given what they already knew, Harkness did not think it was going to be enough.

  Regardless, Harkness determined his first step should be to find out more about the weapon. Had it been a more ordinary knife, he would have consulted Sam Tauton, or another of his fellow officers, but for this delicate and decorative object, he needed a different sort of expert.

  Bond Street was just waking up for the day. Boys were folding back the shutters on the windows, and shopkeepers moved behind the glass, setting out various glittering objects to tempt passersby. The shop Adam knocked on had the words “Isaacs & Sons” painted in gilded letters over its window. A neat, dark woman Harkness knew to be Mr. Isaacs’s daughter-in-law paused in her work of setting out a garnet necklace to unlock the door and let him in.

  Mr. Isaacs himself stood behind his shop counter. He was a tall man, his broad shoulders slightly stooped beneath his coat of good black cloth. His salt-and-pepper beard was trimmed close to his chin and his gray hair covered with a plain black cap.

  “Good morning, Mr. Harkness!” Isaacs said as Adam stepped inside. “How can I be of service today?” Mr. Isaacs was among those businessmen who regularly subscribed to Hue & Cry, to better help keep themselves abreast of any valuables that had gone missing, and might be presented under false colors for sale at their shops.

  “You can tell me about this, if you please.” Harkness laid the knife on the counter and unwrapped it. He had consulted Mr. Isaacs in the past, and valued him for his strict honesty. Isaacs took up the knife delicately and turned it over to examine it from all sides. He laid it across the edge of his hand to test its balance. He drew his narrow fingers across the chased handle. Finally, he walked over to the window, took out a jeweler’s loup, screwed it into his eye, and held the knife up to the light.

  “Well, sir,” he said, turning back to Harkness and removing the loup. “I believe you have here a genuine article. It is an Italian stiletto, probably from Florence, probably from the period of the Renaissance.”

  “Not something that would likely be used in a theater or a play then?”

  “I assure you, no. Not only is this far too precious, it isn’t something you’d want waved about on stage day after day. Have you tried the point? Someone would lose an eye. Or his life,” Mr. Isaacs added, touching one fingertip to the dark stains on the blade. “I would need to consult with some colleagues of mine, but my initial guess would be it was meant as a weapon for a lady. Perhaps it was owned by one of the Borgias or the Medici clan, who occasionally had need to defend themselves, usually from their own relatives.”

  So not something the murderer was likely to have picked up on the spur of the moment. Unless Cavendish had it in his dressing room, the man or woman who killed him must have brought the knife along.

  There was one answer, at least. Harkness didn’t like it, but at least he had it.

  “Have you ever seen a knife like it?” Harkness asked Mr. Isaacs.

  Isaacs shrugged and laid the dainty weapon back onto Harkness’s kerchief. “Like it, most certainly. This particular one? Not to my knowledge. Again, I can ask my colleagues in the trade if anything of the kind has been sold recently, but I would not hold out hope of a positive answer. When Napoleon conquered the peninsula, his armies looted Italy of thousands of such trinkets. Now the British Army and all the others are busy looting Paris. Therefore, it’s probable that rather than having been purchased at a shop, this pretty toy came direct from someone’s hand.”

  Like the hand of a ship’s commander recently returned from the wars.

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Isaacs.”

  “I am only sorry I could not have been of more assistance, Mr. Harkness. You will please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for Bow Street?”

  “I will, sir,” replied Harkness. “You may be sure of it.”

  • • •

  Harkness’s next port of call was the King’s Arms Hotel. The management, the waiters, the porters, and the footmen were all eager to talk, but none of them had much new to say. Mr. Cavendish had ordered a private dinner. Mr. Cavendish had come and gone in ways that matched the story Harkness had heard from Miss Thorne, and again from Alice Littlefield when he spoke to her. Captain Seymore had arrived and had to be removed.

  “It was not,” the manager confessed, “the first time.”

  The manager was likewise perfectly willing to let Adam into the suite of rooms that Mr. Cavendish occupied whenever he was in London.

  “He always wrote to us to make sure we set these aside for him,” Harkness was told when the manager unlocked the door. “He was very particular.”

  He was also very neat, or else the rooms had been cleaned. All evidence of personal occupancy had been tidied away. Adam walked through the rooms once without touching anything. The apartments were not large, but they were comfortable. There was a sitting room with a hearth, a dining room, a dressing room, and a boudoir. All were well furnished though not elaborately so. But there were no ornaments or keepsakes on display, only some books that proved to be bound plays.

  Harkness found himself wondering if the staff had been helping themselves to souvenirs.

  He returned to the sitting room, where he’d seen a plain, covered desk. It was unlocked and he raised the lid. There he found writing paper, pen, and ink, all laid out and ready for use.

  When he opened the side drawer, however, the stale scent of a dozen different perfumes wafted up. It wasn’t difficult to see where it came from. Harkness reached in and removed bundle after bundle of letters. Well, if he’d needed any proof as to Cavendish’s propensities, here it was. The letters were on all shades of paper—pink and blue and even violet. They’d been sorted by color and tied in matching ribbons.

  Which puts paid to the idea that the staff has been picking up stray objects. No one would leave these. The papers would pay out hefty sums to get their hands on Fletcher Cavendish’s love letters. And probably at least some of their authors would pay hefty sums to get them back.

  Harkness riffled through the letters. They were written in any number of different hands and inks. Some looked barely literate. Were there any from
Mrs. Seymore? He pocketed the packets, and he needed every last one of his pockets to do it. He’d go over them later, preferably where none of his fellow officers would see, or he’d never hear the end of it.

  A second drawer was stuffed just as full, but these were bills—tailor, cobbler, provisioner, wine shop. All were asking, in a range of polite and businesslike language, to be paid at Mr. Cavendish’s earliest convenience. Courts were mentioned with increasing frequency the farther he dug down.

  Harkness closed that drawer and moved to the dressing room. The wardrobe and the dresser’s drawers were well filled with good clothing. There were plenty of shirts and coats and collars, all in excellent repair. His tailor might want to be paid, but not to the point where he’d cut Mr. Cavendish off.

  There was an inlaid box on the top of the dresser. Harkness lifted its lid, and he froze.

  The box was filled to the brim with jewels. There were rings and stick pins, bracelets, chains, and brooches. Men’s and women’s ornaments of all styles were jumbled together. Some were brand-new but some were obviously antique. Harkness lifted up a ring mounted with a red carbuncle the size of his thumbnail and held it to the light. He’d seen enough jewelry to tell the genuine from the fake, in most cases. This was most decidedly genuine.

  He picked up a pearl stick pin and ran his thumb across it, testing for the telltale roughness that was the indication of a genuine pearl, and felt none. A fake then, but a fairly good one.

  There was a rattle of a key in the door, and click of a latch. Harkness closed the lid on the box immediately and turned smoothly around.

  A pale man in a black coat and waistcoat walked through the door. His high crowned hat was battered and his neck and shoulders were crooked. He had a walking stick under one arm, a sheaf of papers under the other, and a ring of keys in his hand.