Secrets of the Heart

by Candace Camp

  Rachel wasn’t sure what she would do. She just knew that she had to see her. Had to talk to her. She could not rest easy until she did.

  * * *

  Rachel was still pondering the problem the next afternoon, trying to think of the perfect young man to approach, when the butler stepped into the upstairs sitting room, where she was, and announced that she had a visitor.

  “It is a Mr. Birkshaw, madam,” Stinson said.

  Rachel stared at the butler. His words were so unexpected that it took her a moment to understand what he had said. “Anthony Birkshaw?”

  “Yes, my lady. I told him I would see if you were receiving, as I did not recognize the gentleman. He bade me tell you that it was an urgent matter.”

  What could Anthony be doing, calling on her after all these years? She had not seen him since the night of their elopement, something that had been made easier by the fact that he married an heiress less than a year after Rachel and Michael were married and moved to her home in York. They had lived there ever since, rarely coming to London. Rachel could not imagine why Anthony would be seeking her out now.

  “Well, um, tell him I will be down in a moment.”

  “Very well, my lady.” Stinson bowed out the door.

  Rachel stood for a moment, her hands clasped to her stomach, wondering if she had done the right thing. She had promised Michael never to speak to Anthony, but it seemed so odd that he would come here after all this time, and she was curious about the reason. She was even more curious to see what he looked like after so many years and what she would feel when she saw him.

  She would go down and explain to him that he must not call on her again. That seemed only polite and, while it might be breaking the letter of the vow she had made Michael, it would not violate the spirit of it. And, of course, Michael had apparently not had any compunctions over breaking his marital vows! It seemed decidedly unfair of him to expect her never to even see or speak to Anthony again, while he conducted a years-long affair with another woman.

  Rachel glanced at her image in the mirror, smoothing back her hair and pinching a little color into her cheeks. She hated to think that Anthony would look at her and think how old she had grown. It was vanity, she knew, but she could not help it. She started down the stairs, her heart picking up its beat. She found when she tried to summon up a picture of his face that she could not remember him clearly.

  She remembered how at first her heart had felt as if it would break and she had cried herself to sleep every night. She could not remember exactly when the pain had begun to ease or when it had finally slipped away, leaving behind only the bitter memory of her impetuous mistake and the ruination of her marriage.

  Anthony was waiting in the formal drawing room, standing before the mantel, his back turned to her. She paused for a moment in the doorway, looking at him. He was dressed in stark black, his coat well cut and of an expensive material. He was shorter and stockier than she remembered; she supposed that she had grown used to Michael’s long, lanky frame. His hair was dark and thick, though, as she remembered, curling over his collar.

  “Mr. Birkshaw?” Rachel stepped into the room, leaving the door open. She wanted to make sure that there could be no hint of impropriety in their meeting.

  He turned at her words. “Hello, Rachel—Lady Westhampton, I should say.”

  Rachel simply nodded, carefully not offering him the use of her given name. She gestured toward the sofa. “Won’t you sit down?”

  She crossed to a chair that stood facing the sofa, a few feet away from it, and sat down. For a long moment they looked at each other. He looked much the same, she thought. Perhaps he had filled out a little, but the soulful dark eyes and dimpled chin, the dark hair casually falling across his forehead—all these were the same. Rachel noticed with some surprise that none of these things affected her at all anymore. He was a handsome man; she could see that. But her heart made no leap within her chest, nor did it ache with remembered love. What she felt when she looked at him, she realized, was almost nothing at all except a sense of awkwardness. How odd, she thought, that she could have loved him so and yet now feel nothing but a faint embarrassment.

  He looked away from her, scowling down at the floor for a moment, then said, “I am sure you are wondering why I am here.”

  “I was a trifle surprised,” Rachel admitted. He looked troubled, she thought.

  “I am somewhat surprised, too. It is just—Well, I could think of nowhere else to turn.”

  “I am afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I—well, I assume you know that I married several years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have not been in Society much since then. Doreen preferred York. London was too large and noisy for her, and she was not well accepted by the ladies of the Ton. Her family was of the merchant class, you see. I have grown rather out of touch.” He paused, looking down at the floor, then drew a deep breath and continued, “Doreen passed away a few months ago.”

  “Oh! I am so sorry,” Rachel said sincerely, her sympathetic heart touched by the notion of his sorrow. She understood now the reason for the troubled look on his face.

  “Thank you.”

  “I know it must seem terribly hard now,” she went on, remembering Richard’s grief after Caroline’s death. “But it will get better someday. It will no longer hurt so much.”

  He looked up at her, a faint surprise in his face. “Oh. No. That is not why I am here. Ours was a marriage of convenience. We both entered into it with our eyes open. We had grown fond enough of one another over the years, and I was sorry that she died, but I was not grief-stricken.”

  “Oh. I see.” Rachel was rather taken aback at his cool words. Hers was a marriage of convenience, too, she supposed, but somehow she did not think that she would be so calm and dispassionate about it if Michael died. Even the thought of his death made her feel a trifle lost. And why was Anthony here? Did he think to take up with her again now that his wife had died? Indignation rose in her at the idea.

  “The reason I am here—I am troubled because…well, this will no doubt sound very dramatic, but…I have come to believe that Doreen was murdered.”

  “What!”

  He nodded. “She had a digestive complaint, you see, for several weeks. No one thought anything about it. I wasn’t even there. I had gone to visit my aunt. When I came back, she was still ill. The doctor was obviously growing worried. He wasn’t sure what was the matter with her. She got worse, and then, after a few weeks, she died. None of us thought it was anything other than illness. But now—” Anthony clasped and unclasped his hands in an agitated fashion. “Now I think that she may have been murdered.”

  “But that’s awful!” Rachel exclaimed, horrified.

  “I know. I’m at my wit’s end.” He stood up as if he could no longer sit still and began to pace across the room.

  Rachel watched him for a moment, then said tentatively, “I don’t quite understand. Why—well, why did you come to me with this? I am very sorry, truly, but wouldn’t it be best to take this matter to the Bow Street Runners?”

  “It’s the scandal, you see. She would have hated it, and, well, I do not wish it, either. If it could just be kept quiet…”

  Rachel frowned, still at sea.

  “I wanted to ask you to ask Lord Westhampton to help me.”

  “Michael!” Rachel stared. “But wh—”

  “I know I have no right to ask him,” Anthony went on hastily. “It would be exactly what I deserve if he told me to sink or swim on my own. But I thought, if you asked him, he might agree. It’s been several years now. Lord Arbuthnot—it was he who told me about Michael’s investigations—holds him in the highest regard. And I dare swear a man of less even temperament would have dealt with my grievous—”

  “Hush a moment!” Rachel snapped, moving away from Anthony. “Let me think.”

  Michael’s investigations! She had no idea what Anthony was talking about, but she had the sudden
, sure feeling that it tied in with what the highwayman had been getting at. She could find out more from Anthony, but she would have to approach it carefully. If he realized she knew nothing, he would probably fall silent, moving automatically into that male conspiracy of keeping women ignorant.

  “I am surprised at Lord Arbuthnot,” Rachel said, turning to face him. “What Michael does is not supposed to be common knowledge. What did he tell you?”

  “Oh. I—I did not realize it was secret. Well, yes, of course, I can see how it would be helpful if few people knew. Let me think…it was about a year ago. I was in London and happened to run into Arbuthnot. I was friends with his son Henry in school. We talked a bit and, I don’t remember exactly how, but we got to talking about Lady Godfrey’s jewels being stolen. Anyway, he said that he had heard that Lord Westhampton had helped the Bow Street Runner, that he had apparently done it for years. I—it was unusual, so I remembered it. I am sure Arbuthnot meant no harm.”

  “No. Of course not.” Rachel felt dazed. The idea made sense—in an absurd sort of way. If Michael was somehow involved in a Bow Street Runner’s investigations, then the highwayman’s warning was not so strange. Michael had probably met him in an investigation. Hadn’t the man said something about his helping Michael from time to time? Whatever Michael was working on, that must be what would put him in danger. On the other hand, it seemed quite mad to think that Michael would be involved with the Bow Street Runners at all. Why would he have started helping them, and what did he do? Most of all, why had he never told her anything about all this?

  But she knew the answer to that. It was because she did not really know Michael at all. They were man and wife, but Anthony clearly knew more about Michael’s life than she did. She had thought that even though they did not live as most married couples did, Michael at least liked her, trusted her. She had thought she knew what he did at Westhampton; clearly she did not. Just as clearly, Michael did not trust her enough to share this knowledge with her.

  “Then will you ask him to help me?” Anthony said after a few moments of silence. “I know it is a great deal to ask of him, but I don’t know where else to turn.”

  “Yes. I will tell him what you have told me and see if he will help you. But he is at Westhampton now. I will have to write to him, and it will be some time before I know.” She paused, then added with some bitterness, “And I do not know that my asking will have any effect on him. We are not very close, I’m afraid.”

  “I am sorry. I am to blame for that.”

  “No. I am. I was foolish.” Rachel came closer to him, her eyes intent on his. “But I have one thing I would ask from you in return for my doing you this favor.”

  “Yes, of course. Anything.”

  “I want the address of Mrs. Lilith Neeley.”

  “Who?” His face went rapidly from puzzlement to understanding to shock. “The woman who runs the gaming establishment?”

  “Yes. I want the address of her gambling den. Someone told me that she lives there.”

  Anthony continued to stare at her. “But why? What could you possibly want with her?”

  “It is for a friend,” Rachel lied quickly. “Her brother is a notorious gamester, and he is in danger of losing their fortune. She thinks that if she talks to her, she could get her to refuse him admittance.”

  Anthony shrugged. “Perhaps. But she cannot go there. No lady could go to a place like that.”

  “She is determined, and I promised that I would help her.”

  “You are not suggesting that you go there with her!”

  “No, of course not. She will take a footman with her, I imagine. And she will go disguised. Please, Anthony, you said you would help me in return.”

  “Yes, of course I will. It is just—” he sighed “—it is not the best part of town, but I suppose if she goes there during the day, it would be all right.” He gave her the address, still looking doubtful.

  “Thank you. I will write to Michael this afternoon.” She began to walk toward the door, eager now to get rid of him.

  As soon as he was gone, she hurried back upstairs to her bedroom. There she dressed quickly and hurried downstairs, not giving herself time to think about what she was about to do. She had to do this, and she refused to admit fear or hesitation into her mind. Whatever consequences came, she would deal with them later. Right now she was determined to act.

  She wore a plain dark dress and no jewelry. She did not want to give the impression that she was flaunting her position in Mrs. Neeley’s face. It would be difficult enough to get her to talk to her as it was. Over her dress, she put on a long cloak with a hood. It was a trifle warm for the day, but she knew that both Anthony and Perry were right in warning of the scandal if she were seen entering or leaving a gambling den—especially one run by the mistress of her husband.

  The footman offered to ring for her carriage to be called up, but she declined, saying with what she hoped was a look of calm that she preferred to walk to the lending library. He would find it odd, perhaps, that she took no maid with her, but Rachel was counting on his not daring to question her.

  She slipped out the front door and started along the sidewalk in the direction of the lending library in case the footman or anyone else might be watching. Their street was a wide thoroughfare, with ample traffic, and Rachel felt sure that she would be able to hail a hansom cab once she got out of sight of the house.

  In the next block she hailed a hansom and gave the driver Mrs. Neeley’s address. He looked down doubtfully at her, and she repeated it firmly, then climbed in and closed the door, leaving him with little option but to go there.

  She sat tensely inside the carriage, her fists clenched in her lap, going over and over in her head what she should say and how she should say it. When the cab rolled to a stop, she pulled the hood of her cloak up around her face and alighted cautiously. Rachel glanced up and down the street, having to turn her whole head because of the covering of the hood. It was a narrower street than where she lived, with smaller houses and buildings, and there was, she noted, a tavern at the end of the block. Still, no one walking along the street looked actively dangerous.

  After paying the hansom driver, she turned to the house where he had stopped and climbed the stairs. It was a narrow stone house, with freshly painted shutters, clean windows and a gleaming brass door knocker. Not an elegant house, but one on which care was expended.

  She knocked on the door, and it was opened by a male servant so tall and with such broad shoulders that he almost filled the doorway. His face was marred by a broken nose and small scars near his mouth and one eye, and one ear looked, strangely, as if a small piece of it was missing. Rachel suspected that he had been chosen more for his abilities in a fight than for any serving skills he might possess.

  He leaned down, peering into her face beneath her hood. “Can I help ye, miss?” he asked, looking doubtful.

  “I would like to speak to Mrs. Neeley, thank you. Mrs. Lilith Neeley.”

  He continued to look doubtful but backed up a step, allowing her to enter. He gestured toward a bench in the hall, saying, “Sit here. I’ll ask her.”

  Rachel complied as he closed the front door and marched up the stairs. She glanced into the rooms on either side of the hall. It did not, she thought with some disappointment, look like a den of iniquity. She had imagined something altogether more ornate and colorful, dimly lit, perhaps.

  After a few minutes the man came back down the stairs, followed by a slender, attractive blond woman. “I am Mrs. Neeley,” she said in a quiet voice, with only a hint of an accent—Northumberland, perhaps, or some other northern county, Rachel thought. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so.” Rachel reached up and pushed back her hood. “I am Rachel Trent.” She purposely did not use her title, hoping again not to appear snobblish, thinking that if the woman did not recognize the name, she could add “Lady Westhampton.”

  But Mrs. Neeley obviously recognized the name, for her eyes widene
d. “Oh. My lady—I—”

  “I came to talk to you about my husband,” Rachel went on.

  “Excuse me?” Mrs. Neeley cast a nervous look around her, perhaps seeking support, but the large man had walked on down the hall into some back region of the house. “I am afraid I cannot help you.”

  “I think you can,” Rachel countered, clasping her hands together to hide their trembling. Now that she was standing here, looking at this woman, who had none of the crassness or vulgarity that she had expected from a mistress and owner of a gambling den, Rachel was at something of a loss for words. “Please do not lie to me. I was told about you by several people. It seems as though everyone knows about you but me. Westhampton hid it very well from me. It seems I know nothing at all about my husband.” Rachel could not keep the bitterness from her voice. “But I am aware now that you have been Michael’s mistress for some years.”

  The other woman gaped at her, her astonishment seeming so real that Rachel almost wondered if she had somehow gotten it all wrong.

  “Lady Westhampton! No! Oh, my—this is awful!” Mrs. Neely reached out toward Rachel as if to take her hands, then pulled her own back hastily. “I’m sorry. Yes, I do know your husband. Or, at least, I know who he is. But I am not his mistress. I have never been. It distresses me terribly that you should think so. Oh, dear…There is someone else—I mean, I have a…Please, you must believe me. I am not Lord Westhampton’s mistress. He does not come here at all. It is something else altogether.”

  Strangely enough, Rachel found herself believing the woman. Mrs. Neeley looked so genuinely upset and concerned, stumbling over her words, that Rachel felt herself relaxing a little. Had everyone gotten it all wrong somehow? Perhaps there was some rational explanation after all.

  “Oh,” Rachel said. “Did I—I’m sorry, but—people told me that he had been seen coming in and out of here. And Araminta—his sister—knew about it.”