Maiden Lane

by Lynne Connolly

  Usually we met with the Fieldings—singular now—in a spirit of sharing and cordiality, but today we needed to use a great deal of caution. We could not have a volatile situation worsened by the interference of someone from the outside.

  We sat at Fielding’s invitation and waited for his opening gambit. It didn’t take him long. “The death of the unfortunate John Kneller has had some repercussions, my lord.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Richard said, giving him no openings.

  Fielding’s mouth twitched, but only slightly, not something anyone would notice when he sat on the bench in the court downstairs. “Smith tells me he was discovered outside your house.”

  “No doubt left there in the erroneous assumption that I cared more than most people about him. The youth used a certain resemblance between us to insinuate himself into the highest circles.”

  “Including your mother.”

  Richard let two seconds pass before he replied, “Indeed. My mother has a delicate temperament easily swayed by distressing tales of woe. Kneller gave her one.”

  I wondered if Lady Southwood would recognise herself from that description. At least Mr. Fielding gave no demur to the blatant falsehood. “Is there any truth in the story Kneller spread around town? That you married his mother and fathered him and his sister?”

  “Not a whit.”

  With Smith there as Mr. Fielding’s eyes, Richard had to maintain a completely calm front, but he had accustomed himself to doing so over many years. I followed his lead. We came here to receive information, not to give it.

  I moved a little and my taffeta petticoat rustled in the hush. Muffled sounds from outside penetrated, the sound of iron wheels on cobbles, the shouts of pedlars and even someone calling for a friend. The room we occupied remained still.

  We could wait.

  Eventually Mr. Fielding broke the silence. He must have learned the secret of waiting for the other person to speak first, something Richard had mastered a long time since. “So you know nothing about his death?”

  “Only that my wife found him outside our house on her way back from visiting my mother. That means the body must have been left during the hour between her leaving the house and returning. I presume they wished to distress her, whoever they are. Therefore, I’d like to know when you discover them. I am extremely displeased.”

  “I regret the unfortunate predilection of the criminal class to cause the most hurt.” A delicate exchange when each side gave exactly nothing.

  I glanced at Smith. He stood behind Mr. Fielding’s chair, gripping the back of it. With little nudges and tugs that we might not see, he could transmit his concerns to his master. I had no doubt he would. “I trust your ladyship took no serious hurt from the distressing sight.”

  I’d never heard him so diplomatic. The mood must be catching. I smiled and assured him that I had taken no hurt. He must know that. He knew I’d seen much more distressing sights, and sometimes caused them. “The misguided young man had a most undeserved end,” I added. If anyone lied it was me, just then. He courted it, he deserved it, but it was truth in that the youth who lay dead in the street had probably not merited his fate.

  “Indeed, my lady. You knew he had a sister?”

  “Yes.”

  Fielding took a hand. “I believe she had some dealings with you, my lady?”

  “None at all.” I hated lying, but sometimes I had to.

  Richard spoke. “The girl had some dealings with the staff registry that I own. I made enquiries.”

  “Ah yes.” Mr. Fielding smiled benignly, and I knew he’d wanted to discuss Thompson’s. He wasn’t the only one. He could set up his own spy network if he wanted one. He probably had, but not one as good as ours.

  “Thompson’s.” Mr. Fielding savoured the word. “My brother ran a staff agency once. Did he tell you?”

  “I knew of it,” Richard admitted. It had given him the idea to use Thompson’s for more than a business for his valet.

  Unlike Richard and Carier, Henry Fielding had run his agency into the ground. He had neither the contacts nor the quality of staff that we’d managed to attract. So he’d become a magistrate instead. Occasionally we came across staff that had signed with the Universal Register, and we suspected that Henry Fielding had tried to establish something similar to our agency, but he had failed.

  The power of good connections.

  Mr. Fielding sighed and leaned back. “I’m expected in court in an hour’s time, and I still have some cases to review. Regrettably I have little time to spare.”

  Most aristocrats would have taken the remark as a severe insult. It was not for them to excuse themselves, their betters would tell them when. But Richard was a realist and appreciated the curtailment of the delicate dance. “Indeed, sir. Then I should tell you that I believe whoever killed John Kneller thought that the link between us was closer than in reality. John Kneller himself believed it. It is why he followed us to Devonshire last year, and why he came to London. I had a fleeting affair with his mother when I was seventeen, and she tried to foist the children on me.” Genius, to alter his age at the time of the affair just a few years.

  “If I may enquire, what age are you now, my lord?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “And Kneller is eighteen.”

  “As is his sister.”

  Fielding grunted. “So you couldn’t be their father, sir. If you had fathered them, you’d have been fourteen at the time. I cannot imagine you began your—” He paused, probably remembering my presence. I moved again to make the petticoat rustle and fill the silence.

  “Just so,” said Richard smoothly. “From my enquiries, I believe the boy and his sister would reach their nineteenth birthdays in August. Not that the boy will ever see that date, of course.”

  “So the mother tried to foist the children on you?”

  “She knew better than that,” Richard said. “Her son did not, or he chose not to. To that end, he visited my mother. I am particularly distinctive in my personal appearance, and it would be easy to copy my manners and way of dressing to make us appear similar.”

  “A trickster, a shaver, a sly, a fox—”

  “I’d call him a shuffler,” said Richard, interrupting Mr. Fielding’s knowledge of thieves’ cant with one of his own.

  “Did you threaten him at all?”

  “Never. I had no reason to do so. He was no threat.” I heard the tension in Richard’s voice and knew he was remembering John’s threats to me, the way he used me to get to Richard. But we couldn’t tell John Fielding, couldn’t give him a reason to call on us now or in the future. Knowing the way Mr. Fielding used all his acquaintances in his pursuit of a different legal system, we couldn’t not let him draw us into his web. Richard agreed with Mr. Fielding on many points of the law, but not all of them. We belonged to no one except each other.

  Mr. Fielding shifted in his chair. “Very well. I can only return your frankness with my own.” And I guessed he was running out of time. “We don’t think that Kneller was killed outside your house. He was dropped there by someone in a carriage. We have a witness.” I perked up my ears. Here was something we didn’t know. “A street urchin. Unfortunately, only the one, but he is at present resting in my third best bedroom, and he is willing to cooperate by bearing witness.”

  “Does he require a reward?”

  Mr. Fielding cleared his throat. “I have need of a boy to run errands for me. I will reward him that way. He’s a likely lad. What I have to tell you, my lord, is what he told me before I offered him anything but a shilling for his time.”

  “Men have been killed for less,” Richard said.

  “Indeed they have.” Mr. Fielding let a note of regret into his voice. “But not in this case. The boy saw a coach with no crest, but a gentleman’s coach. Clean and new looking, he said. The door opened and a body fell out. He had no difficulty recognising the corpse. He saw a lady inside, one who, without any bark on it, fits the description of Mrs. Juli
a Drury.”

  I caught my breath. Richard glanced at me and covered my hand with his before he returned his attention to Mr. Fielding. “Is there any proof that it is Mrs. Drury? Anything distinguishing?”

  “No, sir, but I intend to put the boy in her way later today so he can verify the sight for himself.”

  It seemed too easy. Would Julia really have risked it? “Why would she do it herself?” More likely that she’d pay someone else to do it and kill them afterwards. Or perhaps she wasn’t thinking properly.

  “She would not want her servants to know,” Mr. Fielding said. “But someone must have driven that coach.”

  “Indeed.” Richard didn’t sound convinced to me. “Have you any more evidence? A sighting won’t convict her.”

  “I’m collecting statements. Which is why I invited you here today, my lord, and why I mentioned your register. I would consider it a personal favour if you could cause any servants you supplied to the house, either their personal residence or their club, to answer a few simple questions.”

  He meant that he knew we’d do it, and he wanted some information. I left the decision up to Richard. If the Drurys had killed John, or the man they’d substituted as he, then Fielding could have his witnesses with my blessing.

  Richard obviously felt the same. “I can have that done, sir, and if I discover anything, be assured I’ll let you know.”

  John Smith’s hand, which he’d clenched on his master’s chair until the knuckles turned white, finally relaxed. From that, I knew Fielding hadn’t felt sure he’d have Richard’s cooperation. And he needed it. Richard was right. He required more than the word of a street urchin to convict the Drurys.

  Positions had been declared and drawn up. Fielding wanted to know where he stood with us. A shame for him that he’d never know for sure.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ARRIVING HOME, I TRIED to hide the fatigue swamping me. The events of the last few days and the increasing demands of my unborn child, plus the delightful but exhausting time I spent with my daughter every day, were taking its toll. My head throbbed from the bruise, healing but not yet gone.

  Richard climbed the stairs with me, but when I approached the next staircase to the nursery floor, he took my hands and pulled me back, shaking his head. “I’ll go to her, but, Rose, you must rest. Must. You don’t think I see the shadows under your eyes? Come.”

  Aware as ever of the flapping ears of near-invisible servants, I didn’t demur but went with him into the bedroom. We only employed servants from the box, the special servants who worked for Richard first and any other employers second, whose names we kept in one of three duplicate boxes, always locked up. But even then, even with utterly trustworthy, totally reliable servants, I sometimes felt uncomfortable revealing my deepest feelings. Growing up in a small manor house had taught me the value of privacy, precious and expensive, because to have it you needed space and the money to afford it. I treasured it now, even more than the fabulous collection of jewellery locked up in my personal safe. And I loved jewellery, a weakness Richard was only too ready to indulge. In my room he discarded his coat on a nearby chair and came to help me.

  Relief swept through me when Richard removed my pearl necklace and bracelet, unhooked my gown from my stomacher and loosened my stays, before he led me to the bed and lifted me on to it, then carefully unbuckled and discarded my shoes and removed my garters and stockings.

  He rubbed my feet, the sensation so blissful I could have slept from that alone, but thoughts kept revolving around in my head and I couldn’t sleep. I had lain awake recently, listening to Richard’s quiet breaths, the occasional masculine snore, and thought and thought.

  At times like this I wanted to take all his cares away, convince him that he mattered. And I wanted to run away. I knew it wouldn’t solve anything, but our times in our house in Oxfordshire were the happiest for me. Our sanctuary, very private. Just us and Helen, where we could be a family. Go for walks when we wanted to, dress as we wanted, eat what we wanted and when. I loved it, but we owed too many people too much in terms of duty and honour to think of leaving. I let my mind wander on that theme until I realised he’d stopped rubbing and had crossed the room to use the washstand.

  I opened my eyes. “Will you go to the coffeehouses?”

  He turned around, wiping his hands on the towel. “Probably. I’ll go to the Cocoa-Tree and hear what the politicians are saying. As long as you promise to stay here all afternoon.” He cast the towel aside and came back to me, giving me a lingering, sweet kiss. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Nearly.”

  “Will you sleep now?”

  “I don’t know, but I promise I’ll stay here and rest.”

  He smiled and bent his head, but as his lips touched mine, a gentle tap came on the door. With a scowl, he stood up. “Stay there,” he ordered, and went to the door. A murmured exchange with my maid followed, and he returned. He studied me.

  “You might as well tell me.” I knew something had happened to curtail my nap. Maybe I could get one later, but it seemed my efforts were doomed for now.

  “Steven and Julia Drury are downstairs. Do we see them?”

  I sat up and reached for his hand. “It’s probably a good idea if we get it over with now.”

  Sighing, he helped me off the bed and then assisted me to redress. He could hook and drape almost as fast as a lady’s maid, though usually it happened the other way around when he disrobed me.

  After setting the pearls back around my neck, he touched my hair, tucked a curl up and smiled. “Artful disarray. You couldn’t have arranged it better had you spent hours trying to get that look. You should try it sometime.”

  When I glanced in the mirror, I saw tousled hair, the unruly curls swept up in a haphazard arrangement. Much as I used to wear it every day before Nichols came into my life. But if I called her in, she’d spend much longer getting it right again. I decided to go with Richard’s assessment of artful disarray.

  I snatched a kiss before we left the room, and he caught my hand and squeezed it. “Later,” he promised. I warmed, knowing Richard always made good on his promises.

  He swung his coat up from the chair and over his shoulders, thrusting his arms through the sleeves as we left to go downstairs.

  Steven and Julia waited for us in the small parlour. I wondered why the butler had decided to show them in there, but when I saw their expressions, I understood the reason for it. Both appeared drawn and strained. This wouldn’t be the kind of interview that would benefit from other visitors.

  Julia seemed almost respectable, her fichu tucked firmly into her bodice, her hair neatly confined under a linen and lace cap. Belatedly I remembered that I’d left my cap, a mere scrap of lace, upstairs, but it was too late now.

  Steven stood when we entered. I noted his worn expression and the dark shadows under his eyes. I’d thought his recent appearance not improved by signs of debauchery, but today the pale face and lines around the eyes and mouth made his handsome features almost ordinary.

  He bowed over my hand in an almost perfunctory way. “I beg your pardon for interrupting you at such a time, but we needed to speak with you.”

  Julia tutted. “We need to know where you stand, what you intend to do.”

  Richard swept her with a cold look. “I intend to see my wife seated. Then we’ll talk.”

  Out of sight of our visitors, he raised a brow. I kept my face blandly interested. Richard chose to stand beside my chair, on guard, I thought. Since Richard had caught Steven trying to rape me at Hareton Abbey, he’d never trusted him again, and from time to time I had to remind him that Steven’s act was one of stupidity and desperation, not pure evil. But Richard never forgot. Although he’d removed his sword when he entered the house, I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t call for it now.

  “To what do we owe the honour?” he asked now in a tone that indicated their visit was everything but an honour.

  Julia spoke while her husband was still
getting his thoughts together. He sat next to her instead, disposing his arm elegantly along the arm of the chair. “We didn’t do it. We’ve come to tell you everything about that night so all is clear between us.”

  Julia Drury would have made a very good fishwife. I’d seen them gutting the fish at the quayside, brought in by their husbands that day, shrieking and laughing with each other. But while fishwives had an honest trade, Julia attempted to prey on others.

  “We’re listening.” Though Richard didn’t sound very giving. “You cannot expect us to intervene with the authorities for you. They’ve established that the youth died from a stab wound to the heart and not the injuries to his hands and face.”

  Steven heaved a heavy sigh. “So it’s murder.”

  “Yes.” Richard gave him a bland expression. He stood where I could see him, his hand grazing the arm of the chair where I sat.

  “I’m sorry. The boy didn’t deserve that,” Steven said with every sign of sincerity.

  “Did you kill him?” Julia’s voice gained a sharper edge, probably from nervousness, or bravado even. She must know that Richard didn’t take kindly to impertinence.

  But Richard gave her a straight answer. “No.”

  Did they know that the youth wasn’t Kneller? Did they care?

  Tears misted Julia’s eyes, and she found a handkerchief and dabbed the corners. Very theatrical. “He was so like you.”

  “Are you saying that’s why you took him to your bed?” Richard didn’t sound interested, only bored.

  “Yes.” She dabbed her eyes once more. “You cannot deny he was your son.”

  Richard stared down his nose at her. “I can. He claimed it, but the certificate he produced was laughable, as was his assertion that I’d married his mother. He did his best to promote trouble between my family and myself, but failed to understand the imperative that drives my mother.”

  “Which is…?” Julia enquired quickly.