“Now that we have established, what do you say, my identity,” said Madame Dombrowskaya, gesturing toward a sofa upholstered in straw-colored brocade, “how may I be of service to you?”
Julia took the proffered seat, and her voluminous train formed a puddle of blue velvet about her feet. “Actually, I had hoped to be of service to you,” she confessed. “I understand you were wearing the Princess Olga’s diamonds when they were stolen during your escape from the theatre.”
“Da, what of it?” Natasha Ivanova’s friendly demeanor cooled considerably. A guilty conscience, Julia wondered, or was she merely weary of answering questions? Thinking back to the dark days when she had been the primary suspect in the murder of her husband, Julia supposed that many of her own actions, born of shock and fear, could have been interpreted as evidence of guilt. She was fortunate in that Mr. Pickett had not subscribed to the popular assumption; surely she must show Madame Dombrowskaya the same consideration.
“It must be most awkward, losing something of value that belonged to someone else,” said Julia in sympathetic accents. “I remember once losing my mother’s pearls during my first Season in Bath. I felt quite dreadful about it, particularly since they had been my father’s wedding gift to her.”
Madame Dombrowskaya looked down her aristocratic nose. “There is a great deal of difference between your mother’s pearls and the Princess Olga’s diamonds.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” acknowledged Julia, trying hard to extend the benefit of the doubt to a woman toward whom she felt a growing dislike. “Still, Mama’s pearls eventually turned up, and I have no doubt Princess Olga’s diamonds will do the same.”
The Russian lady gave a disdainful sniff. “Perhaps. But these pearls, you were so foolish as to lose through your own carelessness. Her Royal Highness’s diamonds were stolen. It is not at all the same thing, nyet?”
“Er, nyet,” agreed Julia. “I suppose they are worth a great deal?”
“More than any English viscountess would have reason to know,” retorted Madam Dombrowskaya.
“I don’t doubt it,” Julia said with a rather forced smile, accepting the insult at face value. “Still, one must wonder what the thief thinks he—or she—may do with them. Surely they would be recognized if they were worn, would they not?”
“Da. What of it?”
“Perhaps the thief did not consider this until after he—or she—had done the deed,” suggested Julia. “Perhaps, having stolen the diamonds, the thief realized he could not hope to profit by them, and attempted to dispose of them before they were found in his—or her—possession.”
The haughty Russian scowled. “What are you saying?”
“I am merely suggesting that the thief, fearing disgrace, may have decided to dispose of them by, say, slipping them into the pocket of some innocent and unsuspecting person.”
“Ba! Why should anyone do such a thing? It makes no sense!” She rose from her chair, stiff with offended dignity. “I believe you speak in riddles, Lady Fieldhurst, and I am in no mood for riddles. I shall bid you good day.”
Thus dismissed, Julia had no choice but to take her leave with what dignity she could muster. She rose from her seat on the sofa, but before she could make good her escape, the door separating the sitting room from the bedchamber opened, and Madame Dombrowskaya’s husband, Vladimir, entered the room, his sinister-looking countenance rendered all the more formidable by a fierce scowl.
“This Englishwoman, does she trouble you, golubka?” he demanded of his wife.
“It was certainly not my intention to trouble Madame Gregor, er, Ivanov, er, Dombrowskaya,” Julia put in as hastily as the language barrier would allow. “I only wished to commiserate with her on the loss—er, theft, that is—of the Princess Olga’s diamonds. As I was telling Madame, er, your wife, Your Excellency, I believe I may understand a little of how she must feel, as I once had the misfortune to misplace jewels that did not belong to me.”
“Pearls,” put in Madame Dombrowskaya with a disdainful sniff.
Julia had thought it best not to offer any reassurances as to the ability of the Bow Street force to recover the diamonds since, if the Russian couple had indeed stolen the diamonds themselves, such reassurances were the last thing they would wish to hear. But as her tactful attempt at discovering how the diamonds had come to be in Mr. Pickett’s possession had been firmly rebuffed—and as it appeared she was about to make a hasty exit in any case—she might as well set the cat amongst the pigeons and see what, if anything, might be determined by their reaction.
“I have had dealings with the Bow Street force myself, and found them to be both competent and resourceful. I have no doubt the diamonds will be returned to the princess very shortly, and the culprit punished for his crimes.”
Vladimir Gregorovich muttered something incomprehensible yet apparently highly unflattering about Mr. Colquhoun, but showed no sign of being disturbed by the prospect of retribution for the criminal. The mention of the magistrate, however, served to remind Julia that he was waiting in Mr. Pickett’s flat for her to relieve him.
She was suddenly impatient to return to Drury Lane. She could not decide if Madame Dombrowskaya’s indignation or her husband’s belligerence was genuine, or merely the manifestation of a guilty conscience. In fact, she was more than ready to dump the entire affair in Mr. Colquhoun’s lap—provided she could do so in a manner that would not betray her own knowledge of the diamonds. She sighed. Perhaps the magistrate was right: perhaps she was not suited for this sort of work, after all.
No, she reminded herself, her efforts had not been entirely wasted, for she had learned that the Russian couple had a motive for stealing the diamonds. And if she had momentarily deviated from her original intention and gone chasing briefly after mares’ nests, well, she had known Mr. Pickett to do so on occasion. But the truth was out there somewhere, and she would not give up. Not as long as Mr. Pickett needed her.
CHAPTER 15
IN WHICH JULIA FACES DOWN THE FIELDHURSTS
Julia took her leave of the Russian aristocrats with what dignity she could muster, then instructed the coachman to convey her directly to Pickett’s flat in Drury Lane. As he was prepared to hand her into the carriage, however, she recalled that the restaurant at Grillon’s Hotel was second to none. She was, she admitted, growing a bit weary of the cold collations prepared by her cook and delivered faithfully by Thomas every day, and she suspected Mr. Colquhoun would not say no to sirloin of beef and all its accoutrements, either. She commanded the coachman to wait, and went back inside to procure luncheon. When she entered Pickett’s flat a short time later, it was with her train over her arm and a wicker basket in her hand.
“Well, well, my lady, don’t you look fine?” exclaimed the magistrate. “Perhaps it’s a good thing Mr. Pickett is asleep, as the sight of you in full regalia would likely be enough to frighten the poor lad to death.”
Julia shook her head. “No, not fine, merely ostentatious. Still, it served not to disgrace me utterly before Princess Olga and her entourage.” She turned the subject to one who was, in her opinion, infinitely more important than any number of Russian princesses. “Has he slept the entire time, then?”
“No, he awoke briefly, about an hour after you had gone.”
“That is good news,” said Julia, aware of a pang of disappointment nevertheless at having missed one of his all too infrequent bouts of consciousness.
“I fear I make a poor nurse, however,” continued Mr. Colquhoun. “I boiled water and brewed willow bark tea, as you instructed, but I made the tactical error of giving him laudanum first. By the time the tea was ready, the laudanum had taken hold, and I could not persuade him to stay awake long enough to drink it. I am sorry, my lady. I confess, my only thought was giving him relief from any pain.”
“I don’t blame you, Mr. Colquhoun. I should not have wanted him to suffer.” She sighed. “I am discovering that this nursing business is largely a matter of trial and error—and I confes
s to having made more than my share of errors. If he recovers, I fear it will be in spite of me, rather than because of anything I have done.”
Privately, Mr. Colquhoun suspected it was the continued presence of Lady Fieldhurst that kept Pickett clinging to life at all. Aloud, however, he merely said, “What is that smell, my lady? If that is your perfume, you must tell me where you got it, so that I may buy my Janet a barrel of it.”
Julia laughed. “It is luncheon from Grillon’s. Have you eaten? I thought you would know what to do with sirloin of beef and roasted potatoes.”
“Indeed, I do,” said the magistrate with enthusiasm. “Thank you, my lady. It was well done of you to think of it.”
While Mr. Colquhoun unpacked the basket, Julia fetched the bottle of wine included in Thomas’s most recent delivery. Finding no wineglasses, she was obliged to decant it into teacups, whereupon Mr. Colquhoun, far from being offended by this breach of etiquette, assured her of his willingness to drink directly from the bottle, should the need arise. Julia then selected two chipped earthenware plates from Pickett’s modest collection and filled them with beef, potatoes, and thick slices of bread spread with butter. As neither she nor the magistrate wanted to leave Pickett alone, they carried their feast into the bedroom, Mr. Colquhoun bringing the third and last chair into the room to serve as a makeshift table.
“I wish he would awaken so that we might offer him something to eat,” she fretted, surveying Pickett’s slumbering form. “It appears to me that he is growing shockingly thin.”
“He’ll fatten up soon enough once he’s recovered,” predicted the magistrate.
Julia opened her mouth to scold him for being so glib, then noticed the creases marring his forehead as he regarded his protégé, and realized his optimism concealed a concern every bit as great as her own.
“I shall see to it that he does,” she answered, adopting his own cheerful manner. “I have no desire to be married to a scarecrow.”
“So tell me, my lady,” said the magistrate around a mouthful of sirloin, “how was your visit to the Princess Olga?”
“Her Royal Highness was most obliging,” Julia recalled as she refilled his wine. “She told me something about Vladimir Gregorovich Dombrowsky that I think you will find interesting.”
Mr. Colquhoun, remembering his own less than friendly exchange with the Russian, was eager to listen. “Did she, indeed?”
“It seems Vladimir and his wife Natasha are in need of money.”
“Are they, now? That is interesting! Pray continue, my lady.”
“She didn’t say much more than that, only that his is a very old family, related to the Tsarina on his mother’s side, and that they have no money.” She paused. “I could not help thinking that it would be much easier to steal diamonds if one were already wearing them about one’s neck.”
“A very valid point, especially in view of the fact that he has been badgering me for a quick arrest.”
Julia frowned thoughtfully. “Has he? Forgive me, but why should he do so, if he and his wife are the thieves?”
“Hasty arrests frequently lead to the wrong persons being convicted, as I am sure you, of all people, must be aware.” He cleared his throat and continued haltingly. “And there, too, I owe you an apology. I was too ready to believe you guilty of your husband’s murder. Had anyone but Mr. Pickett been assigned to the case, you might well have stood trial for it.”
“Believe me, Mr. Colquhoun, I am fully aware of how damning the evidence against me must have looked. Indeed, I owe Mr. Pickett a debt I can never repay. But you were speaking of Vladimir Gregorovich.”
“Yes, he’s been making rather a nuisance of himself. It appears Vladimir is eager to see some hapless Englishman pay for his own crimes.”
Julia, knowing exactly which hapless Englishman had been selected as the sacrificial lamb, found her gaze straying to Pickett.
“So what happens now?” she asked the magistrate.
“I’ll pass the information along to the Runner assigned to the case. He will need to question both Vladimir and his wife—Natasha, did you say her name was?—and then begin making inquiries at pawnshops in the area.”
Julia was about to mention her own visit with Natasha, but at the mention of pawnshops her hand jerked convulsively, sending her wine sloshing over the edge of the cup. “P—pawnshops, did you say?” She became very busy mopping up the spill, hiding her expressive countenance from the magistrate in the process. “Why pawnshops?”
“The thief—let us assume for the moment that it is Natasha—cannot possibly wear the diamonds, for they would be recognized at once,” explained Mr. Colquhoun, putting forth the same argument that she herself had made to Natasha Ivanova Dombrowskaya. “The logical assumption, therefore, is that she—or her husband—will attempt to sell them.”
“But—but surely the thief, assuming him or her to be Russian, would wait until his return to Russia to sell the diamonds,” argued Julia rather desperately.
“Do you think so?” asked Mr. Colquhoun, scowling as if this possibility had not occurred to him. “Why, if I may ask?”
“If they were sold while still in England, the payment would be made in British pounds,” she pointed out. “Surely it would be better to wait and be paid in rubles, or whatever they use in Russia.”
“Hmm, I see your point,” acknowledged the magistrate. “Still, gold is welcome in any country, and our thief will doubtless want to dispose of the diamonds as quickly as possible. And then there is the fact that the other stolen jewels have been recovered at pawnshops. If Vladimir and his wife are the thieves, then we must assume this theft has nothing to do with the others except perhaps providing the inspiration. But if it was perpetrated by the same person and in the same manner as the others, then it stands to reason that the diamonds will most likely be disposed of in the same way.”
“I see,” said Julia in faltering tones, realizing that to belabor the point would only raise the magistrate’s suspicions. She told herself that even if the Runner should discover the pawnshop where Lucy had sold the diamonds, his first concern would most likely be recovering the jewels. Surely, she thought desperately, any pawnbroker dealing in stolen goods would be extremely reluctant to reveal his sources, thus killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. Unfortunately, she could not quite make herself believe it. She feared the pawnbroker would be only too eager to offer up his supplier in order to divert Bow Street’s attention from himself. She could only hope that the Runner assigned to the case would limit his search to pawnshops in the main thoroughfares, and leave unexplored the more obscure streets such as Lucy frequented.
The thought of the diamonds being traced back to Mr. Pickett was enough to deprive her of any appetite, and she let Mr. Colquhoun finish off the last of the feast, which he did with enthusiasm. He insisted upon cleaning up the dishes, since she had provided the meal, and she allowed herself to be persuaded; she remembered the tea fiasco all too clearly, and had no desire to reveal her ignorance of domestic tasks any further than she had done already.
Scarcely had the magistrate completed this chore and begun to take his leave when a pounding on the door shook the very walls, and a voice from without called, “Open this door, Cousin Julia! I know you’re in there!”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Lady Fieldhurst in failing accents. “George!”
“ ‘George’?” echoed Mr. Colquhoun.
“Lord Fieldhurst, I should say,” she explained, regarding the door with distaste. “My husband’s—my late husband’s—cousin and heir.”
“How did he know where to find you?”
“He has known of my whereabouts since the day after the fire.”
His brow cleared. “Well, then! If he had any objections to your presence here, surely he must have voiced them before now.”
“Oh, he has done so, I assure you! But I fear what has brought him down upon my head was a certain letter I sent to my solicitor, thanking him for his efforts on my behalf regarding
the annulment of my marriage to Mr. Pickett, and informing him that further action on his part will not be necessary.”
“I see.” Mr. Colquhoun scowled fiercely as a fresh volley of blows resounded on the other side of the door.
“I shall have to face him sooner or later,” said her ladyship with a sigh. “I suppose I might as well have done with it.”
She moved toward the door, but the magistrate’s voice held her back. “My lady, do you want me to stay? Perhaps I could reassure him as to the boy’s prospects.”
She had to smile at that. “I seem to recall your telling me that his prospects were no more than what he made them. Thank you, Mr. Colquhoun, but no. Mr. Pickett needs no one to defend him, and I”—she took a deep, steadying breath—“I must do this for myself.”
And so saying, she grasped the knob and opened the door.
The viscount blinked at the sight of her in what Mr. Colquhoun had termed full regalia, and Julia was doubly glad that she had not taken the time to return home and change clothes.
“About time, too, Cousin Julia,” scolded George, recovering himself quickly. He brushed past her into the flat, carrying in his wake two females: one an elderly lady clad in mourning draperies of unrelieved black, the other a woman of middle age wearing a russet pelisse and an apologetic smile.
Julia held her coronet-crowned head high. “Good afternoon, George,” she said with crushing civility. “Mother Fieldhurst, and—my lady.” She was never quite sure how to address George’s wife, since they both bore the title of Lady Fieldhurst. Fortunately, it was a dilemma that arose but rarely, since she made a point of avoiding the current viscount as much as possible. “May I present Mr. Patrick Colquhoun, magistrate of the Bow Street Public Office? Mr. Colquhoun, Lord Fieldhurst, the dowager Lady Fieldhurst, and the current viscountess.”
Bows and curtsies were exchanged, as even the barest courtesy required, and then Mr. Colquhoun turned to her and took her hands in his.
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