“Oh, you poor thing!” breathed Lucy, wide-eyed. “No wonder you’ve turned me down all these years. If I’d had any idea, I never would’ve—”
“It isn’t true!” insisted Pickett, indignant.
“It might as well be, for all the good it does me,” muttered Lucy.
Pickett propped his elbow on the table and sank his chin in his hand. “It isn’t funny, Lucy.”
“I’ll say it’s not! Now I’m never going to—say,” she leaned across the table as a new thought occurred to her. “You’d really like to stay married to her ladyship, wouldn’t you?”
Pickett sighed. “What I would like has nothing to say to the matter.”
“You wouldn’t have to say anything.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, fearing very much that he already knew.
“Half an hour with me, ducks, and there goes her ladyship’s grounds. I could show up in court bewailing my seduction and abandonment by a sweet-talking rogue—that would be you—and there would be nothing her bleedin’ ladyship or her fusby-faced lawyer could do about it.” She spread her hands in satisfaction. “I get what I want, you get what you want, and everybody’s happy.”
Pickett had spent five years rebuffing Lucy’s advances, but at that moment he was seriously tempted to succumb. If by bedding one woman, he could be eternally bound to another . . . Granted, Lucy was not the woman he wanted, but he liked her and she was attractive enough. He was reasonably certain she would see to it that he enjoyed the experience, and perhaps more to the point, he would be able to come to his wife with some knowledge of what he was doing. Still, there was one flaw in Lucy’s argument, one too big to ignore. “And what about Lady Fieldhurst?” he asked. “What about what she wants?”
Lucy dismissed the viscountess with a wave of one gloved hand. “She’s had it all her own way long enough, hasn’t she?”
“You’d be surprised.”
To be sure, Pickett thought, Lady Fieldhurst must appear to Lucy to live a charmed life, with money, servants, and all the luxuries Lucy could never afford even if she spent the rest of her life on her back. But he knew it had not been at all pleasant for her ladyship, first being bound to an unfaithful husband, and then being suspected of murdering him. Lord Fieldhurst’s death had given her an unexpected reprieve from an unhappy marriage, but not without considerable cost to herself; he would not trap her in another, no matter how great the temptation.
Quickly, before his resolution failed, he pushed his chair back and rose, tossing sufficient coins on the table to cover the cost of their tea. “Stay as long as you like, Lucy, but I have to be getting back to Bow Street. Mr. Colquhoun will be wondering what’s become of me.”
And there, he reflected, was yet another interview he would have preferred to avoid.
Mr. Colquhoun, deep in discussion with Mr. Foote when Pickett entered the Bow Street Public Office, took one look at that young man’s face and immediately dismissed the elder Runner.
“What’s happened, John?” he asked without roundaboutation.
At least, having unburdened himself to Lucy, Pickett felt no compulsion to do the same with his mentor. He summoned a feeble smile. “Good news, sir. According to Lady Fieldhurst’s solicitor, we should be able to obtain an annulment.”
“Good news, eh?” echoed the magistrate skeptically, regarding Pickett with ominously lowered brows. “And on what grounds is this annulment to be granted?”
“G-grounds, sir?” stammered Pickett, stalling for time and in the process, had he but known it, confirming his magistrate’s worst fears.
“I did a little reading up on marriage laws while you were in Leicestershire,” Mr. Colquhoun informed him. “I know there are only three acceptable grounds for annulment—fraud, incompetence, and impotence. Now, as far as I can tell, none of them apply here, unless, of course, you have difficulties of a personal nature of which I am unaware—”
“It’s—it’s not the sort of thing a man likes to talk about, sir,” Pickett said miserably.
“No, I don’t suppose so, particularly if he were himself unaware of the problem until quite recently—say, within the last hour or two.”
“Mr. Colquhoun, sir—”
“Let me remind you, Mr. Pickett, that you have a duty to uphold the law. If I find you have any intention of perjuring yourself—”
“None at all, sir,” Pickett assured him hastily. “I’m told I will not—will not have to testify, or even appear in court at all.”
Mr. Colquhoun made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded vaguely reminiscent of a growl.
“And Lord Fieldhurst—” Somehow the suggestion that he should be willing to accept money in exchange for his cooperation seemed even more insulting than all the rest. “—Lord Fieldhurst was kind enough to offer me the sum of two hundred pounds to compensate for any indignities I might suffer.”
Mr. Colquhoun’s bushy white brows drew together in a formidable frown. “It must be nice, being able to buy one’s way out of any difficulty. What did you say to his lordship’s generous offer?”
“I threw it back in his teeth,” Pickett confessed.
“Hmph. I can’t say I don’t think all the better of you for it.”
“If—if you will excuse me, sir, I should like to get to work. I must return Lady Dunnington’s property to her.” He gestured toward the porcelain shepherdess still adorning the magistrate’s bench. It seemed a very long time since he had discovered it in Mr. Kenney’s possession. He realized that he should have seen to its return before his hasty departure for Leicestershire, not so much for Lady Dunnington’s sake as for the peace of mind of her maid, Dulcie, who had been suspected of stealing it. Unfortunately, both females had been forgotten in his eagerness to see Lady Fieldhurst before setting out. He reached over the wooden railing and picked up the porcelain figurine.
“It’s a pity you have to return her,” Mr. Colquhoun remarked. “I’ve grown rather attached to her—she lends the place a certain air of distinction.”
Pickett smiled rather half-heartedly. There was, he thought, really nothing at all funny about having to give up a woman who was never yours to keep.
CHAPTER 14
In Which John Pickett Goes A-Courting
Having wrapped the porcelain figurine in brown paper for safekeeping and tied it with string, Pickett retraced his steps from the Bow Street office to the more fashionable suburb of Mayfair, where he presented himself at Lady Dunnington’s house in Audley Street. The door was opened to him by the maid Dulcie, who seemed quite pleased to see him.
“Why, it’s Mr. Pickett from Bow Street!” she exclaimed, opening the door wide to admit him. “Do come in, sir, but if you’re wanting to see her ladyship, I must tell you that Lady Dunnington is not at home.”
“To tell you the truth, Miss Monroe—”
“Dulcie,” she reminded him.
“Dulcie, then, my business here concerns you as much as it does her ladyship,” said Pickett.
“Me? But how—?”
He handed her the paper-wrapped parcel. “Open it.”
“For me?” Turning quite pink with pleasure, she began ripping the paper to expose the porcelain shepherdess within.
“Oh, Mr. Pickett, you found her! And here I thought she must be gone for good. How terribly clever of you!”
It was perhaps inevitable that a young man with a wounded vanity would be particularly susceptible to the admiration of an attractive young woman, and Pickett’s vanity (never robust even at the best of times) was very, very wounded indeed. He blossomed under her attention like a flower seeking the sun.
“I didn’t do anything, really,” he demurred modestly. “In fact, you might say she found me.”
“I am sure you do yourself less than justice,” Dulcie insisted. “Pray, where did you find her?”
“Mr. Kenney found her in the pocket of his greatcoat,” he told her. “I should have returned her a week ago, but I was obliged to make a trip to Leicester
shire, and have only just returned.”
“I had wondered where you’d been keeping yourself,” she confessed. “But are you saying Mr. Kenney took her?”
“Not intentionally. Apparently he is in the habit of carrying a pistol for self-defense, and when he returned to his lodgings after Lady Dunnington’s dinner party, he discovered his gun had been stolen, and this thing put in its place.”
“How very strange! Who would have done such a thing?”
“Presumably the same person who shot Sir Reginald.”
“And—and do you know who this person is?” she asked, her eyes wide with mingled hope and fear.
“No, but it’s early days yet, and these things take time. Are you still frightened?”
She gave him a timid smile. “Not so very much, knowing you are on the case.”
Quite unexpectedly, the words of the roguish Irishman floated to the surface of Pickett’s brain. Make sure you claim a hero’s reward. . . . Dulcie was indeed a pretty girl, and much the same size as Lady Fieldhurst, the crown of her head just topping his shoulder. But her eyes were brown, not blue, and her hair, though blonde, was more wheat-colored than golden. He recalled having similar thoughts about Sir Reginald’s daughter, and wondered fleetingly if it was his destiny to go through life comparing every female he met to Lady Fieldhurst—and finding them all wanting.
“I am glad you can no longer be thought to have stolen her, in any case,” he said.
“Oh, that!” Dulcie shook her head, dismissing the notion and at the same time setting her curls bouncing. Pickett noticed for the first time that she was not wearing the ruffled cap and apron that constituted her usual costume.
“I believe her ladyship felt quite badly about saying such a thing to me,” the maid continued, “for she has given me a half-day off today without my even having to ask. In fact, I was on my way out when I heard your knock.”
“In that case, I hope you will allow me to escort you,” Pickett replied promptly.
“Oh, but I couldn’t ask such a thing of you, sir!”
“You didn’t ask; I offered.”
“I am sure you must have a hundred more pressing things to do,” she protested.
“More pressing, perhaps, but surely none more pleasant.”
Dulcie struggled mightily for a few seconds before succumbing with a dimpled smile. “Very well, Mr. Pickett, since you insist.”
Having settled the matter to the satisfaction of both, he offered her his arm. “If I am to call you Dulcie, I think you had best call me John.”
“I couldn’t possibly call you John!” she objected, taking his proffered arm nonetheless.
“Yes you can, for you just did,” he pointed out.
“Why, so I did!” she exclaimed as they stepped out onto the portico. “Shall I tell you what I think, Mr. Pick—I mean, John? I think you are a shocking flirt!”
He laughed at that, but did not deny it. Surely it was better to be thought a flirt than to be thought—but he would not think about that now, not when the sun was shining, the weather was unseasonably mild for November, and a pretty girl was clinging to his arm and gazing up at him as if he were her one hope of heaven.
“Where shall we go, Dulcie?”
After some discussion, it was agreed they should go to Hyde Park, where they might watch the fashionables promenade and throw breadcrumbs to the ducks that were always to be found swimming on the Serpentine. It soon transpired that Dulcie was an avid follower of the Society pages, and she took great pleasure in pointing out to Pickett all the leading lights of the beau monde, many of whom she had served, since they had been guests of Lady Dunnington at one time or another.
They had been engaged in this pleasant pastime for some half an hour when the sight of an elegantly dressed young couple in a high perch phaeton caught Dulcie’s attention.
“Oh, look! That is Miss Granger-Hix and her betrothed, Sir Anthony Caldwell. Are they not a handsome pair? It said in the Morning Post that they are to marry in the spring.” A shadow crossed Dulcie’s pretty face. “I wonder what will happen to Sir Reginald Montague’s daughter, now that she is in mourning. I daresay they will have to call the wedding off.”
Pickett could not agree. “I should think getting married, even if one had to do it quietly, would be more important than having a fashionable wedding. I saw Miss Montague and her fiancé together on the night Sir Reginald was shot—I was obliged to convey the news to his family—and they appeared to be quite devoted to each other.”
“Perhaps, but appearances can be deceiving. Miss Montague’s fiancé is a marquess, and the heir to a dukedom. He might not wish to be associated with a family tainted by the scandal of a murder.”
Pickett, far from being shocked at such cynicism, knew only too well how quickly those in Society could turn on one of their own, having seen Lady Fieldhurst fall victim to this phenomenon in the days following the murder of her husband. “Will you think me very rag-mannered if I say I hope you are wrong? I should rather think that Miss Montague’s fiancé, if he loves her, would want to be in a position to support her through such a trying time.”
“Love!” Dulcie echoed with unwonted bitterness. She tossed her final morsel of bread onto the ground, where it was immediately set upon by a trio of greedy ducks. “Their kind doesn’t fall in love, John, they only use one another for social advancement. Only look at my Lady Dunnington and her husband, who never see one another except to quarrel. And then there is her friend Lady Fieldhurst, who married a viscount and then stabbed him to death!”
Pickett could not allow this slander of his lady to go unchallenged. “I can assure you, Lady Fieldhurst did not kill her husband!” he said with some indignation.
Dulcie hastily corrected herself. “No, of course she did not, for you proved her innocence, didn’t you?” she said, patting his arm placatingly. “But it certainly appeared for a time as if she had, and that she would hang for it.”
“No one could be in her ladyship’s presence for five minutes and still believe her capable of such a thing!” insisted Pickett, refusing to be placated.
“Forgive me, John. I meant no disrespect toward her ladyship.” She cast a slanting look up at him. “I believe you are much attached to Lady Fieldhurst’s interests.”
Pickett did not deny it. “I have had the honor of being of assistance to her on more than one occasion.”
“And yet I suspect there is rather more to it than that, is there not?”
“I know my place, Dulcie, and it is not with her ladyship,” he said in a flat voice.
Her large brown eyes filled with tears of sympathy. “I am sorry for you, John, truly I am. But there are other women, you know, women who know how to value the love of a good man.”
So saying, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.
He did not return her kiss, but gave a little squeeze to the hand resting in the curve of his elbow. By unspoken agreement, they talked of other things, and by the time they completed their circuit around the park, they were once again on easy terms.
Over the next few days, Pickett made a habit of seeking out Dulcie whenever his investigations took him to the smart district of Mayfair. He found her company both comforting and nonthreatening: unlike Lady Fieldhurst, she was not above his touch, and unlike Lucy, she had no designs upon his person. It occurred to him that this was perhaps not entirely fair to Dulcie, to appear to be courting her when he feared he would never be able to give her his whole heart. But to one whose manhood was being called into question, her obvious admiration acted as a balm to his bruised spirit, and so his footsteps turned with increasing frequency in the direction of Audley Street. Upon arriving at that fashionable address, he did not approach the front door, but took the steps down to the servants’ entrance below street level and asked for Dulcie. She was always eager to hear about the progress of his investigations, and was gratifyingly appreciative of his cleverness in even the most mundane of discoveries.
On one
such visit, Pickett was emboldened to go a step further.
“Dulcie,” he began, twisting the brim of his hat in his hands, “I wonder if I might—that is, I wonder if you would—would consent to—to—”
Seeing him floundering helplessly, Dulcie came to his rescue. “If I would consent to what, John?”
He took a deep breath, and the words came out in a rush. “I wonder if I might see you on your day off.”
Dulcie smiled. “I would like that very much.”
“Do you like the theatre?” Pickett asked, much encouraged. “Mrs. Church is to make her farewell appearance on the Drury Lane stage this Wednesday. I should—I should be honored if you would accompany me.”
“My day off is not until Thursday next,” Dulcie confessed. “Still, I would love to see Mrs. Church on the stage. I shall ask my Lady Dunnington if I might swap with Polly. May I let you know tomorrow?”
Pickett agreed that tomorrow would be a wonderful day for such a communication and, after an awkward hesitation, bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
He was feeling rather better about the world in general and his place in it as he climbed the servants’ stair up to street level—and almost ran into Lady Fieldhurst as she approached Lady Dunnington’s front door.
“My lady!” He felt strangely guilty, as if he had narrowly escaped being caught in some act of betrayal. But theirs was not a real marriage and never would be, so there was no reason—no reason at all—for him to feel that by kissing Dulcie he had somehow been unfaithful to the lady who was nominally his wife.
“Are you coming in, Mr. Pickett?” asked Lady Fieldhurst, gesturing toward the front door.
“No, I was just—just leaving.”
“Oh,” she said, rather daunted. “Well then, I shan’t keep you.”
“My lady,” he said quickly as she turned away, “I—I owe you an apology. I lost my temper—I said some things—”
“You had every right to be angry, Mr. Pickett. You still have, for that matter. It is unconscionable, what Mr. Crumpton is—no, what I am asking of you. I don’t blame you for ripping up at me.”
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