by Amanda Scott
“You are up quite early, my dear,” he replied, taking his seat.
“I promised to assist Mama today.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “I see.”
“Was there anything of interest in the newspaper, sir?” she repeated, not wishing to discuss her early rising further.
“Not very much. Now the princess is safely wed, there seems to be little to write about. There was a mention of that Vaughan fellow your cousin sets such store by. Seems he’s recovered more items recently. Must be quite a fellow.”
“We shall see for ourselves tonight, sir. Mama is never behindhand with the fashions, and she has invited not only Mr. Townsend but Mr. Vaughan as well. Conrad convinced her that he could only be an asset, since so many people will be attending the ball.” Ravenwood returned a neutral response, and she looked up at him curiously. “Conrad says Mr. Vaughan offers to pay more for the jewels than a fence would pay,” she said, smiling delightedly at his startled reaction to her use of the cant term, then turning serious again when she continued. “I do not think things ought to be done that way, do you? It seems dishonest somehow. Why cannot the police capture the thief and recover the goods?”
“I daresay they do sometimes, though it is very likely more difficult than one might suppose,” he answered. “Is there anything I can do to help at Malmesbury House, do you think?”
“Oh, no,” she replied vaguely, her mind still taken up with the police and the recovery of stolen goods. “There are all of us and plenty of servants besides. You need not interrupt your plans for the day.”
“I would be glad to help.”
“Thank you, sir.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling now. “I know you mean that, and I thank you for your thoughtfulness, but there is truly no need for you to subject yourself. Mama tends to become a trifle overset by these affairs. She would very likely set you to three tasks simultaneously and then decide all three either didn’t need to be done at all or needed to-be done all over again in an entirely different and more difficult manner. Papa will be at his club all day, just as he has been nearly every day this week, and I think you would be wise to do the same. Gentlemen, in my experience, have very little patience with such capaciousness.”
“I daresay you’re right,” he responded, looking appalled. “Very well, I shall take your advice. I doubt I shall spend the entire day at my club, but if you have need of me, a message sent to White’s will find me eventually.” He sat with her while she ate her breakfast, then handed her into the landaulet and saw her on her way to Malmesbury House.
12
AS EXPECTED, EVERYTHING IN the ducal mansion was at sixes and sevens. When Cicely stepped into the entry hall, the first thing she heard was the Lady Alicia shrieking like a banshee, just off the gallery, that someone, unseen, was a precious, mealymouthed brat. Next, Amalie’s voice was heard, nearly as loud but rather more controlled, as she pronounced her sister to be all about in her head and jealous besides just because she was not to attend the ball. At that opportune moment Lady Arabella stepped into the entry hall through the green baize door leading to the housekeeper’s rooms and the kitchens beyond. An arrested look showed that she had heard what was taking place above them.
“Where on earth is Miss Fellows, Bella?” Cicely demanded.
Arabella grinned. “Polishing the crystals of the chandelier in the dining room. You know how anxious she is to please, and Mama was persuaded they were smudged and said she knew dear Miss Fellows would know precisely which cleaning mixture would set things to rights. Nothing would do but that Miss Fellows must try to mend the matter herself. No one can tell her that such a task or any task that will please Mama is beneath her. Never mind those two,” she added, gesturing upward. “I’ll attend to them. Tani and Mama are in the sun-room. Do you go and see if you can put Mama in better spirits. She has managed to convince herself that all is in a way to ending in disaster.”
Chuckling companionably, they went upstairs together, and as Cicely made her way toward the rear of the great house she could hear her sister saying in her patient, practical way, “This will not do, Alicia, you must apologize. You are the elder and ought to have set a better example.”
Cicely smiled to herself. Arabella would make a fine wife and mother someday. She was still smiling when she entered the cheerful sun-room. The duchess looked up from the lists she was perusing near the well-swept hearth, and Brittany called a greeting from the window embrasure, where she sat upon a French seat, brushing the golden hair that hung damply to her waist. The windows were open, and birds could be heard singing in the sun-drenched garden below.
“Cicely, I’m so very glad you’ve come at last,” said the duchess fretfully. “My new French chef says he will not be told what to serve, and he was affronted when I informed him that I had ordered ices from Gunter’s. Everyone orders ices from Gunter, do they not? People would be disappointed not to find them. But I’ve not the slightest notion what Alphonse means to serve my guests for dinner, never mind what he will produce for the supper later!”
“But, ma’am, surely he presented a menu!”
“Well, of course he did, but ’tis all in French, and I never know what the things are, and when I asked him, he became offended again and said he never divulges his receipts!”
“Miss Fellows could—”
“Cicely! You cannot expect me to ask my daughters’ governess to read the menu to me!”
“Very well, Mama, but one of us could very well have read it. You must have seen it days ago. Why did you say nothing then?”
The duchess looked slightly embarrassed. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “Sally Jersey was here when Alphonse brought in his menu, and I didn’t want to say I couldn’t read it with her sitting right there. You know what a chatterbox that woman is. The tale would have been all over Town in a twinkling. So I merely looked it over and said it would do nicely. And now I can scarcely demand to have it back. If only Jacques were still here! Alphonse is not nearly so conciliating.”
What her mother meant, Cicely knew perfectly well, was that her former chef had flattered her and catered to her whims much more easily than did the presiding tyrant of the ducal kitchens. She smiled encouragingly. “Mama, you know you may trust Alphonse to do the right thing. He is an excellent, very experienced chef.”
The duchess agreed reluctantly, and the matter was laid to rest, but similar small crises presented themselves one after another until Cicely felt at last that she simply had to get back to Charles Street if she was to have sufficient time to dress before returning to Malmesbury House for dinner.
Wearily she called for her carriage, and when she got home she went straight up to her bedchamber and rang for Meg Hardy.
Meg said very little, but her disapproval was all but palpable. She had ordered a bath before coming up, and the men soon arrived with the tub and hot water. Meg ordered one of them to light a fire, then sent the hovering Betty for a pot of hot tea for her mistress.
“Now, Miss Cicely,” she said gently when the others had gone, “just you get yourself into that tub and relax whilst I wash your hair. I only hope there’s time enough to dry it before you must depart. And how you managed to get cobwebs in it from a house that’s supposedly been harboring an army of cleaning folk for an entire week,” she added more tartly, “I should like very much to know.” Cicely smiled weakly and, having been stripped of her clothes like a child, climbed into the tub. “That’s it now, dearie,” said Meg. “Just you settle in.” While she worked Meg chattered idly, and when her mistress’s hair was clean and her body glowed from head to toe, she held out a huge, fluffy towel. “Now, then, Miss Cicely, out you come, and step over to the fire, where it’s warm. Here’s Betty with your tea now. I’ll just fetch out a warm dressing gown.”
Obediently Cicely moved toward the fire, wrapped in the towel. Soon, however, she was seated in a comfortable chair in the light-blue wool dressing gown, her feet propped up on a footstool, her back to the cheerful fire, with a cup
of hot, sweet tea in hand. She sipped while Meg brushed her hair dry by the warmth of the fire, and the rhythm of the strokes in the heat of the room was nearly enough to put her to sleep. But once her hair was dry, it was time to dress.
Her ball gown for the evening was of pale-gold shimmering silk, cut high at the waist and low at the bosom. The puffed sleeves were trimmed with lace ruffles at the cuffs and lace caps at the shoulder line, while matching lace edged the ornately embroidered flounce. Meg styled her hair in the plaited coronet that was so becoming to her, and when Ravenwood tapped at the door to discover if she was dressed, she had just fastened her pearls and was stepping into a pair of gold satin slippers.
“You may come in, Gilbert,” she said, smiling when he peered around the door. “I’m nearly ready to depart.”
He looked perfectly splendid himself, she thought. He wore dark knee breeches with ornately clocked stockings and a brilliant gold-and-silver-brocaded waistcoat under the snugly fitting dark coat. He carried a blue velvet box, which he presented to her with the confident air of a man expecting to please his lady.
“I thought you might like to wear these,” he said. “Not so magnificent as the Malmesbury jewels, of course, but these were purchased just for you, Cilly.”
She opened the box and gazed raptly at the exquisite sapphire necklace and bracelet resting side by side on white satin. The magnificent, glowing stones were set in delicate filigreed gold. She gazed up at her husband with sudden tears welling into her eyes. “They are beautiful, Gilbert.” She rose on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the cheek. “No one ever gave me anything so beautiful before.”
“I thought they would suit you,” he said almost gruffly. “You wear your pearls so often, people will begin to think you have nothing else.”
“I like my pearls,” she replied simply.
He smiled. “I’m glad, Princess. But take them off now, and let me put the necklace on for you. Tonight you should be very grand.”
Obediently unclasping the pearls, she turned, trembling when first his fingers and then his lips brushed the nape of her neck. Silently slipping the bracelet out of the box, she let him fasten that as well, and he held her wrist a moment longer than necessary, looking searchingly into her eyes. “The jewels are lovely,” he said, his voice still a bit husky, “but you are lovelier still, my dear. ’Tis proud I am to be your husband tonight.” Then, before she could say anything at all, he practically demanded her wrap from the silent Meg, flung the deep-gold, fur-trimmed velvet cloak around her shoulders himself, and urged her toward the door.
Torches lit the entrance to Malmesbury House, and link-boys scurried to direct the disposal of the carriages already lining the street. Although the vast majority of the guests had not yet begun to arrive, it was clear that the attendants at least expected the ball to be a sad crush. No hostess could ask for more.
The duke and duchess sat down nearly fifty people to a magnificent dinner, and the duke was polite for once, while his duchess was as charmingly placid as she always was in company. Cicely had expected no less. It never seemed to matter how unsettled the duchess became in the hours before an affair such as this one. Once the first guest had put his foot across the threshold, she became the perfect hostess.
Cicely wished she could think herself the perfect guest. But before dinner was half over, she realized that her long day and the short nights preceding it were beginning to take their toll. It was all she could do to concentrate when one or the other of the gentlemen flanking her attempted to engage her in conversation. And although she had been quite curious to discover what, in fact, the temperamental Alphonse had elected to serve, she scarcely noted the contents of a single dish, mechanically accepting and then toying with whatever was offered to her.
She sipped her wine, then set it down, realizing too late that it was giving her a headache. Requesting a glass of water in its place, she glanced down the table to discover Ravenwood watching her, a crease between his brows. Though she smiled at him, the crease did not go away, and once dinner was over, he came to her side immediately.
“What is it, my dear? Are you ill?”
“Oh, no,” she replied, striving for a light tone. “It was just a trifle stuffy in the dining room. With a breath of fresh air I daresay I shall do very well.”
“I am persuaded that I would be doing better to take you home, Cilly. You don’t look well at all.”
Alarmed, she put a hand on his arm. “Really, Gilbert, I shall be all right. Only think what a stir it would cause if you were to take me away before the dancing has even begun. There is a balcony off the ballroom. Take me there whilst Mama, Papa, and Tani are greeting the new arrivals. I’m sure it will help prodigiously.”
He agreed, as she had been certain he would. For her to leave now would be to disturb the others far too much for them to enjoy the ball. It mustn’t be thought of.
As they passed through the ballroom she noted that the musicians were already in place. Then she saw Mr. Townsend standing perfectly upright, rocking back and forth upon his toes near the door to an anteroom, a strange, rather slim man in an ill-fitting dark blue coat and yellow breeches lounging gracelessly next to him. She and Ravenwood paused to greet them, and Mr. Townsend presented George Vaughan, albeit none too enthusiastically. Ravenwood chuckled as he guided her onto the moonlit balcony a few moments later.
“It seems that Townsend does not appreciate assistance from such a quarter as that one.”
“He is merely being fusty,” Cicely replied, breathing deeply of the crisp night breezes.
The fresh air did revive her, and by the time the musicians were striking up for the first set of country dances she was sure she would do nicely. Ravenwood, still visibly skeptical, led her inside to join their set. Her dance card had been filled for days, and as the evening wore on she began to feel as though she were two separate people, the first dancing with one man after another, with no memory of which was which, and the other already asleep and observing the first as in a dream. But when her headache returned, it did so with a vengeance, establishing itself directly behind her eyes, setting her temples throbbing.
She glanced around the ballroom, instinctively looking for Ravenwood, but it was Lord Faringdon who approached, intent upon claiming his dance.
“Just been talking with Townsend,” he chuckled. “Damned amusing fellow. First he wanted to keep my fobs in his pocket. Then he ups and says he’s arrested dukes and marquesses in his time and thinks it’s demeaning that folks should desire him to arrest a common thief.”
“Tony, please,” she muttered wretchedly. “Will you be a love and forgive me? I’ve got the most miserable headache. I don’t want to spoil anyone’s evening, but I must get out of here. Will you find Gilbert and tell him I’ve gone upstairs to lie down? Tell him I’ll be in Tani’s bedchamber. I shall ring for her woman to fix me a posset or something. And, Tony,” she added more firmly, “tell him he is not to worry. He knows perfectly well the headache will go away if I but lie down and let it take its course.”
“Your servant, my lady,” he replied, frowning with immediate concern, “but dashed if I think Gil’s going to like this much. Don’t mind telling you, he’s more like to collect you and carry you off home, where you belong.”
“I depend upon your resourcefulness to prevent that, sir. My mother would never forgive us if we both deserted her at such an early hour.”
“Do my best, ma’am.”
She thanked him profusely and left the room immediately to make her way up the nearby service stairs, grateful for the relative peace and quiet of the empty corridors on the second floor. Suddenly, however, as she passed the duchess’s bedchamber, its slightly open door revealing darkness within, she heard a sudden scraping noise and a muffled masculine oath. She hesitated just outside the door, listening.
Surely there was movement within, then a clinking sound as though two glass receptacles had collided. Next there came the unmistakable metallic jingling of chains. So
meone was rifling her mother’s dressing table! Only trinkets of little value would be found there, of course, for Fortescue had no doubt locked up her grace’s jewel case and hidden it away in one of the many cupboards, but if the thief were left to his own devices, he would surely find it before long.
Her headache forgotten, Cicely turned on her heel, then thought better of the action and moved slowly to open the door wider. There was truly very little light within, but there was a small glow from the dying fire, and she could catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure, near the dressing table. At that moment there was a sudden burst of flame from the fireplace. The sneak thief, startled, turned from the dressing table toward the fire, and she had a brief but clear profile view of a narrow, foxlike face, with long side-whiskers and a prominent, hooked nose. She had never seen him before, but she was quite certain she would recognize him if she ever saw him again.
She was not so foolish as to challenge him herself, of course, but, having seen as much as she dared, she hurried back down the corridor the way she had come. A moment later she was on the first floor, intent upon alerting Mr. Townsend to the thief’s presence in the house. However, even before she reached the ballroom, she recognized the thin, ill-dressed, slouching figure crossing the anteroom toward her as the man who had been lounging at the Runner’s side earlier in the evening.
“Mr. Vaughn! Thank goodness!” she exclaimed, relieved to think she would not have to search through the stuffy, overcrowded ballroom for assistance. “You must come with me, sir. There is a thief in my mother’s bedchamber. You must capture him at once, before he finds her jewels!”
Mr. Vaughan regarded her curiously. “How do you know he is there, my lady?”
