The carriage bounced beneath them, and it was several moments before Jane spoke again.
“It was at a lecture on natural medicine. The ladies seated in front of me were gossiping about ressurectionists. I missed the first portion of the conversation and had to fill in the parts that I missed as best I could.” Her words had slowed, her breath evening out.
“You filled in the parts quite nicely, my lady,” Richard said, his eyes watching her closely.
“But I believed it to be just gossip, Richard. I didn’t assume that ressurectionists actually existed, and I certainly never imagined that you would be spying on them,” she said.
“Observing,” he said, hoping his playful jab would lighten the suddenly oppressive mood.
He watched her shoulders relax, her hands unfastening themselves from one another, and his breath came a little easier.
“Indeed,” she said, her voice returning to its normal tone and cadence, “So why is it that you’re observing some ressurectionists?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he answered, returning his gaze once more to the passing scenery.
There was something about the blurring landscape as it raced past the window that allowed his thoughts a moment of peace to realign in his mind.
“Body snatching is a normal enough practice, especially since the enactment of certain restrictions on the practice of medical schools obtaining corpses for study. But this particular band seems a touch more active than is normal.”
“A touch?”
The carriage passed over a rather more uneven portion of road, and Richard gripped the bench to keep himself from falling off his seat. He looked at Jane to ensure that she was all right and found her holding onto her hat with one hand.
“That’s a lovely hat,” he said, distracted by her movement. “Tell me, Jane, when is it that propriety will no longer require you to wear such unrelenting black?”
Jane moved her hand from her hat to the bent collar of her bodice.
“You do not like this current dark ensemble? I was beginning to grow accustomed to such dark hues, Your Grace. Do you not think it could become my signature style? Perhaps I could start a trend.”
Richard smiled at her in the near dark.
“It does nothing for your hair,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow.
“And since when have you become concerned with an acceptable palate for my coloring?”
“Oh, I think you will find fashion has always been one of my strong suits.”
Jane looked down at his feet.
“It’s nice to see the mud has been removed from your shoes,” she said flatly, drawing a grin to his face.
“At least my shoes match,” he said and watched an irritated blush creep up Jane’s face.
“It was only the one time, and you rushed me,” she said, rather defensively.
“That was your claim at the time, but I still find your argument to be largely unsupported.”
She narrowed her gaze at him, and even in the darkness, he could feel the strength of her stare.
“I believe you changed the subject, Your Grace.”
He grinned but decided to leave the conversation where it was.
“They snatch a body nearly every night,” he said.
“And that is unusual?”
Richard nodded.
“Most body snatchers have a concern for discovery and only operate on certain nights during a given period. Although, some gangs have come to appreciate the influence of those that may save them from punishment for their consequences, there are still more bands that do not have the fortunate circumstances of having such aid. It is one of those bands that the War Office began to monitor some weeks ago.”
“What is it that is suspicious about their activity other than its frequency?”
“They are securing a large sum of money for their wares that is unaccounted for.”
Jane adjusted as the carriage made a turn, and Richard gripped his bench tighter.
“This gang of ressurectionists are making a substantial amount of money from digging up dead bodies from graveyards and selling said dead bodies to medical schools?”
“Yes,” Richard said with a nod.
“So what is this group doing with the money?”
Richard smiled.
“That is precisely the question the War Office is asking, my lady,” Richard said. “Are you sure you have no desire to pursue an intelligence profession?”
Jane rolled her eyes at him. He saw the movement even in the near dark.
“Do not be absurd, Your Grace. Perhaps they are sending the money to help compatriots in France or something.”
Richard shook his head.
“There is no evidence of international transactions. The money seems to simply disappear.”
It was Jane’s turn to frown.
“Money cannot simply disappear, Richard. There must be someone behind it.”
He nodded as he looked out of the window. They were approaching the theater, and the carriage slowed to accommodate the sudden increase in traffic. He looked again at Jane, marking the delicate outline of her pale face in the dark, the whites of her eyes flashing even as their unreadable depths melted away into nothing. His mind raced over their current conversation, and he marveled at what an unlikely topic they had taken up.
He knew very well that it was not any woman who would not only love his sons as much as he did but who could also follow and add to a conversation that involved dead bodies and illegal monetary exchanges. As Richard had plainly seen in his marriage to Emily, some women had heart, and other women had intelligence. It was remarkable to find a woman who had both, and he had found it in Jane. But what that would mean was yet to be seen.
“That is precisely what has attracted the attention of the War Office.”
The carriage stopped in front of the theater, and Richard heard the tiger jump from his perch. He moved to open the door, handing Jane down to the waiting servant.
A steady stream of elegantly dressed ladies and fashionably coifed gentleman already moved into the theater, and it was then that Richard realized he had not asked Jane what they were seeing. He gripped Jane’s hand in his as they made their way toward the entrance.
“My lady, it appears I have forgotten what it is that we are to see this evening,” he said, squeezing Jane’s hand in his.
He looked over to her in time to see the small smile on her lips.
“That is because I did not tell you what it was we are seeing,” she replied, and he thought for an instant, she was fighting a laugh.
He felt a prickle of awareness run up the back of his neck. He wanted to reach up and swat it away as if it were a physical thing.
“It is not-“
“It is actually,” Jane said, turning her face up to him in a broad smile.
He let her hand slip from his in a move of utter defeat.
“Again? Isn’t there another opera they would care to perform this season?”
Jane smiled radiantly up at him.
“You know as well as I that Monsieur Devereaux’s portrayal of Tamino is all the rage this season, and it is only fashionable that we should attend another performance.”
“We’ve already attended two,” Richard said, trying not at all to hide his exasperation.
Jane only smiled.
“Perhaps one day you will better handle your social responsibilities.”
“If anyone had told me regular opera attendance would be demanded of a duke, I would have passed on the title long ago,” he grumbled, moving to take her hand in his once more as they moved with the stream of people.
“And I would ask that you not fall asleep this time,” Jane murmured quietly.
He looked down at her blinking.
“I did not fall asleep-“
“You snored,” she whispered, “And it drew the attention of nearly everyone in the theater.”
Richard straightened and looked at the ladies and gentlemen
moving in front of him.
“Well, then perhaps people found me more entertaining than Devereaux’s Tamino.”
“Perhaps,” was all Jane said as they entered the theater.
CHAPTER TWO
Jane pondered the merits of arranging the titles in one’s library by subject rather than by author’s last name as a means for more accurately finding the tome for which one searched. She also pondered arranging the titles by author’s first name as a kind of joke on the unsuspecting visitor. Both subjects were vastly more entertaining than the pockets of gossip occurring about her at Lady Vaxson’s tea.
Although Jane needn’t have accepted Beatrice’s invitation with her period of mourning a ready excuse, something had made Jane come, knowing that sooner or later she would need to reengage with society, and a tea was a harmless enough place to start. Although, Jane was now feeling the need to reassess her expectations of the afternoon.
Lady Vaxson was known for her once a month extravagant teas. It was more of a gossip festival than a sedate tea of polite ladies and their daughters. But that was perhaps why Jane truly accepted Beatrice’s invitation. There was something in Richard’s constant goading about Jane’s natural inclination to spying that had her unexpectedly experimenting in avenues she may not have previously ventured into.
Today’s tea for example.
Jane was certainly happy to sit there, cold cup of tea in one hand and equally cold, tiny sandwich congealing in the other, her mind drifting off to other more favorable topics, but instead, she found herself noticing how the titles were arranged in Lord Vaxon’s library.
This was another peculiarity to note in Lady Vaxson’s teas. She invited so many ladies she was forced to use her husband’s library for the event rather than the more proper drawing room. Jane thought it better to simply limit the number of guests invited, but perhaps this was seen as an unacceptable situation to Beatrice.
And the titles were terribly dull in their arrangement of alphabetical by author’s last name. Lord Vaxson could at least throw a twist in there by arranging them alphabetically by last name according to year published. That would make it more interesting.
“Cadavres.”
As the word made its way into Jane’s conscious mind, she did everything in her power not to react. There were certain things expected of a young woman during Jane’s rearing years, and one of them was that she learn the French language. Jane had not only learned it, she had mastered it. So when the decidedly French voice made its way from the pair of ladies seated behind her into Jane’s range of hearing, she knew exactly of what the women spoke.
Dead bodies.
Jane was already off to the side, and being even further behind her, the two ladies were quite removed from the main throb of gossip in the room. But Jane could now hear them clearly as their French words were markedly different from the rest of the chatter about hairstyles and dress length. Before another word could be spoken, Jane shifted one leg, effectively pulling on the tea napkin she had perched on one knee below her now cold cup of tea. The tea napkin pulled free from the tea cup as she had expected and fell graciously to the floor.
Bending to retrieve it, Jane swiveled her head, taking in the two ladies behind her. Neither woman was speaking when Jane caught a glimpse of them, but one was familiar in a way to Jane while the other was a complete stranger. The familiar one had glistening blonde hair, so pale it was almost white, and swept up into intricate folds on top of her head, pinned there tightly with a plume of feathers. Very garish to Jane’s taste, but perhaps the woman felt the added accessory was necessary for some fashionable reason. Her features were delicate and unremarkable. It was as if the woman could disappear while simply standing there from her lack of color and notable features. The lack of memorability was what led Jane to recall the woman. She remembered such a woman being introduced to her, on the arm of an earl it seemed.
She made an elaborate and rather unnecessary demonstration of placing her teacup on the side table located slightly behind the cluster of chairs of which she found herself a part. The table placed the dish inconveniently out of her reach, but the motion afforded her another glance at the ladies behind her. It only took this second glance for Jane to finally realize who the woman was that was currently speaking in French undertones about dead bodies.
The Countess of Straughton. Necole something or other. The woman was, in fact, French and married to the Earl of Straughton. Jane could not recall at the moment his given name nor how he had come to be married to a French lady as she strained to hear the rest of the conversation. The only thing Jane could recall about the woman was that she had a rather infamous relationship with cards of the gambling sort. It was not exactly proper for a lady to engage in cards of the nature that Lady Straughton often found herself immersed in, but it was often forgiven for Straughton was foreign. Many things could be forgiven based on a person’s unfortunate circumstance to not be born on English soil. And it was rumored that Lady Straughton did not lose easily. A bit of a snobbish sport, Jane had heard.
“Dans les cimetières.”
What was in the cemeteries?
Jane leaned her head back further as if gazing up at the rows of books that stretched to the ceiling in the tall bookcases lining the walls.
“Fournir une grande richesse.”
She nearly fell off of her chair as she strained backward, and at these words, she sat up as if an electric shock passed through her.
Dead bodies in the graveyards provided much wealth?
“Are you all right, Lady Haven?”
Jane turned her head at the source of the question and found Beatrice herself looking her over as if she had suddenly been stricken ill and was beginning to show signs of the ailment. Jane quickly shook her head.
“Oh, I’m quite all right, Beatrice. I am just-“ she quickly searched for a suitable word to describe the conversation occurring around her of which she knew nothing, “-enraptured.”
She felt her face flush at such an incredibly unsuitable word, but she hoped Beatrice would leave it be.
She did not.
“I’ll admit that Lady Weston’s choice to reread all of Shakespeare’s sonnets is admirable, but I believe enraptured is taking the decision to heights undeserved of such an action.”
Jane blinked.
“Quite right,” she said, quickly, dipping her head down to study her hands, hoping the conversation would move past her.
It did not.
“Do you require more tea then?”
Beatrice stood to offer to pour, but Jane quickly waved her away.
“No, I’m quite all right, Lady Vaxson, thank you.”
Beatrice scrutinized her with greater energy.
“I do believe you are flushed, Jane. Do you require the salts?”
Jane glared at her, unable to restrain herself further.
“I said I was quite all right, Beatrice. I assure you salts are highly uncalled for.”
Beatrice retreated into her chair, and Lady Weston quickly picked up the conversation before the moment could become awkward.
Jane let her ears wander back to the conversation behind her, but the voices were noticeably absent. Jane stood, drawing quite a bit more than just a concerned glance from her hostess.
“Lady Haven-“
Jane cut her off.
“I just require the retiring room for a moment,” she said with a bland smile and a quick wave of her hand.
She scooped up her skirts and made a full circuit of the room before exiting to the hallway, scanning up and down the length of it in a quick motion. But she was too late. Just as her head swung in the direction of the front of the house, she saw the ridiculous plume of feathers disappear out of sight down the staircase leading to the foyer and the door to the outside.
Jane froze, half in the library and half out. Decorum demanded that she return to the library and bid her hostess a good day along with her thanks for the occasion. The fact that her conscious mind had sto
pped her from moving forward was a sign of her reluctance to take such a step in itself. But there was another part of Jane that propelled her forward, unwilling to let her prey escape her grasp. The thought shocked Jane as it was so unlike her. But, still, she glanced once over her shoulder in the direction of the library before speedily moving in the direction of the stairs.
And it was in that first step that Jane felt something snap within her. Something pure and vibrant, something long hidden and ignored, nearly forgotten.
She would not say that she ran to the stairs in the Vaxson townhouse, but it was very close to a trot, she could not deny. She reached the foyer just as a footman closed the front door. Assuming it was the Countess of Straughton who had most recently passed through it, Jane requested her cloak and hat, pulling both on even as she opened the door herself. She left the stunned servant in her wake and made her way onto the icy streets of London. Winter held the city in its grip, and the ground was hard with a freezing rain. She tucked her hands into her muff and ducked further into the warm folds of her hooded cloak, hoping for added warmth and concealment.
She spotted the Countess of Straughton almost immediately, making her way along the sidewalk along with her companion from the library. Jane quickly made her way down the front stoop of the Vaxson townhouse and began her pursuit.
Her blood rushed through her, providing both warmth and a heady sense of unreality.
She was spying.
Quiet, submissive, Jane Haven, the former Countess of Winton, widowed at such a fragile age from a man that spat at orphans and stepped on kittens was spying, and Jane squared her shoulders, ready to take on anything that might challenge her pursuit.
There had been moments in her marriage when she had thought there was something more to her, something greater, but Winton was there, ready to strike it out of her with physical force. And strike her he had. Whether it was just his hand or perhaps with a belt, he had used his physical dominance as a means of keeping her quiet. When she had failed to carry her third pregnancy to term, she had feared that the beating would end her life. But it hadn’t. She had awoken from that beating to find herself quite alive, and it was then that something had clicked inside of her.
Inevitably a Duchess Page 2
