“It does not make it any less humiliating.” Aunt closed the newspaper. “Now that you are presented, we should have had our rightful invitation. At least the list of those who attended has not been published. It would be beyond bearable if one’s name was missing.” She pushed her plate away. Barnett stepped out from beside the service bureau and removed it. “And now we have to deal with a call from Lord Carlston, which is not going to add to our ton. Even with Mr. Brummell’s ameliorating presence.”
Aunt’s look across the table was plain: Your fault.
After dinner last night, the entire household had heard Lord Pennworth’s heated views about Lord Carlston’s intended visit booming from the drawing room. It had taken Aunt a full half-hour to calm him down, and it was only Beau Brummell’s sponsorship of the man that had finally swayed Uncle to accept the visit. Even he acknowledged the importance of the Beau’s approval to a girl’s social success. He had made it clear, however, that he would be at his club when Lord Carlston made his appearance.
Helen took a bite of the brioche, letting her full mouth save her from the necessity of an answer. Lord Carlston’s visit was indeed her fault, but she did not feel any guilt about it. Not at all. She was going to get her miniature back and have an explanation, although how that was going to be achieved was not yet clear. Surely, as a gentleman, he would just return it. She took another bite and chewed reflectively. Perhaps not—he had shown very little evidence of gentlemanly behavior thus far.
Aunt picked up the top card from the stack of invitations that had arrived in the early mail. “We have, at least, been invited to the King’s birthday ball.” She flexed the thick paper between finger and thumb. “You never told me what the Queen said to you.”
Helen lifted a dismissive shoulder. “I was so nervous, I hardly took it in. Just a pleasantry, I think.”
She had made no conscious decision to keep the Queen’s statement a secret. Yet when Aunt had first asked what Her Majesty had said, Helen had hedged the answer. And now she had done it again. Perhaps it was childish, but she could not bear to think of her aunt picking apart this unexpected championing of her mother. It was her revelation, and hers alone.
Aunt observed her nervously. “Did Her Majesty say something harsh?”
At least here she could tell the truth. “No, not at all.” She leaned over the table and read the engraved lettering on the next card. “The Howards’ on the third? Do we go?”
“There is not much else on offer, so I think we will. I have heard that Lord Byron will be attending.”
“Really? I cannot wait to see him,” Helen said. “I hear he is an Adonis.”
Millicent had already seen the celebrated poet and reported, rather too extensively, on his physical charms and excitingly surly nature. Helen wondered what her friend would make of Lord Carlston’s strange behavior. Well, she would find out soon enough: the Gardwells were to accompany them to the park on Sunday for promenade.
Aunt snorted. “Lord Byron is a good-looking boy, I will grant you that, but I mislike this whole business with Caro Lamb. It is all becoming so public.”
Helen nudged the card aside to read the next. “Aunt, look. Lady Jersey has asked us to make up a party that goes to Vauxhall Gardens on Tuesday. Are we to go? I love the Gardens.”
“Of course we shall accept. One can hardly refuse a patroness of Almack’s, although I fear we may be an afterthought, since her card is so late.” Aunt took an irritated sip of tea. “Still, afterthought or not, we will go. We may have secured an Almack’s voucher for the whole of May, but we need Silence’s continuing sponsorship if you are to be ensured a voucher for June, too.”
Helen looked up at her aunt’s use of the sour nickname bestowed upon the patroness of the exclusive club for her habit of ceaseless chatter. “I thought you liked Lady Jersey.”
“I do. I just mistrust this sudden interest in you. She is mercurial, to say the least, and the last thing we need is for her to take offense at something ridiculous and refuse us entry to Almack’s.”
Helen smiled: even with Lady Jersey’s unpredictable nature, a night at the pleasure gardens was something special. She shifted the card aside to show the one beneath. “And here is Millicent’s ball for the nineteenth.”
“That one goes without saying,” Aunt said. “I wonder if we should ask Carlston to your ball now, since you have seen fit to draw him into our sphere.”
Helen hurriedly took another bite of brioche. Her ball had been scheduled for the twenty-sixth to take advantage of the light of the full moon, but it was also the anniversary of the day that she and Andrew had learned of their parents’ death. Usually, she spent it in private memorial, recalling those few memories that she still managed to hold close. Not this year, however. Apparently, such an activity was maudlin; her aunt had announced it was time to replace it with happier memories. Perhaps she was right. Yet it still felt like a betrayal, and Helen could not face the ball’s preparations with quite the enthusiasm that Aunt expected. The inclusion of Carlston, however, would certainly add a frisson to the evening. She tried to picture her uncle receiving him, but even her lively imagination could not conjure it.
She swallowed her mouthful. “Uncle would not be pleased.”
“True. Yet there is a very good chance that if Carlston comes, Brummell will too. It seems the Beau is intent on bringing the man back into society.” Aunt returned the Royal invitation to the stack. “If that is the case, Brummell might very well make us his last ball of the evening.” She tapped the white tablecloth meditatively. “We must try to ensure that happy situation. Have you finished your part of the guest list yet?”
“Not quite.”
“Then that will be your task for the morning.” Aunt brushed crumbs from her hands, a surreptitious glance downward also checking the front of her citron morning gown. “Your uncle wishes me to engage another housemaid, and so I must write to the registry office. After that we shall review your list.” A flick of a finger expelled an errant crumb from her bodice.
“Are you replacing Berta already? But she has only been missing four days.”
“How do you know about Berta?” Aunt waved away her own question. “Of course, the servants.” She cast a reproachful look at Barnett, then turned her irritation back to Helen. “It does not matter how many days she has been missing; we cannot afford to be short-staffed for your ball. And you know as well as I do that your uncle will not have her back in the house should she return. She has proved herself unreliable.” Aunt paused, struck by a thought. “I shall write to the Heathcotes and the Leonards. They may know of a girl. It is far better to hire on a recommendation from someone you know, Helen. Remember that when it comes time for you to hire.”
“But surely we can’t leave it at that,” Helen said. “Darby says Berta spoke about a mother up north. No mother should be left wondering what has happened to her daughter.”
Aunt sighed. “That is true enough. But I don’t see what we can do. Your uncle has ordered her things to be packed up and another girl to be hired.”
Her things packed up? Helen suddenly saw a way to further her promise to Darby. Not a particularly honorable way, but it might provide a clue to where Berta had gone.
“Barnett, where is Berta’s lockable box?”
The butler stepped forward. “Mrs. Grant has moved it to the housekeeper’s room, my lady. For safekeeping.” The last was said with a gentle note of censure; he knew where she was heading.
“What do you propose to do?” Aunt asked. “Open it?”
“Yes.” Helen shot an apologetic glance in Barnett’s direction. “She may have something in there with an address for her mother writ upon it.”
“My dear, one does not open a servant’s private box.”
From the corner of her eye, Helen saw Barnett’s high-bridged nose dip in agreement. “If Berta does not return, then the box must be sen
t back to her mother,” she countered. “Don’t you agree?”
Aunt patted Helen’s arm. “I know you mean well, and there is virtue in your argument, but it has not come to that yet. We will wait to see if Berta returns. If she does not, Mrs. Grant can open the box.”
“But what if she is in trouble? We could help her.”
“It is not your place to go rummaging through the poor girl’s belongings, and I can’t see that it will help her in any way.” Aunt signaled to Barnett. He stepped smartly behind her chair and pulled it out as she rose.
“It might give us an idea of where she has gone,” Helen persisted.
“What is the most important thing I have told you about a well-run servants’ hall?”
“‘A well-run servants’ hall requires vigilance from the lady of the house, but not direct interference,’” Helen dutifully quoted. “But—”
“Exactly.” Aunt walked to the door. “Mrs. Grant is in charge of the female staff. She will know what to do.” She looked back. “You must not trespass on Mrs. Grant’s dominion. You know how difficult it gets if she is upset. I will see you in the drawing room with your guest list.”
Helen pushed away her plate. “Yes, Aunt.”
As Barnett opened the door, Helen remembered another, more useful piece of information about the well-run servants’ hall. At night the butler’s pantry was always locked to secure the valuable plate. The housekeeper’s room, however—like the other servants’ rooms—was never locked.
HELEN SPENT THE rest of the morning finishing her part of the list, then sitting with Aunt in the drawing room and discussing each potential guest. Not all survived the dissection, although Helen successfully argued for the lowly Miss Taylor, another friend from her seminary days.
At around noon Barnett served a light luncheon of meat and fruit. Helen took only an apricot and a slice of ham. How could she eat when she was about to face Lord Carlston in a battle of wits?
She soon withdrew to her dressing room to change into her afternoon gown in readiness for that battle. After much pacing back and forth in front of her clothes press, she finally decided to wear her new favorite ensemble: an apple-green velvet bodice over a white satin underdress. A pair of lace fingerless mitts, dyed to match the velvet, completed the outfit. One last pat to her hair in the mirror—braided and curled around a high Grecian knot by Darby—and she was ready to receive Lord Carlston and his amused shark eyes.
“What if he does not give the miniature back, my lady?” Darby asked, demolishing Helen’s hard-won composure. “What if he does not mention it? What if he does not even acknowledge taking it?”
They were all questions Helen had asked herself, with no answers. She had told Darby the whole story during her morning toilette—before family prayers and breakfast—but it seemed that her maid only now realized the full awkwardness of the situation. A realization that had arrived with full force for Helen at two that morning.
“He must have some compelling reason for taking the portrait, and I’m sure he will want me to know it,” Helen said. She observed her certainty in the mirror. It looked almost real. “Otherwise, he would not have agreed to the visit.”
“Unless he was just being polite, my lady,” Darby said, returning the extra hairpins to their silver box. “Or he wants to torment you.”
Yes, there was that, too.
Helen turned away from the discomfiting thought to face her maid with another uneasy subject. “I have had an idea on how to find Berta.”
Darby looked up eagerly.
“No, wait. You will not like it. I am going to search her lockbox.” She acknowledged Darby’s gasp with an apologetic lift of her hand. “I know, it is a dreadful breach, and my aunt has not given me permission to open it. But there may be a clue inside. I feel I must look.”
The broad lines of Darby’s face seemed to narrow. Although Helen had not meant it to be so, her idea had suddenly become a test of the girl’s allegiance. Was Darby her maid, or her aunt’s servant? She had never asked Darby to directly disobey Aunt before. Of course, the girl had taken it upon herself to tell Helen about Berta and had even helped her tie the miniature to the fan, but that was nothing compared to choosing Helen’s wishes above the direct orders of the mistress of the house. If it were discovered, she could lose her position without a character reference, which would make it almost impossible for her to find work again. Yet here she was being forced to make a choice, all for the sake of a fellow maid. Would she feel obliged to inform Aunt of the lockbox plan, or would she keep Helen’s secret?
Darby closed the silver pin box with a snap and turned it over and over in her competent, square hands. The pins shifted back and forth against the sides, the sound like the roll of a drum.
“It has been moved to the housekeeper’s room,” she finally said. “How will you get it?”
Helen exhaled, surprised at the intensity of her relief. “I will go down after everyone has retired.”
“Then I will go, too. You will need someone to keep watch.”
Helen shook her head. Allegiance was all very well, but she did not want Darby to risk direct participation. “I cannot allow that.”
Darby’s soft mouth compressed into obstinacy. “I involved you, madam, when I knew it was not the proper thing to do. I will accompany you.” The stubbornness lifted into a shrewd smile. “I have great faith in your ability to move around the house without being heard.”
So she knew about the midnight forays. “Obviously, I was not completely unheard,” Helen said dryly.
“Only by me, my lady. My room is next to the staircase, and the top step squeaks.” Darby met her gaze solemnly. “It is no one’s business but your own.”
“Thank you,” Helen said slowly. A small thrill settled in her chest. To Darby, her decision to roam the halls at night was not the act of a naughty child, but that of a lady about her own business. It had not been business of any consequence, to be sure, but now she had something real to do. Something important. And, she had to admit, she liked the idea of Darby’s company. “We must find a way to open the box so that Mrs. Grant will not suspect it has been breached. Could we pick the lock, do you think?”
Darby cocked her head. “There is no certainty that it will open, my lady. However, Berta’s box is only made of deal, like my own, so if we are careful, we should be able to lever it open without splitting the wood. I did so with mine when I misplaced the key, and if the lock lever is not damaged, it can be pushed back into service. A flat piece of metal will do the job.”
“Can you find such a tool?”
“Yes, easily.”
“Good, then do so.” And although they were alone, Helen lowered her voice. “We go tonight.”
WITH ONE CAMPAIGN planned, Helen hurried downstairs to fight the other.
Her aunt was already in position in the drawing room. She, too, had changed into a new gown—a stylish purple-and-black stripe—and sat primly by her tambour frame, hook in hand. Sally, one of the senior maids, stood in readiness behind the tea table, which had been set with a large silver urn and matching tea caddy worked in a riot of rococo grapes and shells. Aunt had come armored with the Paul de Lamerie service.
Helen crossed to the right-hand window and peered down at a carriage-and-four edging along the narrow street. A number of pedestrians hurried across the cobbles to the safety of the higher paths on each side. As she watched, the unmistakably tall and well-dressed figures of Lord Carlston and Beau Brummell strolled around the corner. An even larger man in a good-quality coat, with the golden brown skin of warmer climes, followed them but kept his distance, hat brim pulled low over his eyes. Lord Carlston turned and spoke to him, a wave of his hand sending the giant across the road, opposite the house. It was obviously his man.
“They are coming, Aunt.”
“Then for goodness’ sake, step away from the window and take
up your work. We must not look as though we are waiting for them.”
Helen sat on the yellow silk sofa that was strategically set opposite the doorway and pulled out her embroidery from the workbag at its side. The cushion-size piece of linen with its dense, half-filled design of pansies had acted as her fine work for over a year now, and was not likely to be finished any time soon, not with Andrew’s constant demands for rolled-hem cravats and linen shirts. Still, it was a pretty piece and had often, in times of excruciatingly dull conversation, saved the day by becoming a subject of discussion. She pulled the needle and scarlet thread free from its mooring in the cloth.
Three stitches were placed before the knock sounded and the double doors opened. Barnett crossed the carpet, silver salver in hand, bowed, and offered its contents to Aunt. She picked up the two cards set upon it, scrutinized the embossed lettering on each, replaced them, and nodded. “We are at home.”
Barnett withdrew, closing the doors behind him.
“We must hope that they keep their topcoats on,” Aunt said. “Although I would not put it past Carlston to claim the family connection and stay longer.”
Helen nodded as if she agreed, but a coats-on call would give her only fifteen minutes or so to extract her miniature. That is, if Lord Carlston had actually brought it with him. And that would just be the start of the difficulties.
Another knock. Helen resolutely lowered her eyes to her work and positioned another stitch. She heard the doors open, and saw the arrival of Barnett’s buckled shoes and two sets of highly polished black topboots.
“Lord Carlston and Mr. Brummell, my lady,” the butler announced.
Without looking up, Helen placed her work neatly on the small round table beside the sofa, gathered her skirts, and stood. Finally she raised her head, her expression composed into one part boredom, two parts polite indifference. He would find no anxiety in her face.
She caught a moment of those dark eyes—still amused—and then Lord Carlston and Mr. Brummell bowed. Although they had handed their hats, gloves, and canes to Barnett at the front door, both still wore their coats. Fifteen minutes, then.
The Dark Days Club Page 8
