Page 8 of The Lady and the Secret Lord (The Duke’s Men #3)

T he cab came to a stop at the entrance to the Charles St. mews. Jones hopped out, turned, and once more lifted Phoebe by the waist. In his hands, her body made a quick dizzying arc through the air. Her feet lightly touched the ground. His hands released her. The sensation of being lifted and borne aloft as if she were a leaf caught in a breeze was exhilarating. It was cheeky. It was bold. She did not know which astonished her more, the quick strength of him, or his letting her go. It was something to have that strength on her side without constraining her. In two days, her hopes of finding Andrew had revived.

She looked up at him through the veil, amazed. His face wore that odd abstracted expression she’d seen in the coffeehouse, as if he couldn’t quite solve a puzzle. But she had no time to ponder her detective’s thought processes.

She picked up her skirts and dashed for home. Her cousins could arrive any minute. As she came through the gate, Trajan greeted her with barks and tail wags, the kitchen door opened, and Peggy, the scullery maid, looked out, puzzled.

“It’s me, Peggy.” Phoebe lifted her veil.

“Oh, my lady, we was that worried for you. Mrs. K is waiting.”

“Thank you.” Phoebe took the servants stairs up to her friend’s room, arrived a little breathless, knocked, and entered. Mrs. K rose from her desk, an expression of relief on her face. A lavender wool day dress lay on the bed.

“Cutting it close, dear girl. Where have you been?”

“We went to Soho, to Shattuck’s shop.” Phoebe opened the hidden buttons down the bodice of the black gown.

Mrs. K shook her head. “ We? ”

“Jones and I.” Phoebe shrugged out of the dress, and it pooled at her feet. She stepped over the fallen silk, and Mrs. K scooped it up.

“Soho was not part of the plan. You were to go to the coffee shop.” Mrs. K frowned. She laid the black dress over the back of her chair.

“I know, but this time, I must be in charge of the search. I must examine the facts myself.” Phoebe worked the corset open, slipped it off, and tossed it over the discarded dress on the chair. She lifted her arms, and Mrs. K undid the pins that secured the flannel.

With a few quick turns Mrs. K unwound Phoebe’s padding. “Sit,” she commanded.

Phoebe sat and turned toward the mirror hanging on the side of the wardrobe. She looked mildly deranged in her chemise and petticoats with the black hat on her head. Her thoughts were certainly disordered. Jones had not lifted her up because he was taken with her beauty.

“What did you discover?” Mrs. K removed the black hat and snood.

“A great deal about Mr. Shattuck.”

“Shattuck, the secondhand clothes man?” Mrs. K frowned in the mirror at Phoebe’s hair.

“I think he’s more than that. What do you remember about the hiring of Boyle? Were his papers in order?”

“It was quick. We had just returned from the country.” Mrs. K pulled the pins from Phoebe’s hair, and brushed it back to smoothness. The soothing strokes of the brush momentarily relaxed her, and Phoebe yawned. She shook herself alert again.

“But why did we hire a new man? Didn’t we have a long-time footman, Ned Bartling?”

“We did, but Mr. Trafford let Ned go for theft.”

“Theft?” Phoebe’s gaze met Mrs. K’s in the mirror. “We’ve never dismissed a Marchmont servant for theft before, have we? What did Ned steal?”

“I never knew. I think it was a small statue from your father’s study.”

“What an odd thing to take. It could only be of value to collectors. How could Ned expect to gain from taking such a thing?”

“Actually, he couldn’t. Mr. Shattuck told Mr. Trafford of the theft. Apparently, Ned asked Shattuck if he could get something for the item. Shattuck told Mr. Trafford that he feared for his business reputation if he dealt in questionable merchandise.” Mrs. K gave Phoebe’s shoulders a quick squeeze. “Out of those black petticoats, my dear. Your cousins will be here any minute.”

Phoebe untied the black petticoats and tied on her usual ones. Mrs. K picked up the lavender day dress from the bed and raised it for Phoebe to thrust her arms into the sleeves.

Mrs. K pulled the dress into place around her.

“Did Ned admit the theft?” Phoebe asked.

“You will have to ask Mr. Trafford.” Mrs. K buttoned the gown at Phoebe’s back. “Let me look at you.” She straightened Phoebe’s sleeves. “You’ll do,” she said.

“I’m off then. We’ll talk later. There’s more. Much more.” Phoebe headed for the door.

“Wait,” cried Mrs. K. “Shoes!”

*

Phoebe settled in the drawing room as her cousins’ voices sounded in the entry. Her body was drained, but her pulse raced and her thoughts swirled endlessly. She took a steadying breath and folded her hands in her lap an instant before Henry entered.

“Mary will have it that we’ve come to cheer you,” he said, looking splendid in a deep-green coat with a black velvet collar, “but really we’re escaping Great-Aunt’s house. She’s cross as a bear, this morning.” He dropped into an armchair opposite Phoebe and looked with interest at the tray of refreshments.

“Morning?” Phoebe laughed. It was nearly five, late for morning calls, which usually ended by one.

“Hello, Phoebe.” Mary entered in a more leisurely manner. “Don’t listen to Henry. Not everyone can endure his perpetual good humor. Least of all, Aunt before she’s had her chocolate.” She offered Phoebe a quick kiss on the cheek and settled in the chair next to her brother’s. Together they made a handsome pair.

Henry shuddered. “So true. The old girl was an absolute thundercloud this morning. All I did was act out a bit of the farce.”

“Loudly,” said Mary. “You mustn’t judge Great-Aunt by her reaction to Henry. Did you enjoy the farce, by the way?”

“I did,” said Phoebe. “Thank you for taking me.”

“Good,” said Henry. “Because that was only the beginning. We have plans for you. Big plans.”

Mary glared at her brother.

“Plans for me?” Phoebe had the feeling that she had again been the subject of conversation at the other house.

“Invitations, not plans,” Mary corrected. “Henry overstates, as usual. You can see why he’s hard on Aunt’s nerves. Tomorrow is one of Great-Aunt’s at-home days, and we simply want you to come.”

“You know,” said Henry. “Do the pretty, visit the old girl on her return to London, that sort of thing.”

They were right. Phoebe with her mind on the new search had lost sight of what family ties required. She tried to keep a smile in place, and knew from Mary’s raised brow, that she wasn’t entirely successful. It was just that she had been Mrs. Kendall all morning, and she was still partly in her Mrs. Kendall state of mind, still thinking about meeting Jones and pursuing the leads they’d uncovered. Calling on Great-Aunt would mean that Phoebe could not go with Jones to the watch dealer’s shop as planned.

“Of course, I’ll call.” She made an attempt at a smile.

Henry took a bun from the refreshment tray. “Glad that’s settled then. Once you meet Great-Aunt’s cronies, the invites will pour in. You’ll be back in the whirl in no time, full calendar, cards on the silver tray, soles of your dancing shoes worn through.”

Mary watched her with an expression of sympathy, but Phoebe’s heart sank. The last thing she wanted was a full calendar, not now when the stalled search for Andrew seemed at last to be going somewhere.

“Oh dear,” said Mary. “You look done in, Phoebe. Remember, Henry exaggerates, and you are not obliged to accept any invitations. Great-Aunt would simply enjoy seeing you and hearing how you’re getting on.”

Phoebe doubted that her great-aunt anticipated any pleasure from Phoebe’s visit, but she would go for the sake of family harmony, always worth preserving. Phoebe had been quite young, perhaps five, when she realized that her great-aunt did not like her mama. She had been near fourteen when she understood why. Her cousins, meanwhile, had been tireless in their efforts to cheer her. Even if her great-aunt was less warm, Henry and Mary had asked so little of her in the past year.

“I admit,” said Henry, “hyperbole’s my middle name. But we can’t have you moping about here. Who was that fellow hanging around you in your first season? Elliot? Elton?”

Phoebe laughed. “Viscount Eldridge. I’m sure he’s married by now and not pining for a girl he barely knew.”

“Well, no matter. Soon you’ll have a dozen other fellows queueing up to dance with you. You’ll be dancing all night.”

Phoebe yawned. She couldn’t help it. Henry looked astonished.

“You didn’t sleep in I take it.” Mary laughed. “You’re going to have to take a leaf from Henry’s book. He never rises before noon.”

“Habit,” said Phoebe.

Henry popped up from his chair. “It’s the only way a man can enjoy London. The best people come out in the evening. Makes sense to sleep through the morning mop up or whatever it is that drudges do.” He began to move about the drawing room, picking up whatever lay on top of the mantel, the console table, a set of recessed shelves in the corner. He stopped to turn over a small Roman jar made of blue glass.

“How old do you suppose this thing is?” he asked, looking back at Phoebe over his shoulder. “Is it valuable?”

“It’s probably third century,” Phoebe replied. “It’s the sort of glass jar the Romans kept fish oil in.”

Henry made a face and put the jar down at once. “I thought your father’s… whatchamacallits were priceless.”

“Some are, but some he collected because they added to the record of how the Romans lived.”

“So are any of these the priceless ones?” He waved a hand over the shelf.

Phoebe shook her head. “His more valuable pieces are in his study.”

Henry’s brows went up. “Sounds intriguing. Show me?”

“You haven’t seen them before?”

Mary frowned. “Henry, she doesn’t want to show you a bunch of old pots.”

Henry grinned. “I bet she does. Reminds her of her old man. Lead the way, Phoebe.”

The study was a smaller version of the drawing room, facing north with oak-paneled walls and her father’s great mahogany desk looking out over the garden. The room was dim and cold as no fire had been lit there for months. A soon as Phoebe entered and saw the tall, glass-fronted cabinet that held her father’s antiquities, her doubts about Ned Bartling’s theft resurfaced.

Henry crossed the room to the cabinet, and Phoebe came to stand beside him. She shivered in the cold. Henry shed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Its smell made her smile. Her cousin had a distinctive scent concocted for him by a favorite chemist in Jermyn Street. “Never cold,” he said. “Your father keeps these items locked up, I see.”

She ignored the present tense. The lock was a point she’d forgotten. It made the idea of Ned Bartling stealing a statue even more odd. If the usual complaints about London servants were to be believed, they did pinch things, but those things were generally spoons or candlesticks, linens or jewelry, small, easily pocketed items lying about. Her father’s cabinet was crammed with bits and pieces of the past, and one would have to look closely to see that a single piece had been removed. A thief would also have to have time alone in the room and know where the key was kept.

“Any idea how many gewgaws he has here? Your father was sort of mad for these things, wasn’t he?”

The shelves only looked chaotic. Her father’s collection was thoroughly catalogued. Phoebe turned to his desk for the little key on its hook under the center panel. It was there. Relieved, she came back to Henry. When she opened the doors, the smell of stone and clay, of age, and of things left lying in the ground met her. Her father loved that smell. Her mother loved the smell of pavements washed by rain.

“May I?” Henry asked, pointing to the creamy marble head of a woman with a long elegant neck and unseeing eyes, her hair in coils around her head, and her nose smashed. “Now, this,” he said, “looks valuable.”

Phoebe smiled. “It’s lovely, but I have no idea what it may be worth.”

“Henry,” Mary cried sharply, appearing in the doorway. “For heaven’s sake, put that back. You don’t want to drop anything.”

Henry immediately bobbled the marble head, pretending to drop it, and catching it mid-fall.

“Really, Henry,” his sister scolded. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

Henry grinned at Phoebe and placed the marble head back on the shelf. Phoebe closed the door and locked the cabinet. “It’s all right, Mary,” Phoebe said. “Nothing broken.”

“No thanks to my brother. Come along, Henry. I have shopping to do. Phoebe, we’ll see you tomorrow at Great-Aunt’s.”

Phoebe handed Henry his coat, and he shrugged back into it, offering her one last careless grin before following his sister.

Phoebe waved them off from the study and returned to the cabinet of her father’s treasures and the question of Ned Bartling’s theft. The crammed shelves offered no immediate answer. Henry’s glance had been caught by the lovely marble head. It certainly stood out among smaller, darker figures, fragments of pots, flat bowls, and piles of coins. But the head was far from the most valuable piece. Probably the most valuable object was a silver spice dispenser in the shape of a learned-looking lady. The Romans loved their pepper and likely some wealthy Roman had kept pepper in the silver lady. But why take anything from the cabinet at all?

She didn’t believe the story that Ned had taken an item from the study and passed it on to Shattuck and that Shattuck had been so motivated by honest scruples that he’d revealed the theft to Mr. Trafford. She crossed the study to her father’s desk and sank into his chair, staring out at the garden. There must be an answer, but for a moment sadness overcame her. She was alone now with neither mother nor father, and no brother. The dismals threatened, and she shook them off. Today was a good day. She had a brother, she was going to find him, and sitting in a cold room, giving in to reverie would get her nowhere.

She reached under the desk to put the little key back on its hook, and when she did, she noticed the lock on the wide main desk drawer. It required a different key, one that her father had kept on his person. But as she looked at the small dark rectangle into which the key should fit, she realized that the brass barrel surrounding the keyhole bore scratches, the very scratches Jones had pointed out on Boyle’s leather case. A different sort of chill shook her. Someone had tried to open her father’s drawer.

She pulled, and it opened, and inside was not the neat order she expected from her father, but a jumble of papers.