Once Upon a Scandal (23 page)

The door closed behind her, but she could still hear his laughter.

Wit is commonly looked upon with a suspicious eye. It is especially, I think, dreaded in women.—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

Giving Claudette her congé had proven an expensive prospect. Benjamin doubted there was anything left for purchase at Phillips jewelry store on Bond Street. But he’d been happy to buy her whatever she wanted. It wasn’t her fault, after all. Such relationships always reached their natural conclusion, didn’t they? And she had gotten the send-off she’d wanted, a very public manifestation of his respect. No doubt she already had a new protector.

A strange term, protector. What exactly had he kept her safe from? In exchange for her favors, he’d given her a home, a staff, and a generous allowance. A convenient arrangement that had not required the investment of sincere emotion. But she’d cried in the end all the same.

And the entire time, he’d thought only of Jane, whose favors he wanted so desperately. But their price was not one he could pay. A depressing thought. Almost as depressing and bleak as the location in which he now found himself. Outside the Clerkenwell shop of the mysterious Madame La Farge.

In an area rife with cutthroats and light-skirts, La Farge’s House of Fashionable Delights still managed to look unusually disreputable. Refuse littered the curb in front, and the shop’s bay window was rotting in its sash. What business could Fitzsimmons have had here?

Thankful for the silver-tipped walking stick in his hand, the one with a sharp blade hidden in the shaft beneath its collar, he rapped on the shop door and waited several long moments. Finally, a peephole opened beside the knocker. Dark, flat eyes stared out, sparking with interest as they took in his attire, widening as they settled on his face. The hole closed again, locks were unbolted, and the door swung wide to reveal a tall woman in a garish gown, her hair an improbable shade, a wide white streak flaring away from one temple. She might have been pretty once, but her features were hard, with deep lines bracketing her mouth and brow.

“Be you buying for your lady,
monsieur
?” she asked. “I can stitch up anything you fancy, and I’ve lots for show.” She stepped away from the door, drawing him into a dimly lit room. There were a number of dress forms inside, flaunting an assortment of costumes to shock even the most dedicated debaucher. Apparently, the shop catered to a very certain sort of clientele.

“You are Madame La Farge?” When she nodded, he continued. “I understand you offer a variety of services.” An assumption, but unless Fitzsimmons had made a habit of dressing up in salacious women’s clothing, the House of Fashionable Delights was a front for another purpose, likely criminal.

“You want to spread my legs, then?” she asked. “A bang-up cove, looking like you do, needed to come all the way to Clerkenwell for that?”

“Tempting though you are, I’ll admit it’s not the purpose of my visit. I was wondering what fifty pounds might buy.”

“Fifty quid?” Her mouth, a slash of red, had widened into an uneven smile. “You can have most anything for that, guv’nor.”

“I’m an associate of Lord Reginald Fitzsimmons.” If she was a go-between for those with information to buy and sell, the name would be of interest.

“Never knowed the man. Ain’t even heard his name.”

And yet she’d referred to him in the past tense. Benjamin withdrew the pound notes from his pocket. “Did I misspeak? I meant 100 pounds.”

“Cor,” she breathed. “Why so much? I don’t make that all year.”

“I know Lord Fitzsimmons paid you half that not six weeks ago. I’d like to know why.”

She hesitated, biting at the edge of those blood-colored lips. “I told him I’d not swear to anything. I’m not risking my neck. I just go about my business. I provide a service. It’s not like I force the girls into it.”

Did she run a flash house? “Go on.”

“Every so often, one of your fine Mayfair ladies gets herself in trouble, don’t she? And when she does, she has to come down off her pretty little pedestal and make her way to me shop on Whitecross.”

Realization dawned. “You make her trouble go away.”

“If she’s lucky. Been at this a long time, but it don’t always work out so well. I prefer the powders and potions myself.”

“And Fitzsimmons needed your brand of help?” Why and for whom?

“He wanted a name from way back. I keep books, you see. A bit of protection.”

Understandable, since the crime could see her hanged. “Did he find the name he was looking for?”

“He did. A Mrs. Venetia Mortimer. Came all the way from Luton for apiol oil and some Queen Anne’s Lace.”

• • •

Despite what he’d learned at the House of Fashionable Delights, he was no closer to finding the dossiers. All he’d discovered was that an indiscretion, committed years before, had resulted in unwanted consequences. Had Fitzsimmons been carrying on an affair while his wife engaged in hers? It was hardly unheard of in Society, despite the irony.

Should he tell Jane? Was it something she would even want to know? What if the name was familiar to her? He would need to travel to Luton, of course. Fitzsimmons had been there shortly before his death, after all, and there was a chance he’d hidden the dossiers there, perhaps even without Mrs. Mortimer’s knowledge. Her daughter’s letter had said she was ill. While Mrs. Mortimer was confessing her past sins, not to mention an abortion, had Fitzsimmons seen an ideal opportunity?

He’d planned on returning home, but instead, after calling out a new direction to his driver, they headed towards Albemarle Street and Grillion’s Hotel. He’d do his best to protect Jane from her father’s actions, but perhaps there were clues among Jeannette Fitzsimmons’s things, ones that might reveal something about Venetia Mortimer and the man he suspected they’d shared.

Traffic, however, was unbearably slow. Any type of weather snarled London’s streets, and more than an hour passed before he finally arrived, only to see the Countess of Marchmain’s carriage beneath the porte cochère, being loaded with trunks. The trunks procured for Lillianne Fauchon, complete with her gilt-stenciled initials.

Something had happened.

Banging his walking stick against the roof of his carriage to alert the driver, he swung open the door, leaping out before the carriage had rolled to its stop, and raced into the lobby, making for the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached the door of her suite. It was open wide and bustling with activity, a half dozen footmen lifting portmanteaus into their arms. He could not see Jane. Pushing past the men, he made for her bedroom, its door slightly ajar, only to find her sitting on her bed, dazed by her surroundings. The case holding her mother’s mementoes had been broken open and upended, its contents strewn all over the floor, letters torn open and trinkets crushed underfoot. The glass covering a small portrait had been cracked in two.

“Are you all right?” he asked, holding her gently by the shoulders to look for any signs of injury. But she would not meet his eyes.

“Someone stole into Madame Fauchon’s rooms when she was out shopping.” Sophia was standing in the doorway, reminding him others could hear them. “Thankfully, she wasn’t here when the thief was.”

“You’d gone out?” he asked Jane.

She nodded, still looking away. “I promised a doll to Violet Fitzsimmons. I did not wish to forget it.”

“Did you tell anyone about your plans? Anyone on the hotel staff?”

“
Mais non
, only my lady’s maid.” It was an effort, he sensed, to maintain her disguise. She was clearly shaken. And hurt by what had happened. “The letters in the case … some were upsetting, and I wanted to clear my head out of doors. I told Oakley to enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”

He stood, taking in the room. A pair of jeweled bracelets sparkled from beneath a mahogany bedside table. Picking them off the floor, he tucked them carefully into her hands. “He wasn’t a very efficient thief, to leave those behind.” Then again, he might have been searching for something quite specific. Perhaps the dossiers? Any number of people had known she’d gone to the Bank of England this morning. And the person who’d done this must have expected to find Fitzsimmons’s papers here, too. Somehow, he had eyes either inside this hotel or watching it from outside. He’d known when she’d left and had seized his opportunity. “Is anything missing?”

“I’m not certain. As soon as I saw what had happened, I asked to have a note delivered to Lady Marchmain. So new to the city, I did not know what else to do.”

Why hadn’t she sent a note to him? He turned to Sophia. “You’re moving her things to Marchmain House?”

“I think it best. There are those who prey on visitors to the city, especially foreign ones. It’s obvious she’s caught someone’s attention.
Madame
will be safer with me.”

He nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“This is all quite overwhelming,” Jane breathed, directing her comments to Sophia but not to him. “There were only small things, personal and of little value.”

“But our thief didn’t know that.” Hearing the dismay in her voice, though, he knew one thing. He’d catch whoever had done this. And he’d make him regret the grief he’d caused her.

• • •

“I’m relieved Miss Fitzsimmons was not harmed during this unsettling development,” Greystoke said later, just as evening was starting to fall.

“But I’m afraid it’s yet another confirmation of her father’s suspected role.” Torrington removed his hat and gloves, taking his seat at the table at Whitehall. “The robbery was obviously a targeted one. You say only one thing appears to be missing? A letter from Lady Fitzsimmons’s lover?”

“Apparently, it was a note expressing his joy that her babe might be his,” Benjamin replied.

“Any indication who the man was?” Winchester asked. “Or that Fitzsimmons had any suspicions about his identity?”

“Not thus far, and not in his papers, either. It seems he was too busy engaging in his own affair, not only in the months before Lady Fitzsimmons’s death, but also after, if the timeline I gleaned from Madame La Farge is correct.”

“The letter was unsigned?” Torrington asked. “Stolen from a packet of other letters relating to the indiscretion?”

Benjamin nodded.

“Perhaps it was a crime of opportunity, then. Having lost out on the dossiers, the thief decided to try his hand at blackmail.”

“But what value could the letter have? Even if he’d recognized the handwriting, both mother and child are dead. There’s no one left to embarrass with the revelation.”

“What if this isn’t related to the dossiers at all?” Winchester asked, his expression dark. “What if her former lover was desperate for a bit of sentimentality? A confirmation that Lady Fitzsimmons had cared enough to keep his letters?”

“How could he have known Madame Fauchon would have them?” Torrington asked.

“The papers said she was arriving from France to settle Miss Fitzsimmons’s affairs. It noted the date of her arrival and the hotel at which she was staying.”

“Hard to imagine an obsession with a woman lingering for so many years. She’s been gone for nearly a decade.” But, in truth, it wasn’t so difficult after all. There was the small portrait of Jane’s mother they’d found, its glass cracked. She’d been remarkably beautiful. Just like her daughter. Who looked so much like Lillianne Fauchon.

Benjamin’s jaw clenched, every muscle stiffening. “Rempley.”

“You can’t think he was involved in this, too?” Winchester asked. “He’s been far too busy trying to smooth things over. Word is Lord Liverpool wants him off the committee as soon as tomorrow.”

“Rempley certainly wasted no time in coming to meet Madame Fauchon, though.” He could hear the anger in his voice, the utter certainty. “Just weeks before, he’d been trying to force Jane to become his mistress, after she’d repeatedly refused his marriage proposals. He’d been friends with her father for years and, thus, undoubtedly knew Lady Fitzsimmons.”

“If any of this is true, why would he have remained friends with Fitzsimmons following her death?” Greystoke interrupted. “Surely, he’d have despised his lover’s husband.”

“Because all this time, he’s been waiting for Jane. If he couldn’t have the mother of his child, he would have her daughter.”

The room fell silent, as the men no doubt pondered the implication of his statement. The very idea of it was sickening.

“No matter how sordid, this is purely conjecture,” Winchester said at last. “I think we have to keep our focus on the dossiers.”

“Tell me, Winchester,” Benjamin said, a suspicion sparking, “if Rempley steps down from the committee, who will take over?”

“Why, myself, I’d assume,” Winchester replied, suddenly wary. “I’m next in line in terms of seniority.”

His anger needed a vent. “How convenient. We all know how ambitious you are. And you’ve also been remarkably interested in the whereabouts of Madame Fauchon. You tracked her in Hyde Park. You were at the bank when she retrieved the papers. You just happened to come upon her in the rain when she was shopping, rescuing her from the downpour.”

“Will you fault me, then, for a providential sense of timing?” Winchester’s voice was mocking. “And what’s not to admire about Jane Fitzsimmons? I couldn’t help but enjoy the way that wet dress clung to her body.”

He didn’t think, just acted, leaping across the table to strike, the impact knocking Winchester from his chair as they both fell to the floor, his fists pounding, their bodies slamming into the adjacent wall.

“Marworth!” Greystoke shouted. “If you can’t get a hold of yourself, Rempley won’t be the only one gone from Whitehall. You’ll no longer have a role in this case.”

That stilled his hands, embarrassment swamping him. He’d lost control over his emotions, his actions motivated by something like jealousy and nothing else. When Winchester had mentioned her body … Benjamin had not been so enraged since his brother’s death. He stood, struggling to breathe evenly, brushing the wrinkles from his jacket, straightening his sleeves and his cravat.

“Gentlemen … Winchester. You’ve my sincere apologies.” And with that, he turned from the room, striding down the long basement hall and up the stairs. Nodding to the door guards as he departed, he hurried to his waiting carriage, a shudder running through his body as he ordered his driver on to Marchmain House.