Portia Da Costa (18 page)

“Anything interesting?” he asked the keen-eyed young man.

Foster took a long drag. “Well, Mrs. De Vesey is sneaking into the room of old Lord Rayworth himself every night, but that’s nothing new. Common knowledge... The Honorable Mr. Souter is on his uppers, despite appearances to the contrary.... Might be in the market for a loan, if you know anybody?” He winked, pulled on his cigarette again.

Devine considered this, and filed it away for future reference. “What about any juicy little items of reading material? And anything more on the Ruffingtons? I know your boss knows the family slightly...”

Foster gave him a speculative look, but Devine wasn’t worried. The young valet had done well out of him, and seemed to have a relish for the dealings they transacted.

“Well, I’ve been romancing an upstairs maid here, a willing young miss and a real fast worker, if you know what I mean? She thinks she might have seen something along those lines, just the very thing you’re looking for.... That young Miss Sybil R. is careless thing, and Maisie, well, I’ve told her about certain...ahem...opportunities there are for sharp girls like her.” He favored Devine with another slow wink.

Devine nodded. This was all very satisfactory. “And what about Wilson Ruffington? Anything on him?”

“Nah, afraid not, Mr. D. All the staff think he’s a bit of a strange cove. Keeps himself to himself...can’t see why he’s here, to be honest. And his man’s a weird one, too. Very protective of his master, he is. Threatened to knock me down when I made a remark... Only joking I was. Anyway, he looks after his master’s room himself...nobody allowed in.... Maisie tried to get in to do the room, normallike, and the lock wouldn’t turn. Reckon old Wilson had done something to it, though I can’t imagine what. Bit of a mystery...”

That was frustrating, but not surprising, and Blair Devine didn’t brood on it as he paid off Foster and bade him goodnight...and good hunting.

He smiled again in the darkness. He already had plenty of choice lines of inquiry where that arrogant prick of a scientist was concerned, and he’d soon have his hands on more goods.

There was no need to rush, though. He’d bide his time. All would be well...although certainly not well for Wilson Ruffington.

* * *

T
O
A
DELA
’
S
SURPRISE
,
Wilson did keep his distance for the rest of the weekend. He didn’t seek her out, or approach
her, and when the demands of sociability made conversation unavoidable, he was both blandly and rigorously polite.

It’s a trick. All part of some devious ruse, or experiment. So typical of you.

Adela thought this over and over again, but by the time they were leaving, she wasn’t so certain. Surely by now he should have sprung whatever trap he’d been devising? Either that or become overtly hostile?

Either way, she would have known where she stood.

13

Stolen Goods

Where is it? Where is it?

The journey home had been a nightmare. What with Blair Devine in their compartment like a burr beneath the saddle of a horse, his particular watchfulness a constant, minor irritation, and the never-ending stream of Sybil’s chatter about Algernon, a couple of hours had turned into a millennium. And all this had been exacerbated by the constant necessity of parrying Mama’s not so subtle probings about Wilson. By the time they reached their London home, in a carriage from Waterloo Station, the headache Adela had pleaded, to avoid interrogation, was real. But at least the jabbing pain in her temples had given her an excuse to retire to her room in peace, in order to leaf through the new drawings she’d done, and decide which ones would be suitable for
Divertissements.
There was a certain dark glee to the idea of distributing images of Wilson’s cock to the magazine’s many avid subscribers...even if there was no indication to whom said organ was attached.

But when Adela came to unlock her carpet bag, where the portfolio had been safely stowed, the black leather binder was nowhere to be seen. How could that happen, when she always kept the key safe on her person?

Upending the bag and flinging everything on the floor, Adela went through her belongings again and again. It was an absolutely pointless exercise. There was no way the dashed portfolio could just materialize, but still she rummaged, as if a miracle might occur.

Adela sat on the bed, surveying the chaos of shawls and gloves and hairbrushes and other personal and toilet items around her, and seethed. She didn’t have to upend her brain to know precisely who was responsible for the loss of her drawings.

Wilson, you blackguard. When did you take it? I’ll wring your neck!

The portfolio had been securely locked in the bag all the time she’d not actually had it with her, but locks were no barrier to the one who’d taught
her
to conquer them. And there’d been plenty of occasions when her cousin might have slipped into her room, not to mention the fact that he was the only one who knew that the portfolio was worth stealing.

To confirm her suspicions, Adela took a magnifying glass from her drawer and perused the lock. At first glance it was immaculate, unsullied, with no sign of tampering. Just as she would expect it to be if Wilson had breached it. If some other miscreant had been at it, there would be scratches from the tools used. Only Wilson would be able to pick the lock without leaving a mark.

And yet, leaning in close and squinting hard, Adela did see something. One single tiny scratch, almost invisible.

You despicable devil! You’re taunting me. You left this on purpose.

It was exactly what he’d do, and she’d have it out with him. She would visit her cousin, alone, whether Mama liked it or not. Lack of propriety or otherwise. A note had been waiting upon their homecoming, alerting Adela to a meeting of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle tomorrow, and if Mama objected, it would be a simple matter to use that as a cover for her activities. She’d done it often enough to disguise her trysts at Sofia’s house of pleasure.

And it would be useful to drop in at the circle, too. Her closest friends there, Sofia and Beatrice, were both women of the world and might have counsel to offer on the subject of Wilson and his infuriating foibles.

* * *

“C
ALL
ON
W
ILSON
? What do you mean, call on Wilson?”

Adela sighed inside. Her mother’s face showed exactly the reaction she’d expected. A little alarm. Puzzlement. A smidgen of hope...then a bit more hope.

“Just exactly that, Mama. I’d like to continue one or two points of conversation that he and I explored at Rayworth Court.” Well, it was a form of the truth, and better that than the actual truth, which might kill her mother—or alternatively, give her too much hope.

Mrs. Ruffington frowned, clearly perplexed. Adela couldn’t blame her. “You really are the most contrary young woman, Della. I don’t know where I am with you. One minute you seem to be getting on well with Wilson, even going off together on walks, unseemly as that is. The next, you don’t seem to want anything whatsoever to do with each other, and he doesn’t even show his face to say goodbye when we leave.” Mama shook her head, clearly perplexed. “And now, suddenly, you’re wanting to visit him alone, in a way that’s completely unsuitable. It won’t do, Della, it really won’t do. If you want to talk to Wilson, we must invite him to dinner, or to tea. I won’t have you visiting him on your own, and that’s the end of it.”

“Very well. I won’t go, then.” So it would have to be by subterfuge. Adela didn’t like deceiving her mother, but she’d become well used to it. This deception was her sole cause for guilt when she went to visit Sofia’s boys from time to time. Mama only wanted the best for her, but that “best” mainly involved marriage to a nice, respectable and preferably titled man. Ideally Wilson. But that wasn’t going to occur until hell froze over.

Mrs. Ruffington plucked at her shawl, still frowning, and out of the corner of her eye, Adela saw Marguerite cast them both a shrewd look. Her younger sister was sage beyond both of them, she suspected.

“Shall I invite him, then?” persisted Mama.

“No, don’t bother. He won’t come.”

“How can you possibly know that, dear?”

Just an instinct. A deep feeling. He’d stolen the portfolio to bring her to him. “Because he’s just as contrary as I am, Mama. I think it’s better if we just forget the matter.”

Her mother’s face was a picture of disappointment, and Adela’s heart turned over.

“Well, perhaps we
could
invite him to tea, or perhaps luncheon? In a week or two...” She patted Mama’s arm, and leaned in confidentially. “I know you have hopes, Ma. I understand that. But I’m not sure he and I are suited, in the romantic sense.... Perhaps we could all try to be better friends with him, though, if you’d like that? I’ll make an effort.”

Mama’s eyes narrowed a little, and Adela wondered if her parent had seen straight through her. Mama was sharper than a lot of people gave her credit for. It wouldn’t do to be too confident that one could pull the wool over her eyes. One of these days, she might ask dangerous questions....

A clandestine visit it is, then.

Another meeting of the Sewing Circle that
wasn’t
a meeting of the Sewing Circle.

“Thank you, darling,” said Mama, beaming. “You’re such a sensible girl, really...and I still think you’d make a perfect wife for Wilson. A steadying influence. He’s twenty-six and it’s time he settled down.”

Adela took a sip of tea. Anything to stop her from laughing out loud. If Mama only knew what her plain, sensible, steady eldest daughter was really like.

“Where’s Sybil? We must start making plans. We need to be ready. Her dear Algernon could be ready to propose at any moment and she needs to be prepared. There’s so much to do!” Mrs. Ruffington rose to ring for their solitary parlor maid. She liked to observe the proprieties, even though they now only had the skimpiest establishment.

Before anyone could answer, the door burst open and Sybil came flying in.

“Oh, Mama! Mama! What am I going to do? The most terrible thing has happened!”

Having flung this out, Sybil burst into a wild flood of tears to rival Victoria Falls in volume and intensity, becoming incoherent and not making any sense at all.

Adela’s heart sank. Embarrassing and difficult as Wilson could make it for her, the loss of her portfolio paled to a minor inconvenience. She’d seen hysterics like this from Sybil before and had a sickening feeling that the cause was the same again. Vacating the seat beside Mama, she settled her sister into it and sat down at the other side, grasping Sybil’s hand and putting a handkerchief from her own pocket into it.

“What is it, my dear? Please...calm down and tell us.” The expression on Mama’s face suggested she harbored the same fears.

“Don’t cry, Syb.... Tell us what’s wrong. Nobody can help you if you don’t share what it is.” Adela touched her sister’s face. Sybil met her eyes, pleading.

“It’s my shawl...my favorite shawl. I think I—I lost it at the house party,” the younger girl stammered. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

“A shawl? All this for a shawl?” Mama laughed in relief. Adela watched the horror drain from her parent’s face. “When you’re Lady Framley, my sweet, you’ll have dozens of beautiful shawls. Don’t fret so! I’ll order more tea. We have Madeira cake and it’s rather good for a change.”

“Yes, the cake is good, Syb...do try a slice.” Adela squeezed her hand. “And don’t worry, I’ll find your shawl. I promise you.”

Sybil grinned back, her eyes bright, full of trust...and hope, but as Adela ate her own cake, it tasted like dead cinders on her tongue. What could she do? She had no doubt that all Sybil’s many shawls were present and accounted for, and that it was a quite different item that had suddenly gone missing.

“I shall write to Lady Rayworth now,” announced Mama, sounding decisive, “asking if her staff can look for your shawl. I’m sure they’ll find it. They seemed very efficient. Come along, Marguerite, you can help me compose the note.”

As their parent bustled out, with their younger sister in her wake, Adela wondered if Mama suspected the truth. She fancied not, though, as Mama had still seemed pleased with herself, and with life.

A state which neither she, or her sister enjoyed, as Adela rounded on Sybil.

“It’s letters, isn’t it? Tell me, Sybil...tell the truth.”

On the point of tears again, Sybil nodded, her smooth young face blotched with distress.

“Which ones? Old or new? You weren’t carrying the old ones you exchanged with Johnny around with you, too, were you?” She knew her sister had a habit of carrying keepsakes in her carpet bag, regardless of all her fine talk about safe places.

“Both!” cried Sybil, dissolving into tears again.

Oh, no! Could this possibly get any worse?

“Tell me how it happened...if we know when they went missing, we might be able to narrow down the possibilities of who might have taken them.” It seemed a vain hope, but she suddenly thought of Wilson, and how he’d once expounded the merits of logic and sequence to solve problems.

“I don’t know... I don’t know... I was reading them when we first arrived, and I was resting after the journey. I was...um...comparing the two, in order to decide which was the naughtiest...and which had made me most daring...” She bit her lip, and seemed about to offer an opinion as to relative merits, but Adela gave her a stern look. “A maid came with some tea, but I hid the letters in my bag then...and I’m sure I saw them a couple of times later, when I was looking for things....”

Adela suppressed a sigh. She didn’t want to get cross, but Sybil could be so vague. “Were they there when you left?”

“I don’t know,” wailed Sybil again. “It was all such a rush... I wanted to catch Algie for a few moments before we set off for the station. They might have been... I don’t know. It wasn’t until just now that I missed them when I looked for them.”

But as Adela considered the problem, it presented a completely perplexing variety of possibilities. There had been servants all around, both the Rayworths’ staff and personal servants of the many guests. Any one of them could have slipped into Sybil’s room at a mealtime, or during an entertainment, and perhaps seen the traveling bag not properly fastened. Not all domestics were as loyal and trustworthy as their Lizzie and Minnie; some might always be on the lookout for things to steal, especially at big parties like the Rayworths’ where it was easier to shake off the blame because nobody quite knew everybody.

It might even have been one of the guests themselves, and one possibility sprang to mind, even though in her heart, she thought it unlikely. Most unlikely.

Even if she was quite certain that Wilson had purloined her portfolio, why in heaven’s name would he steal Sybil’s old love letters?

* * *

B
LAIR
D
EVINE
TOYED
with the pink ribbon on the little bundle of letters, preparing to untie it and sample the contents. Lord Rayworth’s under house maid—Maisie, or Flossie, or Mary or whatever her name was—had assured him they were sprightly and very incautiously phrased, but one never could tell with housemaids. Sometimes they tried to pull a fast one, and the supposedly risqué and damaging correspondence they handed over was really perfectly innocuous and without value, but in this case he was fairly confident that he’d struck juicy gold.

As a solicitor Blair Devine had seen many incriminating documents in his time, and from the very first, his mind had run on ways he could leverage the sensitivity of such correspondence to his advantage. But it wasn’t until he’d discovered such a bundle as this one, quite by accident, at a house party not unlike the Rayworths’, that he’d turned his hand to the lucrative little matter of blackmail. It had been risibly easy to ever so diffidently suggest himself as a discreet and sympathetic intermediary, a conduit between the victim of the loss, and some completely fabricated villainous blackguard who’d come into possession of the item. And that first sum he’d managed to purloin had been so daring it had set him scheming as to how he might repeat the trick.

Slowly, and with what he thought was admirable guile, he’d built up a network, a secret web of supply and demand. His trusted manservant had sounded out other gentlemen’s gentlemen—men like Edward Foster—in pubs and in the kitchens and servants halls, at social events and house parties. Word was put about, and maids with indiscreet mistresses and little moral conscience were soon coming forward with be-ribboned bundles such as this one.

Other interesting opportunities had presented themselves too. It didn’t have to be rambunctious love letters. Important legal, commercial, even political documents that weren’t kept as safe as they should be started to fall into his hands. He was doing amazingly well for himself, far exceeding his modest income from the law, yet nobody suspected a thing...because nobody liked to admit they’d ever made themselves vulnerable.