The Shadow and the Star (17 page)

"You've still no idea who it might be?" Leda asked. She thought the words came out quite normally, considering how her heart was working so hard.

"None that anyone's told me, and that's the truth. Never know what they're keeping to themselves at the Yard, though."

"He should be hung," Miss MacDonald announced. "He should be drawn and quartered when they find him. It is disgusting."

"Well, I don't know," Inspector Ruby said. "I'm not sure it's been such a bad thing after all. You can't be expected to know it, Miss MacDonald, but in a manner of speaking, these thefts have done some decent good in the city."

"It is vile and abhorrent. It should not be in the papers. The very thought of it makes me ill."

"Perhaps you shouldn't think of it, then, Miss MacDonald," the inspector said.

"I don't. I wonder that Miss Etoile can take an interest in such foulness."

Sergeant MacDonald just sat there, looking at his feet. A flush of anger flowed through Leda. There was no chance she was going to meet with Miss MacDonald's approval. Some devil that she'd never known she had inside her made her say, "Oh, I'm avidly interested in it! It's my hobby. That's why I've enjoyed my acquaintance with your brother so thoroughly—he can tell me all the awful details of every
sort
of vile crime!"

Sergeant MacDonald looked up at her in astonishment.

"That doesn't surprise me in the least, Miss Etoile," his sister said. "I've told him you're no better than you should be; coming in every day with your sly ways; hoping to fool a decent man into believing you're a lady."

Sergeant MacDonald pushed to his feet, mumbling a faint, embarrassed protest to his sister, but she pulled her elbow from his grasp.

"I will not have you hoodwinked, Michael. I was sure this woman must be a cunning little slut—but I see that it is worse even than I suspected."

"Indeed," Leda said, standing up. "I'm sure it must be far worse." She glanced once at Sergeant MacDonald, but he avoided her eyes, which told her all that she could have been told. "Good day, Inspector. Good day, Sergeant. Miss MacDonald." She took her mug and turned in a stiff rustle of silk, not even giving the briefest of nods to the sergeant as he stumbled over himself to hold the wicket door open.

"Miss—" he said as she passed, but she ignored him, marching down the steps, gripping her mug and holding back tears of mortification and fury by main force.

She was in no mood for Mrs. Dawkins when she reached her own street, but she hadn't been in her room for ten minutes, hadn't even gotten control of her frenzied breathing enough to think, when the landlady knocked loudly on her door.

"Gentleman to see you, miss," Mrs. Dawkins called.

Leda looked around the squalid little room, her throat full of rage. Come after her to plead and grovel, would he? After not a
word
to stand up to his sister, not a coherent murmur in Leda's behalf…

She threw open the door and walked right past Mrs. Dawkins.

"In my parlor," the landlady said, hurrying after her.

At the bottom of the stairs she pushed past Leda and opened the door. "Here she is, sir, fine as fivepence, as y'can see. A fine gel, sir, old enough to know how to please you, young enough to be fresh as daisies."

Leda stopped in the hall. She had expected Sergeant Mac Donald. Instead it was a strange man, fifty if he was a day, crushing out a cigar in a teacup on Mrs. Dawkins' table. He looked up at Leda, and then nodded and grinned. "Very nice," he said politely.

For an instant, that politeness distracted her. Her anger faded into bewilderment—and then dawning realization.

He moved toward her, out into the hall. Leda caught a whiff of the cigar and felt sick: sick and humiliated and frantic and terrified. Her room had been her last haven, wretched as it was; paid up for the week, with a lock on the door to bolt out all the reality.

The man reached for her hand. She flung his arm away and made for the door, darting into the street with Mrs. Dawkins squealing indignation and apologies behind her.

Leda walked. She marched and marched, until the crowds began to thin at suppertime, and the public houses and tea shops grew teeming and jovial. She thought of battening herself upon Mrs. Wrotham, who had an extra bedroom: it was the only thing left to do, really. She must confess the whole awful situation—only how did one explain to Mrs. Wrotham, with her trembly hands and gently bobbing silver curls, that one couldn't go home because one's landlady wished one to… to entertain an unfamiliar man?

Leda actually walked to South Street, and paused in the lengthening shadows of early dusk, and looked at Mrs. Wrotham's aging house with no gas lit and no lamp or even a candle in the window, because Mrs. Wrotham's jointure no longer allowed her such small luxuries, although one never spoke of it, but went on as if it were only a sample of the personal idiosyncrasies of any aristocratic nature that required Mrs. Wrotham and Miss Lovatt and Lady Cove to pinch their pennies so desperately, even sharing the woman who acted as maidservant and cook between their two houses. Leda had a fair idea of how each of their accounts stood, though it was not discussed aloud. She knew that the feeding and clothing of a guest would cause Mrs. Wrotham to feel very uneasy about keeping her third share of the maidservant-cook; Leda also knew that once she revealed her circumstances to the ladies, nothing would prevent them from insisting upon stretching their meager resources to support a fourth person whom they could ill-afford to keep, nor feeling most miserable and tormented if they did not.

Her feet were tired. She was fatigued and hungry, trying hard to think of what was right and proper to do: what Miss Myrtle would have done, had she ever been so careless as to come to such a pass, which Leda doubted. She walked on to the corner—it was only a few steps—so seductively close for her weary feet, to turn down Park Lane toward Hyde Park Corner…

In the dimming evening, Morrow House was aglow with gaslight. A row of lamps tinted pink and yellow gleamed from behind the plate glass of the long, narrow conservatory that fronted the house above the ground floor, hiding most of the simple Georgian facade behind a framework of wrought-iron and greenery. From the balustrade along the roof hung colorful bunting for the Jubilee, and at every swag a flag was suspended down between the upper windows, the Union Jack alternating with a different banner, one striped in red, white, and blue with a small replica of the Union Jack in the upper quarter.

Leda had known Morrow House all her life. She'd passed it a thousand times, another mansion in a street of mansions overlooking the traffic and the park. She and Miss Myrtle had even called there once, when the late Lady Wynthrop had still been alive and in the habit of moving into it for the season in lieu of her own smaller and less fashionable address in King Street.

It wasn't as if the house appeared any differently than Leda had expected. It was just that she could not find the least possibility of connection between the scribbled direction in her pocket and the solid reality before her.

She could not walk up the steps to the porticoed door, lift the knocker, and ask if Mr. Gerard were home.

Not only did it seem improbable—impossible—that anything that had happened to her in the last forty-eight hours was even real, but the lateness of the hour and her position as lone female calling on a bachelor gentleman seemed inexcusably forward—not to say shockingly outr�.

But she could not go home, and she dreaded going back to Mrs. Wrotham's, so she stood hesitating at the foot of the stairs, her gloved hand resting on the iron railing along the walk. A muffled drift of voices and laughter came to her, and just as she hastily lifted her hand to turn away, the door opened and golden light streamed out. Lady Catherine, dressed in what Leda instantly recognized as one of the tulle-trimmed rose silks she had suggested at Madame Elise's, stepped down onto the terrace.

She wore a white, knitted wool shawl over her shoulders, which quite damaged the effect of her tulle, but carried a nicely complementary fan of creamy plumes which she kept brushing back and forth beneath her chin, as if she enjoyed the sensation. In the midst of turning back toward the door, she saw Leda.

"Why, here you are at last, Miss Etoile!" she cried, to Leda's complete astonishment. "And high time—we were all about to fall into fits of worry. Mama—oh, pray do pay me some mind, dear Mum!" She leaned back into the door frame, laughing. "Leave off poking at your orchids-Miss Etoile has finally come to us."

There was an exclamation from inside. Lady Ashland appeared in the doorway. When she saw Leda, her face lit with pleasure. "Miss Etoile! Do come in. We are so grateful to you." She bounced down the steps, twitching the elegant scarlet silk of her skirt out of the way, and took Leda's hand. "Aloha. Come in. Aloha
null"

"That means 'Welcome' in Hawaiian." Lady Catherine met Leda with a hug as Lady Ashland drew her up the stairs. "And 'We love you.' Thank you so much!"

Leda stood back from the embrace, bewildered. "Oh�but—I'm sure you've nothing to thank me for!"

Lady Catherine squeezed her hand. "Perhaps it seems
trifling to you, but Samuel means the world to us. We were frantic about him when he went missing at breakfast—we knew it must be something badly amiss, because no one could recall having seen him come in the night before, and he was to drive us to breakfast at the Roseberrys', and he is never,
ever
unpunctual."

A footman was still holding the door, and Leda found herself drawn inside amid a small party that was obviously just on the point of leaving for an evening engagement. She was suddenly being presented directly to Lord Ashland himself, a distinguished gentleman whose black formal dress, white tie, and white gloves handsomely complemented his golden hair and severely aristocratic features, and to the son of the house, Lord Robert, a few years older than Lady Catherine, perhaps just into his twenties, with a grin very much like his sister's, charming and open. When Leda glanced again at Lord Ashland, she knew where they both had inherited it.

He held his wife around the waist while she reached out and caught Leda's hand again. "The doctor has been in this afternoon," she said. "He told us that now that the swelling was down, he could see that it had been set properly. Tomorrow he'll put it in a dressed splint. He said to compliment you upon your resourcefulness, for he'd never realized himself that rolled newspapers could be so stiff as to provide the proper support."

"Well, it wasn't really my—"

"He's asleep now," Lady Catherine said. "I could tell that he was in pain, though he won't admit it, and I told Cook to sneak the laudanum into his dinner somehow."

"Kai!" Lady Ashland said in exasperation. "You didn't!"

"He won't mind," her daughter said. "Not if I did it."

Lady Ashland looked vexed. "Perhaps not," she said. "But if he doesn't wish to take laudanum, it's not your place to trick him into it."

Lady Catherine bit her lip. "Well—I've done it now, and he's asleep, and perhaps he'll thank me in the morning."

This did not seem to quite satisfy her mother, who turned away with a little frown. Leda saw Lord Ashland watching his wife, but he said nothing more than, "Perhaps Miss Etoile would like to settle in to her room."

"My room?" Leda echoed faintly.

"Oh, yes—I'll show her up!" Lady Catherine said. "We're only walking half a block—we won't be very late to dinner."

"To dinner!" Leda disengaged her arm from Lady Catherine's impetuous grasp. "Then you must not be a minute late, my lady. Not for a dinner invitation."

"Oh. But someone told me just the other day that here in town it was the worst blunder to arrive on time."

"Oh, no—not for dinner. Perhaps they were speaking of a ball. For a dinner engagement, you must be there within a quarter hour of what was specified on the card, Lady Catherine, and ideally you should be much earlier than that." Leda heard a strong ring of Miss Myrtle in her own voice, but really, this lamentable, sunny girl was in dire need of some social instruction.

"I didn't realize," Lady Catherine said, taking the advice with perfect amiability. "I suppose we should hurry along, then."

Lord Ashland shook Leda's hand without removing his white kid glove. "Sheppard will show you up, Miss Etoile. Make yourself at home."

"See you later, ma'am," his son said, offering his cheerful grin and gloved hand in the same way.

As they moved toward the door, Lady Ashland herself turned to Leda, took her hand, and said, "Thank you. Again. I'm so glad you've decided to come."

Leda smiled, still quite uncertain of it all, and watched as they went out the door. Lord Ashland stood back, waiting for the others to precede him. As his son stepped out the door, Leda suddenly found herself tiptoeing quickly forward and leaning up to Lord Ashland's ear.

"Excuse me. Do forgive me, sir—but—perhaps you aren't quite aware… a gentleman removes his glove when offering his hand to a lady."

He gave her a startled glance, and then actually blushed beneath his tan as he grinned at her sideways. "My God, where do they think up these details?" He lifted his top hat in salute. "Thank you. I'll tip Robert, too."

She hesitated, and then offered, "For a dinner, you may take them off in the hall and give them over with your hat and stick."

"To the butler."

"The butler, yes. He will hand them to a footman."

He shook his head, chuckling, and stepped out the door, as elegant a picture of a formally dressed gentleman as Leda had ever seen. At the threshold, he paused to look back. "Anything else I should know?"

"No, sir," Leda said, responding to his wink with a shy smile. "You look wonderfully fine."

Leda stood in the middle of the exquisite bedroom, willing herself not to gaze up at the gilt plasterwork or stare around at the furnishings, all done in blue on white, with a pink-and-blue carpet on the floor and a chintz of trailing morning-glory designs to cover the delicately stuffed chairs. And everywhere there were flowers, not in vases, but sprays of potted white orchids, pink-tinged, that sprang out of wide, leathery fans of living leaves.