Vice and Virtue (15 page)

“But why did you have to appear at all?” demanded Aurora.

“I had to satisfy myself that my suspicions of Joe Deede are well founded. My appearance clearly disturbed him, did you not see? He is no more at peace with his father’s sudden inheritance than I am, though he pretends otherwise. He is as suspicious of me as I am of him. I will wager he knows about the key. He may well know about the letter too. He is waiting to act. You are in danger of discovery, and more.”

Aurora barely listened. “Edward, hear this,” she commanded coldly: “I refuse to continue in this enterprise if you will not trust me to accomplish my task alone. You said I have the attributes of a good spy, did you not? So I would thank you to allow me to discharge my duties. Now, Joe will be seeking me. I must return to my party.”

He did not release his grip on her elbow. Aurora turned to see Richard guarding the entrance to the alley. She turned back to Edward. “I insist, sir, that you let me be!”

She watched the purposefulness of his expression disappear, and resignation take its place. “Very well,” he said, letting go of her arm. As he contemplated her his eyes filled with a soft light. “But do me the honour of remembering, in your dealings with the Deede family, that it is
I
– not Joe Deede – who loves you truly. If disaster should befall you, my remorse would last past death.”

Aurora gave him a final indignant look, then brushed past Richard and stepped out of the alley. Joe was scanning the crowd with a pained, restless expression. “I am here, Joe,” she reassured him. “I was detained by people getting in my way.”

“Did those two men speak to you again?”

“Of course not,” soothed Aurora. “They are gone. Let us enjoy our supper in peace.”

A Lace-Edged Glove

A
urora awoke the next day feeling hot. Brilliant sunlight imprinted a small square on the grimy floorboards of her room. It was Sunday; a church bell tolled for nine o’clock service. Despite her good supper at Spring Gardens, she wanted her breakfast, and it was time Edward woke up anyway. She got up and opened her chamber door. The outer room was empty, the bed still made. Edward had not returned.

She crossed the room, unlocked the door and stood on the landing, listening. Mary was going about her morning chores. Aurora heard the
clump, clump
of her heavy shoes, and the
click, click
of Mr Marshall’s stick as he made his way downstairs. She lifted the breakfast tray Mary had left outside the door and placed it on the table. Then she closed the door and turned the key.

The coffee was long cold, but she drank greedily. She cut a thick slice of bread and butter, and took it into her room, wondering why Edward had not come back. Had he stayed at the Black Swan with Richard? Or had they both gone to Hartford House? Why, after what he had said about keeping the door locked, had he left her alone all night?

She finished the slice of bread and licked butter off her fingers, thinking about Joe. She knew quite well why Edward was convinced of his duplicity: he was jealous of the attentions Joe was paying her. Aurora was
not
convinced, but in the short time she had known Edward Francis she had learned to respect his wisdom. Would he have embarked upon last night’s reckless adventure without good cause? If he was sure that Joe knew more than he betrayed, should she be so sure he did not?

She tried to master her unease. She knew she should trust her husband; without trust she was lost. And she hoped he would trust her, as he had agreed to last night under the blossom trees. But her imagination framed the memory of Joe’s handsome countenance, and the amiable attentiveness he had shown her. He had not chosen to fall in love with a Protestant woman, but now that he had, he was making the best of it. His quizzing her about her lack of family connections and uncertain future had a very important purpose. And since it was not Aurora
Francis
he held in his heart, but Aurora
Drayton
, what harm was he doing anyone but himself?

She sat on the bed a little longer, thinking hard. Then she went to her trunk and pulled out a grey cotton dress, sprigged with blue and trimmed with white. It was light material, but the weather was warm enough for it. She shook it out and held it against herself. The glass told her that yes, the dress suited her well; the bodice was low but not too revealing, and the pattern reflected the blue of her eyes. With white ribbons on her straw hat, she would be fit to charm Joe Deede. Or, for that matter, whomever else came in her way.

She was searching for her summer petticoat when she heard Edward’s key turn in the lock.

“Aurora! Are you awake?” There was more than urgency in his voice.

Aurora rose and opened her bedroom door. Framed by the side curls of his wig, Edward’s face was shadowed by anxiety. He was still dressed in last night’s finery, but his shirt had been pulled awry at the neck, and his breeches were muddied. Aurora stiffened. “What has happened?”

He ignored her question, preoccupied with others. “Was the key still in the lock of the writing desk? Did you retrieve it?”

“Yes, on both accounts.”

“And where is it now?”

“It is with the letter, at the bottom of this trunk.”

His eyes fell on the open trunk, and the dress laid out on the bed. He held out his hand. “Give me them both, the key and the letter.”

“But surely
I
must keep them,” reasoned Aurora, “since I must restore the letter to its hiding place as soon as possible?”

“There is no need of that now. Give me them.”

Puzzled, but not daring to press him further, she knelt and rummaged for the letter and the key. When she handed them to him, he put them in the deepest pocket of his coat. “Richard is in an upstairs room at the inn, under the name of Mr Augustus Hoggart. I am afraid that our situation has become more dangerous.”

“Since your reckless behaviour last night?”

“I am never reckless. But we are discovered.”

Aurora froze. “How?”

Edward pushed the sprigged gown aside and sat on her bed. Still kneeling by the trunk, she watched while he removed his wig and rubbed his scalp. He was exhausted.

“Richard and I stayed within Spring Gardens until your party departed for the ferry,” he began in a low voice, “then we caught the next one. I wished to protect you as long as I could.”

Aurora bridled at this, though she made no protest aloud.

“We walked together as far as the piazza, here in Covent Garden,” continued Edward. “Then we parted, Richard for the Black Swan, I for these lodgings. But before I had gone ten yards I heard a scuffle and a scream, and ran back. Richard lay upon the cobbles. He had been struck on the head.”

“Who would do such a thing?” gasped Aurora incredulously, her brain immediately busy with questions. “Did they mistake him for you? Were they trying to kill him?”

Edward gave a sigh. “They did not mistake him, neither did they mean to leave him for dead. I am convinced they intended to render him unconscious, and for me to find him. They must have followed us, seen us part, and pounced while I was still close enough to hear Richard’s cry. It was staged, without doubt.”

“But to what end?”

“They left this in Richard’s waistcoat pocket. Here, read it.”

Aurora took the piece of paper he offered. In a haphazard style, probably disguised, were written the words,
I know who you are
.

“Do you understand the import of this?” asked Edward.

“Your identity is discovered,” she replied, raising her eyes to his face, “by someone who would harm you. Beyond that I have no explanation.”

He nodded. “Do you see anything else on the page?”

She looked again. In the corner of the paper was a scribble she could not make out. “What does it say here?” she asked, pointing.

Edward’s voice was still soft, but steady, and full of implication. “It is a crude representation of the family crest of the Deedes.”

Aurora met his eyes. “So … the person or persons who attacked you did so on behalf of Josiah Deede? ”

“Aye,” said Edward with sorrow. “It seems his hatred of me is unabated, despite his successful theft of my inheritance.”

Silence fell between them. Aurora held out the paper; she wanted rid of it, and Edward took it, recognizing her revulsion. “Someone must have been following us,” he said. “How much Josiah Deede knows – whether ‘Miss Drayton’ has been discovered too – we can only conjecture.”

“And he wanted…” Aurora’s throat had contracted. She could barely speak. “He wanted to give you a warning. A threat.”

Edward nodded wearily. “We are all in danger.”

Aurora knelt there on the floor, her hands in her lap, her heartbeat unsteady. The return of the letter was now no longer necessary, as Edward had said. Josiah Deede had found the key, and discovered the theft. Afraid that Edward knew the secret, and would continue the blackmail, he had resorted to paying ruffians to follow Edward, attack Richard and leave the threatening note. In huntsman’s terms, he was trying to flush Edward out and force him into the path of danger. If Edward showed himself, Deede would be waiting.

She swallowed. Tears had crept into her eyes, though she did not know why. Did she weep for Edward, disinherited, defeated, and now threatened, seeking a fruitless revenge on a powerful man with ruthless associates? Or for Joe, whose father’s conduct had now ensured that his courtship of the amiable Miss Drayton was irredeemably, irretrievably over?

“I must go to Richard,” said Edward, rousing himself. He put on his wig and stood up. “I came only to collect the key and the letter, which we cannot leave hidden in this room, and to warn you to lock the door and admit no one.”

Aurora rose too, so shakily that she had to place her hand on the open lid of the trunk. “When will you return?”

“When I can leave him,” said Edward. He looked at her intently. “Fare thee well, my dear Aurora.”

He walked to the outer door and she followed him, intending to lock it after he had gone. But then he stopped unexpectedly and whirled round, his hand going to his coat pocket. “I almost forgot this!”

He handed her a letter. It was addressed to Hartford House in familiar handwriting and sealed with a familiar seal. “Richard brought it, but I have not had the opportunity to give it to you until now,” said Edward.

And before she realized he had done it, he had kissed her brow and quitted the room.

Dacre Street, Westminster
May 3rd, 1700

My dearest, dearest Aurora
,

Mrs Edward Francis! Have you been practising your new signature? Hester says if I finish this note before eight o’clock she will take it to the Bell, and put it in the coach that passes through Islington. Please send one of your servants to do the same with your reply, or if Mr Allcott should be in town he is always welcome to deliver a letter in person
.

I miss you already, my dear sister, though you were married but four days ago. That night, we were so late home from Hartford House, and the bedchamber was so lonely without you, that Eleanora came and slept in your place. I confess we wept, but only tears of happiness. I have many questions about what happened to you that night, but I will not ask any of them, of course
.

Please, please write and tell me you are in good health and happy. I await your reply with great impatience. And now Hester is waiting, so I must break off
.

With fondest love, and the same from Eleanora
,

  
Flora Mary Eversedge

That evening, in the dancing room, Aurora held her sister’s letter close to the candle and read it for the fourth time. It interested Aurora to think that it was now five days since Flora had sat down at the little writing desk in the drawing room and taken up her pen. During that period, the letter had gone by coach to Islington, where it had been picked up by Richard’s servant and taken to Hartford House. Richard had brought it with him to London when he arrived yesterday. She added the days together – four days between the wedding and the writing of the letter and five days for it to get to her. Was her marriage truly only
nine days
old? It seemed astonishing that everything she had believed before it took place had vanished, as instantly and irrevocably as any of Flora’s more far-fetched fancies.

Edward had still not returned. She had locked the door as he had instructed, and had spent a lonely and fearful day. She was now sitting cross-legged on her bed in her nightdress, every muscle in her body tense, unable to sleep until she heard his familiar footsteps.

She guessed it must be near to eleven o’clock at night. She could hear the servants moving around, and there was still traffic in the street. She put down Flora’s letter and was about to snuff the candle when she heard a sound that was not Mary shutting up the house. She tiptoed to the outer door and listened. Below, the sounds of booted footsteps, a raised masculine voice and the grumble of Mary’s remonstrations got louder as the footsteps mounted the stairs.