Prue dressed carefully to make morning calls.
While it might not be true that clothes made the man (or woman, in this case), they certainly preconditioned the reception one could expect. In a silk dress made to her own measurements, her own warm woollen redingote, and a bonnet in the height of fashion, she looked the part of a lady, and would therefore be treated as a lady at the three households she intended to visit.
It was good to have her own wardrobe. Not only had Mrs. Allen helped her launder and dry the clothes that stunk of Newgate, David had gone with her this morning to the boarding house where she lived between jobs, and helped her bring most of her belongings to his house.
She would retain her rooms at Mrs. Moffat’s. This idyll could not last forever. But as long as he wanted her, she was going to pretend she belonged, and store up memories against the end of their affaire.
David suggested escorting her. Prue insisted he attend to his own work, but allowed him to hire her an elegant carriage, with a smart pair of bays and a coachman in an anonymous livery.
First, Prue called at an elegant town house in Grosvenor Square. This early in the afternoon, the chances of her meeting someone she knew seemed slender, but when the butler showed her up to the parlour, Lady Carrington was holding court for no fewer than three fashionably dressed young men. Not Lord Selby or any of his clique, thank goodness.
The butler intoned the name from her card, his voice slightly puzzled. “Mrs. Worthington.” Four faces turned towards her, the baroness’s guests clearly as bewildered at the presence of a young woman in their lady’s parlour as the butler. The men rose politely, and Lady Carrington smiled, a stretching of the lips that did not reach her ice-blue eyes. “Mrs. Worthington. What an unexpected pleasure.”
Prue curtseyed, the depth precisely calculated to be polite but not subservient. “Lady Carrington.” The baroness was a slender blonde, her hair the colour of peeled ash, dressed high on her head and allowed to tumble in artful ringlets across the shoulders left bare by the deep scoop of her décolletage. The men might have been chosen to set off her pale beauty: all fair, but none as fair as her.
The youngest was surely still in his teens, boy slender, with light-brown hair and vividly blue eyes that had passed over Prue without interest and returned to adore his hostess. The next in age had honey-blond hair, and eyes of blue-green, likewise fixed on the baroness. The oldest—who must have been no more than Prue’s age, and therefore a decade younger than Lady Carrington—sported copper curls and the eyes turned politely in Prue’s direction were brown.
Prue had not expected an audience, but they could only add to the effectiveness of the visit.
The baroness waved vaguely in the direction of a couch. “Do be seated Mrs. Worthington, so that these boys can stop looming. I cannot bear looming.”
The redhead bowed, uncertainly, glancing between Prue and Lady Carrington who, recalled to her manners, performed a terse introduction. “Mrs. Worthington, meet Lord Elfingham, Mr. Wentworth, and Mr. Bexley.”
They all nodded politely, but as soon as she was seated, Lord Elfingham—the blond— and Mr. Bexley of the vivid blue eyes relaxed back into the chairs either side of Lady Carrington and returned to begging her to go for a drive with them that afternoon, completely ignoring Prue’s presence. Mr. Wentworth cast one longing glance at the baroness and took the seat next to Prue.
“It is pleasant weather for the time of the year, is it not?” he asked. Prue assigned him points for keeping his eyes on her face when his ears were straining to follow Lady Carrington’s response.
“A nice day for a drive,” Prue agreed, and he coloured as he looked down at his boots. “I had hoped to ride with her. I have hired horses for the afternoon,” he confided. “She said yesterday that I might escort her to Green Park, but she has forgotten, or I misheard. They are fine horses, Mrs. Worthington. I would not embarrass her for the world.”
He kept his voice low, but Lady Carrington had sharp ears, saying. “Perhaps tomorrow, Benjamin.”
Bexley snickered, and Mr. Wentworth coloured still more. “Today is my half-day, my lady. If you cannot join me today, may I hold myself ready to escort you next week?”
“Next week.” Lady Carrington dismissed his suggestion with a wave that expressed her amazement he would expect her to plan so far ahead. “Who knows what I might wish to do next week? Now that your brother is to be earl, Benjamin, you really should give up your silly job.”
She turned the full force of her attention to Prue, the amusement leaching from her voice. “But I forget my manners. We have a stranger in our midst, gentlemen, and we have no idea how we have deserved such a favour. Why are you here, Mrs. Worthington?”
In the next minutes Prue might find herself in the street, and it was almost a foregone conclusion that the baroness would not consent to help. Her reaction would be interesting, but Prue’s real goal was to set gossip fanning out through society so she and David could see what game they flushed from the undergrowth. Yes. Lady Carrington’s admirers would be useful.
Prue, her heart hammering but her pose and voice relaxed and calm, said, “I am investigating several murders, Lady Carrington, and a number of my suspects attended the Richport masquerade on the night two of the victims died.
Lady Carrington’s pupils widened, but she did not immediately answer. Instead, Elfingham rushed into speech. “Murders at Death’s party? I did not hear of them. Did they happen after I left, my lady? Dash it all, I miss all the fun.”
Lady Carrington ignored this callous speech, opting for an unamused huff of laughter. “Are Bow Street hiring women, then? How odd. Mrs. Worthington, I cannot assist you.” She stood, and the men rose too.
Prue stayed stubbornly seated. “Not at the party, Lord Elfingham, no. One was drowned nearby. The other died in the home of someone who had been invited, possibly later in the evening. I wish only to ask about how long each guest spent at the party, and at what times, my lady.”
“I have no idea,” the baroness said. “You will leave now, please. Nathan, I have quite made up my mind. You shall drive me in the park in my curricle, for next week you shall be back in Oxford. Benjamin, try again next week, or give up your unbecoming pursuits and come and cut Elfingham out with me on Tuesday.”
The three young men forgot about the murders, their pursuit of the baroness crowding out all other thoughts.
“I shall come with you and Bexley now,” Elfingham offered.
“Nonsense, Elfingham. There is no room. Run along with you now. Perhaps Wentworth will let you ride one of his horses.”
She swept out of the room, commanding Bexley to follow her. A moment later, she could be heard instructing the butler to see the rest of the guests to the door.
The three of them stood on the steps, waiting for Prue’s carriage and Wentworth’s hired horses to be brought around from the mews. “I am dressed for driving, not riding,” Elfingham complained.
“Perhaps you would allow me to take you somewhere, Lord Elfingham,” Prue offered, and regretted it when his eyes lit up and he leered at her. “You could, perhaps, answer some of my questions about the masquerade,” she hastened to add.
He handed her up into the carriage, barely waiting for the coachman to shut the door before suggesting, graphically and coarsely, a more amiable pursuit than discussing murder to while away their journey.
He was inclined to be sulky about Prue’s refusal, but eventually consented to talk about who had been at the masquerade, embroidering his comments with complaints about having to leave early and missing all the fun. He remembered little beyond his own activities, and was dismissive when he found out who the victims were.
“Who cares about two servants and a courtesan, Mrs. Worthington? No one, that’s who.”
Prue took Elfingham to St James, to the London home of his grandfather, the Duke of Winshire. The area was no longer the fashionable centre of London, but the Winshire mansion, which took up an entire city block, ignored such trivia as the opinions of others.
“Come up to my rooms and I’ll see what else I can remember,” he suggested, waggling his brows at her.
At that moment, the clock over the stable block began to chime the hour. “Three of the afternoon,” Elfingham gasped. “I have an appointment!”
He managed a sketchy bow and an even sketchier farewell, and hurried up the steps to the impressive front entrance.
Prue waited until he was out of sight to follow. She had not told Elfingham that she was visiting his aunt. She had written ahead for this appointment, signing the note, ‘P. Virtue, a friend of Mr. Wakefield’s and previously known to you as Mrs. Worth.”
The butler saw her into a small parlour, while a maid took her card to the lady. Score one for the silk dress. Lesser petitioners would be left in the entrance hall, or even out on the steps. The room was a little shabby: the kind of shabby that speaks of ancient family history and a disregard for public opinion, rather than poverty.
The half-open door let in the sound of a voice she recognised: Gren? What was he doing here? She positioned herself to bring the hall into view. No. Not Gren. His brother, Aldridge. She would know those shoulders anywhere.
“Oh, do hurry up, Elfingham,” the young aristocrat scolded.
“Patience, Aldridge. I have not been home since this time yesterday, and you’ll never guess with whom I spent the night.” The voice faded as the butler opened the front door for the two men, and closed it behind them just as the maid who had been sent to Lady Georgiana crossed the hall.
Prue moved swiftly from the door, and was idly examining a painting above the hearth when the butler entered the room.
“Her Ladyship will see you now, ma’am,” he said, and she followed him up the left wing of the stately staircase and down several hallways until he opened a door to a pretty sitting room on the second floor.
“Miss Prudence Virtue, my lady,” he announced.
“Thank you, Chalmers. That will be all.” Lady Georgiana was dressed in black, her gown buttoned to the neck, her soft hair escaping from a black lace cap. She gestured for Prue to approach, and Prue obeyed, crossing the room to stand before her ladyship’s couch.
Lady Georgiana sat, her back schooling-board straight and her chin raised, examining Prue with distaste from red-rimmed eyes. Prue stood, since she was not asked to sit, and endured the scrutiny.
“You do not look like a murderer,” Lady Georgiana observed, at length. “But then, you do not look like a spy either, and yet there you were, skulking about, collecting our secrets.”
Would the duke’s daughter respond to reassurance or confrontation? Both, perhaps.
“I did not murder your lover, my lady,” Prue said.
A slight widening of the eyes. The chin lifting still further. Otherwise, Lady Georgiana showed no reaction.
“So you say. How can I trust the word of someone whose whole life is a lie?”
“You trusted Lily Diamond,” Prue ventured.
The woman’s control was amazing. Again, her reaction showed only in a microscopic flinch.
“And yet, she has left me.” A world of sorrow in those words.
“Not by her choice, my lady, and I am hunting for her killer.”
“You think I should help you.”
“I hope you will help me. You know things that may be useful to our investigation.”
Lady Georgiana rose abruptly, and began pacing back and forth across the room. “And if I do not help you, your masters will tell my father about my… about me and Lily, or noise it about society.”
Ah. Poor lady.
“No, my lady. I have told no one but your own enquiry agent, David Wakefield, and he will keep your secrets. As will I, unless it becomes germane to finding the villains we seek.”
Lady Georgiana stopped, her hand cupping a small picture, one of dozens of framed miniatures that cluttered her mantel, all of them wreathed ’round with black ribbon. She spoke to the image, rather than to Prue.
“The murderer. Lily’s murderer. I would like to see him hanged.” She glared at Prue. “Or her. But I do not trust you, Virtue, or Worth, or whatever other lying name you give yourself.”
“The murderer. The blackmailers. Mr. Wakefield and I are hunting them, my lady.” Prue ignored Lady Georgiana’s distrust. No point in reassurances. She would have to prove her discretion, and that would take time.
“Elise is dead, too.” Lady Georgiana knew? How?
“Yes. And one of the maids. How did you know?”
“I did not know about the maid. Was she fished from the river, too?”
“No, not from the river. How did you hear about Elise Palmer’s death, Lady Georgiana?”
“How much would it cost me to hire you?”
Prue had not expected that. “I beg your pardon?”
“You sell yourself, do you not? This spying you do? How much? I will pay you, and you will work for me and report to me and to no one else.”
“I take commissions for the work I do, Lady Georgiana, but I cannot take yours. I have already been engaged to investigate this murder.”
“I will pay more. Just tell me how much.” She gave the image one last loving pat, and sat down again.
“I have taken a commission, Lady Georgiana. I will not break my word.”
“Hmm.” The lady thought about that, pursing her lips and frowning into the fire.
Prue waited, occupying herself by examining the miniatures on the mantel, as well as she could from across the room. They were all of Lily Diamond. In different poses, at different distances, even one that was just an eye, some inexpertly painted or drawn, and others clearly by the hand of an artist. The mantel was a shrine to the courtesan. What did Lady Georgiana’s family think of that?
“She was beautiful, was she not?” For the first time in this interview, some warmth crept into Lady Georgiana’s precise, aristocratic tones. “Very well, Virtue. Pull the bell rope and be seated. I shall order tea, and we will discuss murder, treachery, and blackmail.”
Prue gave the long richly embroidered bell pull a tug, and it must have sounded in the hall outside the door, for a footman appeared to take his mistress’s order before Prue had crossed the room to the chair opposite Lady Georgiana’s.
“I am going to trust you, Virtue, you and Wakefield, and I will tell you why,” the duke’s daughter said after he had left the room on his errand. “You already know the secrets I would prefer not to disclose to my family. That horse has well and truly bolted. So I shall not waste time defending the stable door against your prying. I have nothing to lose by telling you Lily’s secrets. And I want her murderer caught and hanged, for he has robbed her of her life, and me of my happiness.”
And which, Prue wondered, did this aristocratic daughter regard as the deeper offence?
“How did you hear about Elise Palmer’s death, Lady Georgiana?” she repeated.
“From Bow Street.” Lady Georgiana’s elegant shoulders moved in an infinitesimal shrug.
“Newgate is a terrible place, so when I heard you had been arrested, I sent my groom to ask questions. And at Bow Street they said you had been released, because the real murderer had killed Elise and dumped her body in the river.”
“It was kind of you to be concerned. Thank you.”
Lady Georgiana waved off the thanks. “I did nothing.”
“Elise Palmer came to give you your letters to her sister?”
“Not give, Virtue. That is what she claimed: that she brought them to me so I could burn them, because Lil would not want them found and made public. Then she asked for money to help her escape. But better she sold them back to me than find another buyer, do you not agree? Lil said she had destroyed them, but she had not done so, of course. I daresay she kept them so she could blackmail me.”
Poor lady. What kind of a life had she known that she took betrayal and exploitation as normal?
“Miss Diamond—Miss Palmer was blackmailing you?”
“At first. But then she fell in love, she said, and she told me everything. Do you think that is true, Virtue? Elise said Lil loved me, but she may have thought that would increase the price I would pay for the letters.”
Prue’s final stop was the home of the Dowager Lady Selby and her sister. The butler who opened the crepe-wreathed door told her that the ladies were not receiving, and left her shut outside on the doorstep when she insisted on him taking up her card. A few minutes later, he opened the door a crack to return the card. “The ladies are not receiving,” he repeated.
Her hired carriage dropped her back at David’s house just as he was arriving, and they were soon ensconced in his study with a pot of tea and some of Mrs. Allen’s scones.
David knew the three young men who had been visiting Lady Carrington. “None of them significant in themselves, Prue, but all with powerful relatives. Elfingham is Sutton’s son, and grandson to the Duke of Winshire. Bexley is nephew to two earls. His father is heir apparent to Bexley’s uncle, the Earl of Malmsebrook. And his mother is sister to my friend Rede, the Earl of Chirbury. And Wentworth is the youngest of three brothers, the oldest of whom may or may not have inherited an earldom from a distant cousin. He is earl-in-waiting for a few more months, since the widowed Countess of Danwood might yet give birth to a son.”
“All potentially useful to her husband, then. I learned little, David.”
“We didn’t expect any answers,” he reminded her. “But all four of them will tell their friends, and everyone will be speculating. Gren should be able to pick up some interesting gossip.”
They shared what they’d each learned from Lady Georgiana in their separate visits. Most, they already knew, but Lady Georgiana had given Prue a fuller description of the visit from Elise Palmer the day after the murder. The dresser had discovered more than she’d expected when she robbed Annesley. Not just the evidence she was seeking, but further blackmail material for dozens more people. Annesley even had documents his friends would kill to protect. “David, she was boasting, Lady Georgiana said. She told Her Ladyship the Countess of Selby would pay, and pay well, to get back the information Annesley had about Selby.”