CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Marie

SHE READ THE letter that had been so helpfully slipped under her door earlier that evening while the valet visited. It read:

Your Grace,
I ask for a moment of your time in order to set before you a series of events that concern you in the most intimate manner.

I have recently taken lodgings at a house on Baker Street, run by a woman named Druce. She also owns the property next door, which is let to a man who calls himself Thomas Charles and operates the Baker Street Bazaar. It is this person that I wish to speak of.

Pray be patient while I recall the conversation I had with Druce yesterday:

Late afternoon as I descended the stairs, I deliberately put my weight heavily on the one that creaked. Druce flung her door open. ‘There you are! I wondered when you’d rise.’

‘Oh, Mrs Druce. Always so concerned about your tenant’s welfare. What would I do without you? And you look like you’ve been out already, judging by the dress? A funeral?’

‘Yes,’ she said, and she patted the bottom of the baby in her arms. ‘I just got the notice yesterday. Mighty quick it all was. A funeral indeed. Although most peculiar if I do say so.’

‘Yes?’

‘My lodger – well, former lodger he was. Thomas Charles. Always kept to himself mind, had the rooms next to yours above, ran the Baker Street Bazaar? Did you know it?’

‘I didn’t,’ said I. ‘My condolences, however, I have a pressing app—’

‘The funeral was odd, I must say. No one there but me and the boy – and a closed coffin.’

‘A closed coffin?’ I repeated.

‘Yes! And most definite about it, the minister was. All pinched face and tight-lipped. Said it was his wishes. Strange fellow, Thomas Charles. Kept odd hours and liked his privacy – although he liked my company well enough, if you know what I mean.’ She patted the baby’s bottom again and directed me a meaningful look.

‘Mrs Druce, unfortunately I have to —’

‘The other thing is,’ she continued, ‘I saw him last week. At that performance at Welbeck, you know, with that magician fellow Philidor?’

‘Philidor, you say?’

‘Yes, I saved up me coins to go, worth every penny it was. I seen Thomas Charles at the first one here in town, and wouldn’t you know it, he was at that one as well! And damned if he didn’t clamber on the stage with a sword and faint clean away.’

‘How interesting,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you tell me all about him?’

Naturally, that is exactly what she did. Which is why my next course of action was to visit the portrait gallery at the House of Lords today, where I found a painting only just hung, of a certain His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland, a peer of the realm, which fits the description of Thomas Charles most peculiarly – in fact, in every respect. Another source then identified the gentleman whom Druce had seen onstage as being yourself, the duke.

I allege you have carefully crafted two identities and wish to keep them separate and secret. Now that I am in possession of information that could ruin you, I suspect you are feeling nervous about what may transpire. Never fear! I will convey to you the solution, although it pains me to be so coarse. Unfortunately, I am not in a favourable financial position. My funds are dwindling, but I have plans for imminent travel to France. If you were so inclined to contribute a generous sum, I could perhaps be persuaded from sharing my knowledge.

Please call on me at my Baker Street lodgings with the sum of 100 pounds at half past midnight Wednesday, that is tomorrow night. Discretion is assured. However, if you do not see fit to accept this invitation, I plan to call upon an acquaintance of mine at the Morning Post who is always eager to print the latest sensation.

Sincerely,

Pinetti

Pinetti! Her lover had revealed himself with finality. She had had misgivings about his real identity the first time she saw his hands with those white indentations where rings were normally worn. The sight triggered her remembrance of Philidor’s derisive comment about Pinetti’s hands being made clumsy with his ridiculous rings.

Regington was Pinetti. The 5th Duke of Portland was Thomas Charles. Philidor was Phillipstal. And she had hidden the birthname of her father. A game of dual identities.

Pinetti had forced her hand with this letter, wanting to benefit from the knowledge he thought he alone possessed. It was clear what she meant to him and while she was not surprised at the revelation, perhaps, she could admit this to herself, she was a little piqued at how easily he had thought to discard her. Had he underestimated her power, her intellect, her abilities? And more privately, had he ever really desired her? But, she supposed, it was of no significance now, her emotions or his. There were more important elements to consider.

Marie tapped the letter against her lips. Now what exactly could she do with this?