In Which John Pickett Goes A-Courting
Having wrapped the porcelain figurine in brown paper for safekeeping and tied it with string, Pickett retraced his steps from the Bow Street office to the more fashionable suburb of Mayfair, where he presented himself at Lady Dunnington’s house in Audley Street. The door was opened to him by the maid Dulcie, who seemed quite pleased to see him.
“Why, it’s Mr. Pickett from Bow Street!” she exclaimed, opening the door wide to admit him. “Do come in, sir, but if you’re wanting to see her ladyship, I must tell you that Lady Dunnington is not at home.”
“To tell you the truth, Miss Monroe—”
“Dulcie,” she reminded him.
“Dulcie, then, my business here concerns you as much as it does her ladyship,” said Pickett.
“Me? But how—?”
He handed her the paper-wrapped parcel. “Open it.”
“For me?” Turning quite pink with pleasure, she began ripping the paper to expose the porcelain shepherdess within.
“Oh, Mr. Pickett, you found her! And here I thought she must be gone for good. How terribly clever of you!”
It was perhaps inevitable that a young man with a wounded vanity would be particularly susceptible to the admiration of an attractive young woman, and Pickett’s vanity (never robust even at the best of times) was very, very wounded indeed. He blossomed under her attention like a flower seeking the sun.
“I didn’t do anything, really,” he demurred modestly. “In fact, you might say she found me.”
“I am sure you do yourself less than justice,” Dulcie insisted. “Pray, where did you find her?”
“Mr. Kenney found her in the pocket of his greatcoat,” he told her. “I should have returned her a week ago, but I was obliged to make a trip to Leicestershire, and have only just returned.”
“I had wondered where you’d been keeping yourself,” she confessed. “But are you saying Mr. Kenney took her?”
“Not intentionally. Apparently he is in the habit of carrying a pistol for self-defense, and when he returned to his lodgings after Lady Dunnington’s dinner party, he discovered his gun had been stolen, and this thing put in its place.”
“How very strange! Who would have done such a thing?”
“Presumably the same person who shot Sir Reginald.”
“And—and do you know who this person is?” she asked, her eyes wide with mingled hope and fear.
“No, but it’s early days yet, and these things take time. Are you still frightened?”
She gave him a timid smile. “Not so very much, knowing you are on the case.”
Quite unexpectedly, the words of the roguish Irishman floated to the surface of Pickett’s brain. Make sure you claim a hero’s reward. . . . Dulcie was indeed a pretty girl, and much the same size as Lady Fieldhurst, the crown of her head just topping his shoulder. But her eyes were brown, not blue, and her hair, though blonde, was more wheat-colored than golden. He recalled having similar thoughts about Sir Reginald’s daughter, and wondered fleetingly if it was his destiny to go through life comparing every female he met to Lady Fieldhurst—and finding them all wanting.
“I am glad you can no longer be thought to have stolen her, in any case,” he said.
“Oh, that!” Dulcie shook her head, dismissing the notion and at the same time setting her curls bouncing. Pickett noticed for the first time that she was not wearing the ruffled cap and apron that constituted her usual costume.
“I believe her ladyship felt quite badly about saying such a thing to me,” the maid continued, “for she has given me a half-day off today without my even having to ask. In fact, I was on my way out when I heard your knock.”
“In that case, I hope you will allow me to escort you,” Pickett replied promptly.
“Oh, but I couldn’t ask such a thing of you, sir!”
“You didn’t ask; I offered.”
“I am sure you must have a hundred more pressing things to do,” she protested.
“More pressing, perhaps, but surely none more pleasant.”
Dulcie struggled mightily for a few seconds before succumbing with a dimpled smile. “Very well, Mr. Pickett, since you insist.”
Having settled the matter to the satisfaction of both, he offered her his arm. “If I am to call you Dulcie, I think you had best call me John.”
“I couldn’t possibly call you John!” she objected, taking his proffered arm nonetheless.
“Yes you can, for you just did,” he pointed out.
“Why, so I did!” she exclaimed as they stepped out onto the portico. “Shall I tell you what I think, Mr. Pick—I mean, John? I think you are a shocking flirt!”
He laughed at that, but did not deny it. Surely it was better to be thought a flirt than to be thought—but he would not think about that now, not when the sun was shining, the weather was unseasonably mild for November, and a pretty girl was clinging to his arm and gazing up at him as if he were her one hope of heaven.
“Where shall we go, Dulcie?”
After some discussion, it was agreed they should go to Hyde Park, where they might watch the fashionables promenade and throw breadcrumbs to the ducks that were always to be found swimming on the Serpentine. It soon transpired that Dulcie was an avid follower of the Society pages, and she took great pleasure in pointing out to Pickett all the leading lights of the beau monde, many of whom she had served, since they had been guests of Lady Dunnington at one time or another.
They had been engaged in this pleasant pastime for some half an hour when the sight of an elegantly dressed young couple in a high perch phaeton caught Dulcie’s attention.
“Oh, look! That is Miss Granger-Hix and her betrothed, Sir Anthony Caldwell. Are they not a handsome pair? It said in the Morning Post that they are to marry in the spring.” A shadow crossed Dulcie’s pretty face. “I wonder what will happen to Sir Reginald Montague’s daughter, now that she is in mourning. I daresay they will have to call the wedding off.”
Pickett could not agree. “I should think getting married, even if one had to do it quietly, would be more important than having a fashionable wedding. I saw Miss Montague and her fiancé together on the night Sir Reginald was shot—I was obliged to convey the news to his family—and they appeared to be quite devoted to each other.”
“Perhaps, but appearances can be deceiving. Miss Montague’s fiancé is a marquess, and the heir to a dukedom. He might not wish to be associated with a family tainted by the scandal of a murder.”
Pickett, far from being shocked at such cynicism, knew only too well how quickly those in Society could turn on one of their own, having seen Lady Fieldhurst fall victim to this phenomenon in the days following the murder of her husband. “Will you think me very rag-mannered if I say I hope you are wrong? I should rather think that Miss Montague’s fiancé, if he loves her, would want to be in a position to support her through such a trying time.”
“Love!” Dulcie echoed with unwonted bitterness. She tossed her final morsel of bread onto the ground, where it was immediately set upon by a trio of greedy ducks. “Their kind doesn’t fall in love, John, they only use one another for social advancement. Only look at my Lady Dunnington and her husband, who never see one another except to quarrel. And then there is her friend Lady Fieldhurst, who married a viscount and then stabbed him to death!”
Pickett could not allow this slander of his lady to go unchallenged. “I can assure you, Lady Fieldhurst did not kill her husband!” he said with some indignation.
Dulcie hastily corrected herself. “No, of course she did not, for you proved her innocence, didn’t you?” she said, patting his arm placatingly. “But it certainly appeared for a time as if she had, and that she would hang for it.”
“No one could be in her ladyship’s presence for five minutes and still believe her capable of such a thing!” insisted Pickett, refusing to be placated.
“Forgive me, John. I meant no disrespect toward her ladyship.” She cast a slanting look up at him. “I believe you are much attached to Lady Fieldhurst’s interests.”
Pickett did not deny it. “I have had the honor of being of assistance to her on more than one occasion.”
“And yet I suspect there is rather more to it than that, is there not?”
“I know my place, Dulcie, and it is not with her ladyship,” he said in a flat voice.
Her large brown eyes filled with tears of sympathy. “I am sorry for you, John, truly I am. But there are other women, you know, women who know how to value the love of a good man.”
So saying, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.
He did not return her kiss, but gave a little squeeze to the hand resting in the curve of his elbow. By unspoken agreement, they talked of other things, and by the time they completed their circuit around the park, they were once again on easy terms.
Over the next few days, Pickett made a habit of seeking out Dulcie whenever his investigations took him to the smart district of Mayfair. He found her company both comforting and nonthreatening: unlike Lady Fieldhurst, she was not above his touch, and unlike Lucy, she had no designs upon his person. It occurred to him that this was perhaps not entirely fair to Dulcie, to appear to be courting her when he feared he would never be able to give her his whole heart. But to one whose manhood was being called into question, her obvious admiration acted as a balm to his bruised spirit, and so his footsteps turned with increasing frequency in the direction of Audley Street. Upon arriving at that fashionable address, he did not approach the front door, but took the steps down to the servants’ entrance below street level and asked for Dulcie. She was always eager to hear about the progress of his investigations, and was gratifyingly appreciative of his cleverness in even the most mundane of discoveries.
On one such visit, Pickett was emboldened to go a step further.
“Dulcie,” he began, twisting the brim of his hat in his hands, “I wonder if I might—that is, I wonder if you would—would consent to—to—”
Seeing him floundering helplessly, Dulcie came to his rescue. “If I would consent to what, John?”
He took a deep breath, and the words came out in a rush. “I wonder if I might see you on your day off.”
Dulcie smiled. “I would like that very much.”
“Do you like the theatre?” Pickett asked, much encouraged. “Mrs. Church is to make her farewell appearance on the Drury Lane stage this Wednesday. I should—I should be honored if you would accompany me.”
“My day off is not until Thursday next,” Dulcie confessed. “Still, I would love to see Mrs. Church on the stage. I shall ask my Lady Dunnington if I might swap with Polly. May I let you know tomorrow?”
Pickett agreed that tomorrow would be a wonderful day for such a communication and, after an awkward hesitation, bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
He was feeling rather better about the world in general and his place in it as he climbed the servants’ stair up to street level—and almost ran into Lady Fieldhurst as she approached Lady Dunnington’s front door.
“My lady!” He felt strangely guilty, as if he had narrowly escaped being caught in some act of betrayal. But theirs was not a real marriage and never would be, so there was no reason—no reason at all—for him to feel that by kissing Dulcie he had somehow been unfaithful to the lady who was nominally his wife.
“Are you coming in, Mr. Pickett?” asked Lady Fieldhurst, gesturing toward the front door.
“No, I was just—just leaving.”
“Oh,” she said, rather daunted. “Well then, I shan’t keep you.”
“My lady,” he said quickly as she turned away, “I—I owe you an apology. I lost my temper—I said some things—”
“You had every right to be angry, Mr. Pickett. You still have, for that matter. It is unconscionable, what Mr. Crumpton is—no, what I am asking of you. I don’t blame you for ripping up at me.”
“But I shouldn’t have—”
She took a deep breath. “Mr. Pickett, there is something I must tell you. Lady Dunnington left the dinner table that night because her husband had called and insisted upon seeing her. They quarreled quite audibly, and apparently Emily fears he may be—involved—in Sir Reginald’s death.”
Pickett pondered this confession for a long moment, less surprised by the revelation than by the fact that she had made it at all, given her determination to remain silent on the subject. “And what do you think, my lady?” he asked at last. “Do you believe Lord Dunnington capable of murder?”
Her brow puckered as she considered the question. “I truly don’t know. I am not well acquainted with Lord Dunnington. I fear they were estranged long before I met Emily, so I have only her stated opinions of him with which to form an impression. And those opinions, I might add, are usually far from complimentary. Indeed, I wonder that she should be so—but you will not arrest him, will you?”
“I will certainly question him, but I will make no arrest, of Lord Dunnington or anyone else, without substantial evidence to back it up—and so you may tell her ladyship. But—forgive me, my lady, but why do you tell me this now, when you steadfastly refused to do so when I asked you before?”
She made a helpless little gesture with her hands. “Because—after what happened—the meeting with Mr. Crumpton—I am reminded that there is no one in the world more worthy of my trust than you, Mr. Pickett.”
“Thank you, my lady. I am—honored—by your faith in me. And yet there is one instance in which I failed to keep my word to you, and for which I must beg your pardon.”
“Is there?” she asked, puzzled. “I fear I don’t remember—”
“When I kissed you in Scotland, I promised you it would not happen again,” he reminded her. “I can hardly fault you for being less than honest with me, when it appears I lied to you.”
“Pray do not refine too much upon it, Mr. Pickett. Being kissed by you is not so dreadful a burden, I assure you.”
And giving him an uncertain little smile, she turned and knocked on Lady Dunnington’s front door.
“I saw Mr. Pickett leaving as I approached your door,” Lady Fieldhurst told Emily Dunnington some few minutes later, when they had settled themselves in the drawing room and rung for tea.
“Your Mr. Pickett was here?” asked Lady Dunnington, taken aback by this revelation. “Just now?”
“He isn’t ‘my’ Mr. Pickett,” Julia said, not for the first time. “Yes, just now. Coming up the servants’ stair, in fact.”
“If he wished to question the servants, he might have asked me first,” grumbled the countess. “What if Dulcie were to blurt out the truth about Dunnington?”
“Emily, I have a confession to make,” said Lady Fieldhurst, twisting the drawstrings of her reticule around her fingers. “I blurted out the truth about Dunnington, just now.”
“Julia!” cried Lady Dunnington, stricken. “How could you?”
“He must find out sooner or later,” Lady Fieldhurst pointed out. “Surely it will look much better if it appears we have nothing to hide.”
“Nonsense! There was no reason why he should ever have had to know about it at all—had you not told him!” she added, an odd mixture of fear and defiance in her voice.
“But Emily, there were half a dozen witnesses! You cannot expect them all to keep silent, especially if they are under investigation themselves. The temptation to divert suspicion would surely be too great to resist.”
“Witnesses?” The countess seized upon the word. “But no one saw Dunnington except for myself and Dulcie!”
“Not saw, perhaps, but I can assure you everyone at the table heard.” Seeing Emily’s horrified countenance, she explained, “You were only in the next room, you know, and neither of you was making any effort to keep your voice down.”
“Then—then you all heard what he said? About how he would ‘put a stop to it,’ no matter what it might take?”
“Yes, but those words could mean a great many things other than murder. Or they could mean absolutely nothing. I can assure you Mr. Pickett will be well familiar with masculine bluster; after all, I have met his magistrate! Depend upon it, he will not leap to any conclusions where Lord Dunnington is concerned.”
Lady Dunnington twisted her wedding ring around on her finger. “I wish I could share your confidence in him. Or in Dunnington, for that matter. You may speak of masculine bluster, but Dunnington is not one to make idle threats.”
“Do you think he killed Sir Reginald?”
“I—I don’t know! I only fear I may have provoked him too far this time. I knew how he felt about Sir Reginald. In fact, that was my whole reason for pursuing the man—to make Dunnington jealous.”
“He has never seemed to be troubled by jealousy where any of your other lovers were concerned,” observed Lady Fieldhurst.
“I know,” Lady Dunnington said mournfully. “I was at the end of my rope! I didn’t know what else to do but find a man so thoroughly unsavory that Dunnington would have to take notice! And now Sir Reginald is dead, and if Dunnington ends up hanging for murder, I shall—I shall kill him!”
Lady Fieldhurst would have pointed out the illogic of this declaration, but another, far more important idea drove it from her mind. “Emily,” she demanded with dawning comprehension, “do you love Lord Dunnington?”
The countess’s mouth worked, and she cast her gaze wildly about the room. “I—I—”
Lady Dunnington was spared the necessity of making a reply by the arrival of Dulcie with the tea cart. Even after cups were poured and distributed and a plate of cakes offered, the girl remained standing awkwardly at her mistress’s shoulder.
“Yes, Dulcie?” asked Lady Dunnington. “What is it?”
“Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but—but I wonder if I might make a request.”
“Well, go ahead then, make it.”
“The actress Mrs. Church is to make her final appearance in Drury Lane on Wednesday, and my young man has asked me to accompany him to the theatre that night. I know it’s not my usual day, ma’am, but I wonder if I might swap days with Polly, just this once.”
“Your young man?” echoed Lady Dunnington archly. “Why, Dulcie, I didn’t know you were walking out with someone. You’ve scarcely been in my employ for six months. Am I to lose you so soon?”
“It’s much too early to be thinking of that, your ladyship,” Dulcie protested, but her coy blushes told their own tale.
“Nonsense! It is never too early for females to be thinking of marriage,” the countess observed. “Very well, if Polly has no objections to swapping days with you, I suppose it’s all the same to me. Only do not stay out too late—and no unpleasant surprises two or three months hence, if you please!”
Dulcie did not pretend to misunderstand her. “Why, no ma’am!” she exclaimed, shocked at the very suggestion. “Thank you, ma’am.” She bobbed a curtsy and betook herself from the room.
“Well!” exclaimed Lady Dunnington once the two ladies were alone. “It’s nice to know that someone’s romantic intrigues are proceeding apace. Perhaps our problems would be more easily solved, Julia my dear, if we were members of a lesser class.”
“Perhaps they would,” Lady Fieldhurst murmured.
A faint shadow of disquiet crossed her mind. Mr. Pickett had just been here, downstairs in the servants’ quarters, in fact, and he knew Mrs. Church well from their ill-fated adventure in Scotland . . . Nonsense, she told herself, pushing away the thought. There were doubtless many people eager to see Mrs. Church’s final performance, and Dulcie was pretty enough that she might have any number of young men eager to court her. Mr. Pickett would never do such a thing—not now, not when he knew how much depended upon his remaining chaste until the annulment was granted.
And yet the troubling idea, once admitted, would not be so easily dismissed.