Chapter Sixteen

 

When darkness fell that evening, it could hardly compete with the thick fog hanging over London, winding yellow fingers of haze through the cobblestone streets.

I hired a coach and called for Lady Salisbury at her home at No.20 Arlington Street. Seeing the heavy diamond necklace, earbobs, and three matching bracelets her ladyship wore, I was glad I had chosen to carry my walking stick that concealed a rather deadly sword.

The astute marchioness was a step ahead of me. “Dismiss that vehicle, Brummell. We shall travel in my Town coach.”

This was a lumbering old vehicle, done in the first style of old elegance, with two of Lady Salisbury’s footmen, armed and riding on the backstrap. Thus, we were provided with not only an impressive appearance, but an added measure of safety.

The marchioness had declined my invitation to dine at Grillon’s, saying her digestion was delicate. This was an out and out bouncer, I knew, having seen her put great quantities of food into her tiny frame and never suffer for it. I could only conclude that while the temptations of the opera were enough to take her from her husband for the evening, she would not leave James to take his supper alone.

“I shall be the subject of envy with you on my arm tonight, my lady,” I told her once we were on our way and had exchanged bon mots about other members of Society.

She rapped me with her fan. “You’ll be talked about, but it won’t be because of me. What news have you regarding the Countess of Wrayburn’s murder?”

I shrugged. “I have my theories.”

“Hmpf! You’ll need more than theories to keep Miss Ashton from Newgate and your reputation undamaged. Facts, boy, facts. That’s what you need,” she said, adjusting the folds of her emerald green silk gown. “Facts, and the identity of the real killer would do the trick.”

“What do you know of Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Hensley?” I asked, ignoring her good-natured taunt.

The coach rolled to a stop before she could answer. A footman let down the steps and opened the door. The marchioness accepted his hand and alighted from the vehicle. Taking my arm, she said, “I know they have arrived with your favorite crony, Mr. Fairingdale, and are bearing down on us this very moment.”

I looked up and saw she was correct. That beastly woman, Mrs. Hensley, led the way like a general commanding troops.

“Mr. Brummell! Mr. Brummell! How are you this evening? It does so enliven a person’s spirits to see one’s friends when one goes about,” she proclaimed in a loud voice, making certain she was heard by other people arriving at the opera house.

Greetings were exchanged all around. Lady Salisbury’s manner was cool. She nodded in her grand way at the Hensleys, and gave Mr. Fairingdale’s carrot-colored coat a decided look of revulsion.

“I hope you don’t plan to come to Almack’s dressed like that, Fairingdale. I shall have to tell Mr. Willis to shut the door in your face,” the marchioness declared, referring to the fashionable assembly rooms and the gentleman who guarded the entrance.

The fop laughed. “Your sense of humor, my lady, is much to be admired.”

“I am not funning!” said the outspoken marchioness.

Mr. Fairingdale’s brows drew together, but he quickly recovered.

We had gravitated inside the Opera House where hundreds of candles burned brightly. Tiers of boxes rose up the sides of the theater, filled with haughty members of the Beau Monde dressed in their finest in order to best show up their friends.

The Hensley party followed us like sheep.

Mr. Fairingdale, perhaps miffed at Lady Salisbury’s acid comment after all and wanting to direct attention away from himself, raised his quizzing glass at me. “I say, Brummell, is that a blonde hair on your coat?”

I glanced down to see one of Chakkri’s short, fawn colored hairs on my sleeve. I raised one of my well-manicured hands and pinched the hair between my fingertips. Holding it up to the light, I allowed myself a smile, then a rapturous sigh. “I never discuss my amours,” I declared. Ignoring his sour look, I escorted a chuckling Lady Salisbury to her box.

Society’s chief reason for attending the opera was to be seen. Hearing the music was secondary.

Bowing and nodding to numerous acquaintances, Lady Salisbury and I were finally able to take our seats in her private box. Quite a bit of whispering heralded our arrival. The marchioness held her head proudly and, since the Hensleys were mercifully across the theater, we escaped further chatter.

“You did not answer my question about the Hensleys, my lady,” I said, helping her adjust her shawl across her shoulders. “I dislike pressing you, but there are two women whose futures are in peril.”

“Well, let me see. You’d have to be blind not to discern that Cordelia Hensley is a pushing sort of woman. She cares for nothing but her place in the world and impressing her circle of friends.”

“An accurate assessment.”

“As for her husband, he’s a mealy-mouthed mawworm who never has a word to say for himself. Although,” she went on, her black eyebrows raised, “there’s a rumor going about that he has finally got up enough nerve—or something—to stray from his marriage bed.”

“Yes, I heard that as well. I am having a difficult time putting Miss Ashton in the role of mistress. She is too well-bred.”

“Ha! Look around you and see all the ‘well-bred ladies’ who are flirting outrageously. But wait, did I hear you say two women were in jeopardy? Who’s the other?”

“Lady Wrayburn’s personal maid. Lizzie is with child and may not have a place to go.”

Lady Salisbury turned sharply and looked at me. “The lady’s maid, eh? Hmpf! Wouldn’t surprise me if that’s where Timothy Hensley has been diddling. Runs in the family, you know. His father, the late Lord Wrayburn, was known in his younger days to have impregnated one of the boys’ governesses. Can’t remember the girl’s name right off, but it will come to me, and I’ll pass it along. Lud, but Lady Wrayburn had a fit of hysterics. Tossed the poor girl out on the streets without a reference. At any rate, you know what they say about the apple not falling far from the tree. Mark me, the child is Hensley’s.”

“Lady Salisbury, you are the best of women!” I cried suddenly, and kissed the marchioness soundly on the cheek.

She giggled like a schoolgirl; people pointed and whispered, but then the singer came on stage, and everyone was diverted.

I sat ignoring the music, my mind racing. Lizzie and

Mr. Hensley! Of course. A mental image of Lizzie brushing her hair in the hall of Wrayburn House flashed through my head. She had been using an ivory-handled brush like the one I purchased for Chakkri. The one Mr. Floris said he had sold to Mr. Hensley.

The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

Number one: Mr. Hensley, miserable in his marriage, turns for comfort to Lizzie, the docile lady’s maid so different from his wife. He genuinely grows to care for her, hence the gift of the hairbrush. A baby will be the result of his affection.

Number two: Lady Wrayburn learns Lizzie is with child when Miss Ashton lets the secret out at Talbot’s auction.

Mr. Hensley is paralyzed with fear. For he remembers what happened to the pregnant governess many years ago. His mother will surely throw Lizzie out the same way she had that other unfortunate girl. Especially if she finds out her own son is the father. Why, she might even be so incensed that her son is following in his father’s footsteps, so to speak, that she might force Mr. and Mrs. Hensley from the house. Such an act would infuriate Mrs. Hensley, who cared so very much for her place in Society. Not to mention what would happen if Mrs. Hensley discovered her husband was sleeping with one of the servants rather than her.

Number three: Mr. Hensley, desperate, slips downstairs and poisons his mother’s nightly glass of milk. Then, unable to bear staying in the house while she dies, he goes for a walk, Miss Ashton saw him leave.

This would also explain his generosity in allowing Miss Ashton and Lizzie to remain at Wrayburn House, even over his wife’s protests.

Number four: Mrs. Hensley, while knowing her husband is being unfaithful, mistakenly judges Miss Ashton to be his mistress. She subsequently searches the girl’s room, hoping to find evidence of the affair with which to confront Mr. Hensley but, instead, finds Miss Ashton’s journal.

The journal contains no words of love for Mr. Hensley, but Mrs. Hensley is undaunted. When she reads what can be construed as threats on Lady Wrayburn’s life, she promptly turns the journal over to Bow Street, in hopes that Miss Ashton be will accused, removed from the house, and Mrs. Hensley’s troubles will be over.

But she had the wrong girl.