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Dinner in the Gold Star dining room was far superior to her potato-based lunch in the Silver dining room.
The Stropefords had replaced the Gallaghers at table. In her introduction to the newcomers to the table, Lady Peverell underlined the point that Isabella was only now meeting Lady Gemma Stropeford. Isabella fell in with the plan even as she wondered how long that little lie would last. The younger woman’s artless conversation with Sheridan Ingram might ruin all.
Col. Werthy had returned to the table. Colfax Ingram was missing, along with Mrs. Drake and Miss Swandon. In their place, at Lady Peverell’s left, was Lionel Wexford. Across table were the missionary Miss Harlow and a Mrs. Bridgewater, who managed to keep the attentions of Hyatt Ingram, Col. Werthy, and Lord Stropeford through five courses.
By dinner’s end, Isabella didn’t think any of those three men felt neglected by the dashing widow. She could not say the same of Mr. Wexford’s powers of conversation. Gemma Stropeford’s big green eyes had certainly captivated Sheridan Ingram.
Isabella’s conversation was reduced to Miss Harlow, an awkward cross-table around the center bouquet of white lilies and yellow roses. When the older woman discovered their berths were near each other, she found herself drafted to accompany Miss Harlow below-decks. She didn’t manage a private word with Lady Peverell or Gemma. Since she had nothing of her own to report, that didn’t concern her.
When she entered her room, Nedda Cortland was there, reading another glossy magazine. Hettie Rufford started up from her bunk.
“Slow down.” Isabella slipped off her two-strapped heels and dropped her shawl on the lower bunk that was hers. “Lady Peverell has decided an evening of dancing with the Stropefords and Ingrams is required after she indulged in chocolate three times today.”
Hettie sank back onto her upper bunk. “Thank heavens. She wore me to a frazzle this morning and was a curmudgeon all afternoon. Why did she want to see you?”
“That’s what I want to ask you about. Apparently, Gemma Stropeford’s diary has fallen into unscrupulous hands.”
Hettie propped on her elbow. “Lady Stropeford? I never. That’s the reason I had to search her stateroom this morning and this afternoon?”
“Is she being blackmailed?” Nedda asked.
“Not yet. I expect that’s next.”
Nedda returned to her magazine.
“Why did they call for you?” Hettie asked.
“I’m to find the missing diary.”
“An impossible task,” Nedda opined, proving that she was listening although her gaze remained glued to the gaily-dressed models.
“Perhaps not. I’ve been wondering how anyone would be able to take a diary that’s kept in a first-class passenger’s vanity case.”
Nedda frowned. “They couldn’t. At least, not just anyone could. Mr. Ingram’s valet remains in his stateroom when the maid comes in to clean and change the linens.”
“As do I,” Hettie murmured.
“When did Lady Stropeford last have her diary?”
“After we left La Rochelle. She writes the previous day’s events as she has her morning tea,” Isabella explained. “Last night her husband confronted her with two pages torn from the diary. This morning she had another torn page on her breakfast tray. Lord Stropeford also had her letter that should have been mailed. How did he come by that letter?”
Hettie gave a shamed face. “He caught me with it, as I was taking it to be mailed.”
“How did he know to look for it?”
“Lord Stropeford’s wits do not impress,” Nedda drawled. “Mr. Ingram can still run rings around the man.”
“Someone told him.” Isabella tapped a finger on her chin. “Did Lady Stropeford receive any notes this afternoon?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you know of her maid?”
“Tamman? She came with the marriage.”
“The Farradays employed her?”
“No. She was hired for Lady Stropeford when the betrothal settlements were agreed upon.”
“What do you think of Tamman, Hettie?”
The maid shrugged. “She does her job well.”
That answer was no help. Isabella wanted to know the maid’s potential loyalty. A flash of insight struck. “Do you do a job, Hettie, or do you serve Lady Peverell?”
“I serve her ladyship.”
“Ah.” Nedda cast her magazine aside. “That’s clever of you, Isabella.”
“A lucky guess. So, this Tamman has no real loyalty to Lady Stropeford.”
“Nor does that valet Henredon,” Hettie snapped. “This very afternoon I caught him sneaking around the first-class salons. He jumped out of his shoes when he saw me carrying her ladyship’s shawl.”
“He knows you work for Lady Peverell?”
“Of course he knows. We traveled in the same compartment from London to Southhampton. He and that Tamman had their heads together the whole train trip.”
“Then this Henredon also knows that Lady Peverell is like a godmother to Lady Stropeford, and he likely knows by now that Lady Peverell knows the diary is missing and will take action to protect her.” Isabella sank onto her bunk. “We dock mid-morning tomorrow in Gibraltar, a proper dock, not just a tug coming out with packages and supplies.”
Nedda caught her idea. “It will be their first opportunity to leave the ship. But will they?”
“Malta is five days from here. It’s leave now or risk being discovered and tossed in a brig until the next port.”
“They’ve gained nothing yet. There’s been no blackmail.”
Isabella bit her lip. “Still—. A lot can happen in a few hours. And I still haven’t found the diary. Hettie, where was Henredon when you saw him? By which salons? The library? The Reading Room?”
“The lounge. The library. Oh, and the Music Salon.”
“Where better to keep a stolen diary than away from your own things?” Nedda offered softly.
“Where better to stow it than in an unexpected place? No one will look for a book in the Music Salon.” The image blazed in her mind: sorting through the music sheets stored in the piano bench or on the music stand, seeing a slim diary at the bottom. After a brief glimpse inside, someone intent on song sheets would ignore it.
She stood up and slipped on her evening heels then tossed the paisley shawl over her black dress.
“When you don’t return,” Nedda asked, “where shall I tell them to find the body? The first-class library?”
“The Music Salon.”
