CHAPTER 1

Lady Beatrice Torrence, widow of Sir Arnold Torrence, reflected wryly that she knew all the names of everyone at the party but none of the faces. She had been abroad with her husband, from one posting to another, for so long and had come back to find that London was populated by the children and even grandchildren of those she had known a lifetime ago.

Consider that girl with the copper hair, Lady Frances Ffolkes. She had known her father, Lord Seaforth, who had served with Lady Torrence’s husband in the Foreign Office, and Lady Seaforth had made her debut with Lady Torrence’s cousin Edith. But the old Seaforths had gone to their final reward, along with cousin Edith. And now she exchanged a few pleasantries with this young, pretty girl, a brief discussion about her late parents. So full of energy, so full of confidence. It exhausted Lady Torrence just to talk with her.

When Frances departed, Lady Torrence thought that that was an end of it, but there was a lot more to discuss about her. Clara Astley, Lady Torrence’s goddaughter, was practically quivering with excitement. She had a kind heart, was very solicitous of her godmother—and was also one of the worst gossips in London. Mrs. Astley knew everything about everyone, and at a party like this—one of Lord and Lady Moore’s well-attended events—that was no small advantage.

“Dear Aunt Bea, do you have any idea who that was?” Her eyes glittered. This was going to be good. “Lady Frances is practically notorious. One of those suffrage girls pushing to get women the vote. Well, what could you expect—the family let her go to a college for ladies in America of all places, and it put all kinds of ideas into her head.”

“Kicked over the traces, did she?” said Lady Torrence with a smile.

“Oh, and there’s more. She involves herself with”—she lowered her voice—“the police. That fuss over the Colcombe manuscript that ended half a dozen War Office careers? She was in the thick of that. And then that unpleasantness at Kestrel’s Eyrie? She was a guest there when it happened, hand in hand with Scotland Yard.”

“With the police? You mean—more than just a witness?” Lady Torrence raised an eyebrow.

“So they say. Practically set herself up as a private detective, like Sherlock Holmes.” Mrs. Astley was a mix of indignation that such a thing at happened and delight that she was in a position to tell about it.

“Really?” Lady Torrence was more amused than upset. “Her brother tolerates that? I assume she lives with him.”

“Oh, dear, if only! She and her maid live in Miss Plimsoll’s hotel.”

“That’s respectable enough, I’d have thought.”

“Well, yes,” Mrs. Astley conceded. “But it’s really for elderly widows who don’t want the bother and expense of continuing to manage the family home, not young ladies still seeking a husband and in need of a chaperone. It’s unheard of.”

Who’d have thought it—the Seaforth girl. She started thinking about it, and then Mrs. Astley was introducing her to more people, and Lady Frances went out of her head for the moment.

But she recalled the conversation later that night. Her maid was brushing out her hair before she went to bed, and Lady Frances came back to her. Louisa. She had thought about her less and less in recent years but never really stopped, and with the return to London, she once again intruded frequently on her memory. Lady Torrence had made one futile try to follow up, but she was too old, too tired.

But that Lady Frances—a suffragist and, apparently, a detective. Could it be? Was God giving her one last chance? Lady Frances might laugh at her, a silly old lady. If she did, what did it matter? Write now, before she lost her nerve.

“I have a letter to write tonight,” she told her maid. “Please hand me my paper and pen.”

“Now, my lady?”

“Yes, now. Before I forget. Tomorrow morning, take it right after you serve me breakfast and have William deliver it by hand.”

“Very good, my lady.” She got the pen and paper for her mistress and then said good night.

Lady Torrence thought about the wording. She didn’t want to spell it out—that would be too much. She didn’t want to plead either. Or command. Just excite a little curiosity. She could find the right words—she hadn’t been an ambassador’s wife for all those years for nothing. Just a few lines. Then she sealed it and went to bed.

Could it be possible to find Louisa after all that time?

Lady Torrence saw herself to bed and turned out the light. For the first time in many years, she allowed herself to cry before falling asleep.

The next morning, as William was delivering the letter, Frances was not thinking of Lady Torrence. She was completely focused on the woman attacking her. Her opponent had her by her shoulder, but Frances seized her arm and let the woman’s own weight send her off balance. But the woman was not fooled and, recovering more quickly than Frances had anticipated, swept her down until she was flat on her back.

Undeterred, Frances grabbed the other woman’s ankle and gave a sharp tug. The woman fell down, and Frances scrambled back up again, ready for more . . . but then stopped at the sound of two hard claps.

Her opponent stopped as well, and they turned to the Japanese gentleman who was watching them closely.

“Improving,” he said. “You still move like oxen, but you are improving.”

“Improving as fast as your male students, sensei?” asked Frances. The other woman stifled a giggle. The man didn’t laugh but considered her question carefully.

“Women follow directions more carefully than men. They learn faster that it is about thought, not strength. Now think on what I have said. I will see you at your next lesson.”

The women bowed to him. “Thank you, sensei,” they said and departed. In the changing room, a female attendant helped them change back into their street clothes.

“My goodness, Marie,” said Frances. “Who’d have thought that London’s best songstress could manhandle someone like a docker?”

“And who’d have thought the daughter of a marquess could kick like a mule?” said Marie. They both laughed. “I’m so glad you’ve been joining me. It’s wonderful exercise, and I had almost despaired of finding a woman to practice with.”

“Thank you for inviting me. We shall persevere and open our own dojo—for women only.”

They said good-bye, and Frances caught a hansom back to Miss Plimsoll’s. She realized that she looked a little worse for wear and was stiff in her legs. What would Mrs. Beasley, the manageress, say?

Miss Plimsoll’s had been an elegant private house for generations until the elderly Miss Plimsoll found herself rattling around inside with too many rooms, too many servants, and a rapidly dwindling bank account. She had turned it into an elegant residential hotel for ladies, and despite the change in status, it still boasted beautifully maintained trimmings. But even though it wasn’t a private residence anymore, Mrs. Beasley still kept up standards. Frances fancied the manageress turned a baleful eye on her. What was her ladyship up to now?

Wincing, Frances walked upstairs to her little suite. Mallow was waiting for her, and Frances watched her maid’s eyes take in her hair and her dress, which were not as well-arranged as when Frances had left.

“Did you have a good physical education class, my lady?” That was what Frances had called it.

“Yes, very good, thank you. But I’m a little stiff, so maybe a hot bath.” Mallow helped her undress.

“My lady, you have bruises!”

“Those happened during the class. We have advanced to the next level.”

“I see, my lady.” And Frances almost winced again at Mallow’s subtle tone. Imagine that, a lady going to a class of her own free will just to get hurt.

Frances knew that she owed her an explanation.

“It’s called jujutsu, Mallow. It’s a method they developed in Japan to defend yourself against being attacked if you don’t have a weapon, and a Japanese gentleman has come to England to give lessons. My actress friend, Marie Studholme, heard about it and asked me to join her since she needed a woman to practice with. I think it’s an excellent idea for women to learn how to defend themselves.”

“Very good, my lady.” Mallow frowned. “So you and Miss Studholme take turns . . . hitting each other?”

“Well, not so much hitting as throwing each other.”

“Very good, my lady,” Mallow said, expertly hiding any thoughts she had about her mistress grappling with another woman. “I’ll prepare a bath. Meanwhile, I picked up the mail for you earlier. There’s a letter delivered by hand.”

Frances looked at it. The handwriting and stationery were not familiar. She opened it.

Dear Lady Frances,

We spoke briefly last night at the reception, and I was hoping that we could continue our conversation at your convenience. I will be at home to you for the rest of the week.

Cordially,

Lady Beatrice Torrence

“That’s odd. Her late husband served in the Foreign Office years ago with my father. We had a few pleasantries, nothing more. Why should she want to speak with me again?”

“Perhaps she wants to join your suffrage club, my lady.”

Frances laughed. “That would be a surprise. I’ve heard that Sir Arnold was strict and rigid even by the standards of his generation. Although . . . you may have hit on something, Mallow. She was with her goddaughter, Mrs. Astley, who is very gossipy. She no doubt gave Lady Torrence an earful about my suffrage work and other events. Maybe Lady Torrence just wants to lecture me.”

Although an elderly aunt might do that, it would be insane for a woman who was practically a stranger to summon Frances to her home for that purpose. And Lady Torrence seemed of sound mind.

“Maybe she’s just lonely and wants the company of someone young. I’m curious, at any rate, but I think I’ll visit my sister-in-law first and see what she knows. But first . . . a bath.”

“Very good, my lady. And I’ll choose a dress appropriate for calling.”

Once she was suitably relaxed and refreshed after her bath, Frances let Mallow dress her again and headed out to visit her dear friend Mary, her brother’s wife.

Cumberland, the Seaforth butler, greeted her at the door. “A pleasure to see you again, my lady. Her ladyship is in the morning room.”

“Thank you, Cumberland,” she said, then turned a mischievous eye on the butler who had been serving the family since before she was born. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you making sure Mallow wasn’t letting me out of the house without my dress and hair in proper form,” she said. Mallow had been a Seaforth housemaid before Frances had promoted her to lady’s maid when going out on her own. Cumberland bowed and gave Frances a small smile.

“I will only say, my lady, that Miss Mallow is a credit to the training she received in this house.”

Which is more than you could say for me, thought Frances.

Frances found Mary writing letters when Cumberland announced her. “I’m so glad you called. We hardly got to speak last night, with Charles and I having to spend so much time making the rounds, speaking to everyone.” Charles was Undersecretary for European Affairs in the Foreign Office. “The joys of being a political wife.”

“And you like it. Even Charles’s political opponents say that you’re his best asset.” The two women laughed. “I don’t normally go to those events myself, but Lady Moore asked me specially, and as she was such a good friend of my mother’s, I couldn’t say no. But remember when you introduced me to Lady Torrence?”

“Yes. I hope she didn’t ramble on too much about some house party she attended decades ago with some great aunt of yours. I was afraid she was getting a little dotty.”

“No, she was clear enough, although we didn’t talk long. But this morning she sent me a brief note asking me to call on her. It seemed such an odd request. They were hardly intimate friends with us, so I wondered why. You know everyone. What can you tell me about the Torrences?”

“That is strange. Let’s see. I know Sir Arnold died some years back. He served mostly overseas in one country or another, in the continent and even the Orient. They have a daughter—oh, what’s her name?—Sarah, yes. Raised a few eyebrows some years back when she married a fellow from the City, someone deep in finance rather than from the old aristocracy. Apparently, he did very well for himself, became extremely wealthy, and was even raised to the peerage, although I can’t recall his name right now.”

“Doesn’t sound anything unusual,” said Frances, but then Mary frowned.

“However, there was something about another child, I believe, something someone mentioned to me. An older daughter who died, but there was something more—a bad marriage, maybe. Louisa, I think the name was. You know how it is, a half-remembered story someone repeats over dinner, and then conversation stops because it’s too painful or embarrassing. Sorry, I can’t remember any more.”

“Oh, but that’s very helpful. If the late Louisa did something scandalous . . .”

“Then perhaps Lady Torrence wants to speak to a modern-day scandalous woman,” finished Mary.

“Well done, dear sister,” said Frances. “Perhaps my growing reputation precedes me. I’ll call on her this afternoon and let you know what she says.”

“Please do. And how are you faring otherwise? Or more specifically, how goes it with dear Mr. Wheaton?”

Mary smiled briefly at how the mention of Henry “Hal” Wheaton could still bring a blush to Frances’s cheeks.

“Very well, thank you. As I told him, we’ll have a long engagement. I see it as a way to make sure we are indeed fully suited to each other, to create an important stage between courtship and marriage.”

“Dear Franny, does Hal share your noble goals?”

“Why, Mary, of course he does. He’s more broad-minded and forward-thinking than people realize.”

Mary arched an eyebrow. “As broad-minded and forward-thinking as you?”

At that, Frances gave Mary a look of mock horror. “I couldn’t expect a mere man to go that far!”

Frances headed next to a Mayfair address where, over tea and sandwiches in a drawing room, she worked on speeches and pamphlets with friends from the suffrage group. And then it was time to call on Lady Torrence.

Frances continued to think about the message. Was it about the mysterious Louisa? But she was theorizing without the full facts. Her professors at Vassar would upbraid her severely for that. There were other possibilities. For example, Lady Torrence had been out of London for many years and might not know that Frances had become quietly engaged. Maybe she had a grandnephew she wanted to introduce to Frances, a chance for a connection to the large and influential Seaforth family. I wouldn’t have thought I was satisfactory to someone in Society anymore, between my suffrage work and police activities, she thought. But then again, maybe this mythical grandnephew isn’t very satisfactory either.

The house was typical for its fashionable neighborhood, well-kept on the outside, so Lady Torrence had the money to hire good servants and the ability to see they were well-supervised.

A proper butler answered the door and took her card. “Her ladyship is in the drawing room,” he said, and Frances followed him. Although the outside of the house was nondescript, the interior was a delightful jumble, something she hadn’t expected. She saw small jade statues from the Orient, oil paintings showing the Alps and the Hindu Kush, brass from India, and ivory from Africa. Souvenirs from a well-traveled life.

The drawing room was no different, with an attention-grabbing porcelain Buddha dominating a corner and a lacquered Japanese screen, decorated with fanciful pictures of mountains, stretched along the opposite wall.

“Lady Frances Ffolkes,” announced the butler, which brought Frances’s eyes to her hostess. Lady Torrence sat in a deep leather chair that was more comfortable than fashionable. Her dress was good, but a little old-fashioned, and she held the same elegant cane that she had had at the reception. They had only spoken a few minutes the other evening, and the lights had been dim, but now Frances saw that, although she was quite elderly, Lady Torrence possessed a clear eye and amused smile.

“Lady Torrence, a pleasure to see you again. And my apologies for my vulgar curiosity about your lovely artwork. My mother would’ve been appalled.”

Lady Torrence just laughed. “Yes, my dear. I knew your mother, as I said, and she would’ve been appalled indeed. But I am flattered that you like the lovely objects we collected in Sir Arnold’s postings over the years. They are reminders of other places . . .” Frances thought she could see a shadow pass across her face for just a moment. And then a maid came in with tea and cakes, and conversation stopped as she set up the tray.

“Will that be all, my lady?” asked the butler.

“Yes. And I am not at home to anyone else,” said Lady Torrence. Frances raised an eyebrow at that.

“Very good, my lady,” he said, and a moment later they were alone in the drawing room as Lady Torrence poured for them.

“A girl as curious as you is no doubt wondering furiously why I asked her to call on me,” she said with the same amused smile. Her movements were slow but steady, and Frances could see her mind working, trying to find the words. “I seemed so sure the other night about what I would say. And here we are, having an ordinary tea. I fear that when you hear what I am going to say, you are going to laugh at me.” She looked a little uncertainly at Frances.

“No. Nothing you could say would make me laugh at you,” Frances said with great solemnity, staring intently at her hostess with her large gray eyes.

“Very well then. I don’t know what you have heard, but I had two daughters. The older one was named Louisa. When she was twenty . . .” She shook her head. “I’m starting badly. I rehearsed this, but it’s harder than I thought. A little background, I think, will better explain it. My husband was a very traditional man, very much a man of his time. But his one . . . frivolity, I should say, was theatre. He enjoyed plays very much, and we frequently attended. His people, and mine too, in fact, are from near Shrewsbury. His cousin inherited a title, a great manor, and land up there, and several times Arnold even arranged for plays on the estate when we visited. When our daughters became old enough, we brought them along too. Louisa loved theatre as much as her father did. She even entertained the family. She was a lively girl with a gift for mimicry, and she loved the attention she got at family events . . .” Lady Torrence had to pause for a few moments to gather herself. Frances drank more tea and ate a little cake to give her a little privacy.

“It became an obsession, I’m afraid, as she got older. There was no performance that she didn’t want to see. I know I’m her mother, but she was very beautiful.” She gave Frances a wry smile. “Young men who wanted her attention would arrange theatre parties—properly chaperoned, of course—to gain her company.”

“Did any of those men ask for her hand?” asked Frances.

Lady Torrence shook her head. “No. I don’t think any man really engaged her heart, despite all the attention she received. Oh, she did the season—dutifully went to the right parties to meet the right people. Maybe I’m imagining things now, looking back. But she seemed dissatisfied, somehow, eager for something else. My husband said that she just needed to get married and settled down. I thought maybe all those plays had turned her somehow, put her into a fantasy world.”

Frances watched Lady Torrence’s eyes lose their focus. She was back in time now, remembering Louisa as she was, and Frances knew from her tone that this story was heading toward a tragedy.

“My husband decided that she needed a change of scene. He had an older friend in India, a retired general, who died and left his widow out there. He thought to send Louisa as a sort of companion, with an idea of finding a husband among the officers there. She had talked about wanting to travel, but she had no wish to be tied to an irritable old woman, as she put it, until she was auctioned off to some major. She and my husband had a terrible row, and I . . . you will lose all respect for me, Lady Frances, but I did little to intervene. Arnold felt very strongly, and he was not an easy man to refuse. But nothing you could say would be worse than what I’ve said to myself.”

Frances felt her heart ache for this woman. She knew more than her share of tyrants, men for whom their word was law, who commanded their families like they commanded their regiments, their government departments, their tenant farmers. This would have to change . . . but for now, she just listened to this woman reach into old memories.

“I understand and sympathize. Your position was impossible.”

“Thank you,” Lady Torrence said softly. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Arnold called a maid and told her to start packing for the trip to India. Louisa burst into tears and ran into her room, locking the door. She wouldn’t speak to anyone . . . and that night . . .” There was no pretending anymore. Lady Torrence produced a handkerchief and wiped away the tears that flowed down her face.

“That night, she left the house. We found a note on her bed saying that she was going to become an actress. Arnold went into a rage, and I nearly fell apart with the horror of it all.” Frances understood. Sir Arnold may have enjoyed the theatre, but for a man like him, an actress wasn’t much higher on the social scale than a prostitute.

“And I never saw her again.” All self-control disappeared now, and Lady Torrence sobbed uncontrollably into her hands. My God, thought Frances, she probably hasn’t been able to talk to anyone about this in years—in decades—keeping in the hurt because of the shame of it all. She found herself full of pity and angry at how powerless Lady Torrence had been to prevent this. All the poor woman wanted was a sympathetic ear. Perhaps she was too embarrassed even to discuss this with her younger daughter.

Frances saw a sideboard with decanters. She got up and poured some sherry for Lady Torrence, then sat down on the couch next to her.

“This will steady you,” she said, pressing the glass into her shaking hands. Lady Torrence drank slowly.

“You’re very kind.”

“Whatever I can do,” Frances said, “even if it’s just to listen.”

“Oh, but there is,” said Lady Torrence. She wiped her tears and mastered herself like ladies of quality were taught. She smiled through the final tears. “I’ve recounted this all very badly, I’m afraid. It isn’t that I don’t want your sympathy or value your kindness, but that is not why I asked you here.” She finished her drink, then took Frances’s hands in hers and looked her in the eye.

“My daughter, Louisa, disappeared more than thirty years ago, in 1875. I called you here to ask such a huge favor that I don’t know how I can even say it.” She took a deep breath. “Lady Frances, I want you to find my daughter. Or”—her voice broke—“proof of her death.”