10

DOWN TO BUSINESS

OVER THE NEXT TWO weeks, Minnie threw herself determinedly into the pursuit of business. She tried not to think of Soeur Emmanuelle, but thought of her mother hovered near her, like an angel on her shoulder, and after a bit she accepted this. There was, after all, nothing she could do about it, and at least now she knew her mother was alive. Perhaps even content.

Between increasing business—of both kinds—and Lady Buford’s determined social agenda, Minnie scarcely had a minute to herself. When she wasn’t going to view a collection of moldy hymnals in a garret down by the Thames or accepting sealed documents from her father’s mysterious client in the Vauxhall Gardens, she was dressing for a card party in Fulham. The O’Higginses, faithful Irish wolfhounds, either accompanied or trailed her to every destination, their visibility depending on her errand.

She was pleased, therefore, to be able to combine Colonel Quarry’s commission with Lady Buford’s husband-hunting. Rather to Minnie’s surprise, the latter involved a great deal of socializing with females.

“To be desirable, it is necessary to be talked about, my dear,” Lady Buford told her over a glass of iced negus at Largier’s tea shop (Madame Largier was French and thought tea itself a distinctly second-class beverage). “But you must be talked about in the right way. You must not suggest any hint of scandal, and—just as important—you must not cause jealousy. Be sweet and unassuming, always admire your companions’ frocks and dismiss your own, and do not bat your eyes at their sons or brothers, should such be present.”

“I’ve never batted my eyes at anyone in my life!” Minnie said indignantly.

“It isn’t a difficult technique to master,” Lady Buford said dryly. “But I trust you take my point.”

Minnie did, and as she had no intention whatever of attracting a potential husband, she was extremely popular with the young women of society. Which turned out to be an unexpectedly good thing, because most young women had no discretion whatever, very little judgment, and would tell you the most unspeakable things without batting a single one of their own eyes.

They hadn’t the least hesitation in telling her all about Esmé Grey; the late Countess Melton was a prime subject of gossip. But it wasn’t the sort of gossip Minnie had expected to hear.

After a week’s gentle prodding, Minnie had formed the distinct impression that women in general had not really liked Esmé—most of them had been afraid of her or envious of her—but that most men very definitely had liked her; hence, the envy. That being so, the lack of any hint of scandal was surprising.

There was quite a bit of public sympathy for Esmé; she was dead, and the poor little baby, too….It was a tragic story, and people did love tragedy, as long as it wasn’t theirs.

And certainly there was a good deal of talk (in lowered tones) about Lord Melton having shot poor Mr. Twelvetrees, which threw the countess into such a state of shock that she had gone into labor too early and died—but, surprisingly, there was no indication that Esmé’s affair with Nathaniel had been noticed.

There was a great deal of speculation as to Lord Melton’s motive for assassinating Mr. Twelvetrees—but apparently Esmé had been more than discreet, and there was no talk at all about Mr. Twelvetrees having paid her attention or even having been seen alone with her on any occasion.

There was a whisper of gossip to the effect that Lord Melton had killed Nathaniel because of an intrigue over an Italian singer, but the general opinion was that it had been over a matter of business; Nathaniel had been a failed curate who then became a stockbroker (“though he wrote the most divine poetry, my dear!”), and there had been a rumor of considerable losses incurred by the Grey family, attributed to Nathaniel’s incompetence.

But as she continued to poke and prod, Minnie discovered an increasing sentiment along the lines that Colonel Quarry had mentioned: people were beginning to whisper that Lord Melton had killed Nathaniel in a fit of madness. After all, the duke (“though I’m told we mustn’t call him by his title; he won’t have it—and if that’s not proof of madness…”) had appeared nowhere in public since the death of his wife.

Given that the countess’s death had occurred only two months earlier, Minnie thought this reticence perhaps reasonable, even admirable.

But as Lady Buford had been present during one of these exchanges, Minnie took the opportunity in the carriage going home to ask her chaperone’s opinion of the Duke—or not—of Pardloe’s marriage.

Lady Buford pursed her lips and tapped her closed fan against them in a considering manner.

“Well, there was a great deal of scandal over the first duke’s death—had you heard about that?”

Minnie shook her head, in hopes of hearing more than her father’s précis had provided, but Lady Buford was one who could tell the difference between facts and gossip, and her account of the first duke’s supposed Jacobite associations was even briefer than Minnie’s father’s had been.

“It was quixotic at best—do you know that word, my dear?”

“I do, yes. You’re speaking of—the second duke, would he be—Harold? He repudiated his title, is that what you mean?”

Lady Buford gave a small sniff and put away her fan in her capacious sleeve.

“It’s actually not possible to repudiate a title, unless the king should give one leave to do so. But he did decline to use it, which amused some people, disgusted others who thought it affectation, and quite shocked society in general. Still…he’d been married a year before the first duke died, so Esmé had wed him with the expectation that he’d eventually succeed to the title. She hadn’t given any indication that she regretted his decision—or even that she’d noticed it. That girl knew the meaning of ‘aloof,’ ” Lady Buford added with approval.

“Were they in love, do you think?” Minnie asked, with genuine interest.

“Yes, I do,” Lady Buford said, without hesitation. “She was French, of course, and quite striking—exotic, you might say. And Harold Grey is certainly an odd—well, I shouldn’t say that, perhaps I merely mean unusual—young man. Their peculiarities seemed to complement each other. And neither one of them gave a single thought to what anyone else said or thought about them.”

Lady Buford’s sharp eyes had softened slightly, looking into memory, and she shook her head, making the ring-necked dove on her hat bob precariously.

“It really was a tragedy,” she said, with evident regret.

And that, despite further discreet inquiry, was apparently that.

SHE MET COLONEL Quarry, by arrangement, at a concert of sacred music in St. Martin-in-the-Fields. There were enough people there that it was possible to sit inconspicuously in one of the galleries; she could see the back of Quarry’s head at the far end of the gallery, bent in apparent rapt attention to the music being performed below.

She normally enjoyed music of any kind, but as the vibration of the organ’s pipes ceased rumbling through the boards underfoot and a single high, pure voice rose from the silence in a Magnificat, she felt a sudden sense of acute sorrow, seeing in memory a room of shadows and candlelight, the dirty hem of a white habit, a bent head and a slender neck beneath a bell of hair as golden as clean straw.

Her throat was tight and she bent her own head, shielding her face from view with a spread fan; it was a warm day, and whenever the music paused, the air in the gallery whispered with the movement of fans. No one noticed.

At last it was over, and she stood with the others, lingering by the railing as people filed out in a buzz of conversation that rose above the last strains of the recessional.

Quarry came strolling toward her—exaggeratedly casual, but, after all, he likely wasn’t used to intrigue, and if someone did notice, “intrigue” (in the vulgar meaning of the term) was exactly what they’d think it was.

“Miss Rennie!” he said, as though surprised by her presence, and swept her a bow. “Your most obedient servant, ma’am!”

“Why, Colonel Quarry!” she said, fluttering her fan coquettishly. “What a surprise! I’d no notion that you enjoyed sacred music.”

“Can’t stand it,” he said amiably. “I’d have gone mad in another minute if they hadn’t stopped that caterwauling. What the devil have you found out?”

She told him without preamble what her researches had discovered—or, rather, had not discovered.

“Damn,” he said, then hunched his shoulders as two women going past gave him a shocked look.

“I mean,” he said, lowering his voice, “my friend is quite certain that it actually happened. The, um…”

“Affair. Yes, you said he had letters proving it but that he wouldn’t let anyone read them. Reasonably enough.” She wasn’t sure why she was interested in this business, but there was something oddly fascinating about it. She ought just to give him a bill for her time and leave it at that, but…

“Do you know where he keeps these letters?” she asked.

“Why…I suppose they’re in his father’s library desk. He usually keeps correspondence there. Wh—” He stopped abruptly, looking hard at her. She shrugged a little.

“I told you what the talk is, about your friend’s state of mind. And if the letters are the only proof that he had a reason—and an honorable one—for what he did…” She paused delicately. Quarry’s face darkened, and she felt the shift in his body as his hands curled.

“Are you suggesting that—that I take the—I could never do such a thing! It’s dishonorable, impossible! He’s my friend, dammit!” He looked aside, swallowing, and unclenched his fists.

“For God’s sake, if he found that I’d done such a thing, I…I think he’d—” He stopped, all too clearly envisioning the possible results of such a discovery. The blood was draining from his cheeks, and a wash of pale-blue light from a stained-glass window made him look suddenly corpse-like.

“I wasn’t suggesting that, sir,” Minnie said, as meekly as possible. “Not at all! Naturally a gentleman such as yourself, and a devoted friend, couldn’t—wouldn’t—ever do such a thing.” And if you did, she thought, watching his face, he’d know it the second he looked at you. You couldn’t lie your way out of a children’s tea party, poor sod.

“But,” she said, and glanced deliberately around, so that he could see they were now alone in the gallery, save for a group of women at the far side, leaning over the rail and waving to acquaintances in the nave below. “But,” she repeated in a low voice, “if the letters were simply to…be delivered anonymously to…?” She paused and cocked a brow.

He swallowed again, audibly, and looked at her for a long moment.

“The secretary at war,” he blurted, as though trying to get the words out before he thought better.

“I see,” she said, relaxing inwardly. “Well. That does seem very…drastic. Perhaps I can think of some other avenue of inquiry. There must be some intimate friend of the late countess that I haven’t yet discovered.” She put a hand very lightly on his arm.

“Leave the matter with me for another few days, Colonel. I’m sure something useful will occur to one of us.”