6

UNEXPECTED INTRODUCTIONS

Monday, June 8

MINERVA RUBBED HER HANDS nervously on her petticoat to dry them, then poked for the dozenth time at her hair, though knowing it to be pinned up as securely as hair could be pinned; the skin of her face felt stretched, her eyebrows ludicrously arched. She glanced into the glass quickly—for the dozenth time—to assure herself that this was in fact not the case.

Would Mrs. Simpson come? She’d dithered about her mother all the way to London and for the two weeks since her arrival—and she hated dithering above all things. Make up one’s mind and be done with it!

So she had, but for once, decision had not removed doubt. Maybe she should have gone to her mother’s residence, appeared on the doorstep without warning. That had been her first impulse, and it was still strong. She’d finally decided instead to send a note—phrased with the utmost simplicity and the barest of facts—requesting the pleasure of Mrs. Simpson’s company in her rooms in Great Ryder Street at two o’clock on Monday, the eighth of June.

She’d thought of sending a note asking permission to call upon Mrs. Simpson; that might have seemed more polite. But she feared the receipt of a rejection—or, still worse, silence—and so had issued an invitation instead. If her mother didn’t come this afternoon, the doorstep option was still open. And by God, she would do it…

The note crackled in her pocket, and she pulled it out—again—unfolding it to read the message, written in a firm round hand—presumably Mrs. Simpson’s—without salutation or signature, promise or rebuke.

Do you think this is wise? it said.

“Well, obviously not,” she said aloud, cross, and shoved it back into her pocket. “What does that matter?”

The knock on the door nearly stopped her heart. She was here! She was early—it lacked a quarter hour of two o’clock—but perhaps Mrs. Simpson had been as eager as herself for the meeting, despite the cool reserve of the note.

The maid—Eliza, a solid middle-aged woman in a high state of starch, who had been engaged with the rooms—glanced at her and, at her nod, went down the hall to answer the door. Minnie glanced in the looking glass again (God, I look quite wild), smoothed her embroidered overskirt, and assumed an aloof-but-cordial expression.

“Colonel Quarry, ma’am,” said the maid, coming in and stepping aside to admit the visitor.

“Who?” said Minnie blankly. The tall gentleman who had appeared in the doorway had paused to look her over with interest; she lifted her chin and returned his regard.

He was wearing his scarlet uniform—infantry—and was quite handsome in a blunt sort of way. Dark and dashing—and well aware of it, she thought, concealing an inward smile. She knew how to handle this sort and allowed the smile to blossom.

“Your servant, ma’am,” he said, with an answering flash of good teeth. He made her a very graceful leg, straightened, and said, “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she said, adding two years without hesitation. “And you, sir?”

He blinked. “Twenty-one. Why?”

“I have an interest in numerology,” she said, straight-faced. “Are you acquainted with the science?”

“Er…no.” He was still eyeing her with interest, but the interest was of a different type now.

“What is your date of birth, sir?” she asked, sidling behind the small gilt desk and taking up a quill. “If you please?” she added politely.

“The twenty-third of April,” he said, lips twitching slightly.

“So,” she said, scratching briskly, “that is two plus three, which is five, plus four—April being the fourth month, of course,” she informed him kindly. “Which makes nine, and then we add the digits of your year of birth, which makes…one plus seven plus two plus three? Yes, just so…totaling twenty-two. We then add both twos together and end with four.”

“Apparently so,” he agreed, coming round the desk to look over her shoulder at the paper, where she had written a large four, circling it. He emitted a noticeable amount of heat, standing so close. “What does this signify?”

She relaxed slightly against the tightness of her stays. Now she had him. Once they got curious, you could get them to tell you anything.

“Oh, the four is the most masculine of numbers,” she assured him—quite truthfully. “It designates an individual of marked strength and stability. Dependable, and exceedingly trustworthy.”

He’d put his shoulders back half an inch.

“You’re very punctual,” she said, giving him a sidelong look from beneath her lashes. “Healthy…strong…you notice details and are very good in controlling complex affairs. And you’re loyal—very loyal to those you care for.” She gave him a small but admiring smile to go with this.

Fours were capable and persistent but not swift thinkers, and, once again, she was surprised at just how often the numbers turned out to be right.

“Indeed,” he said, and cleared his throat, looking mildly embarrassed but undeniably pleased.

At this point, she heard the subdued ticking of the longcase clock behind her and a bolt of apprehension shot through her. She needed to get rid of him, and promptly.

“But I doubt that a desire to learn the science of numerology accounts for the pleasure of your visit, sir.”

“Well.” He looked her up and down in an effort at assessment, but she could have told him it was far too late for that. “Well…to be blunt, madam, I wish to employ you. In a matter of…some discretion.”

That gave her another small jolt. So he knew who—or rather what—she was. Still, that wasn’t really unusual. It was, after all, a business in which all connections were by word of mouth. And she was certainly known by now to at least three gentlemen in London who might move in the circles to which Colonel Quarry had access.

No point in beating round the bush or being coy; she was interested in him but more interested in his leaving. She gave him a small bow and looked inquiring. He nodded back and took a deep breath. Some discretion, indeed…

“The situation is this, madam: I have a good friend whose wife recently died in childbed.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Minnie said quite honestly. “How very tragic.”

“Yes, it was.” Quarry’s face showed what he was thinking, and the trouble was clear in his eyes. “The more so, perhaps, in that my friend’s wife had been…well…having an affair with a friend of his for some months prior.”

“Oh, dear,” Minnie murmured. “And—forgive me—was the child…?”

“My friend doesn’t know.” Quarry grimaced but relaxed a little, indicating that the most difficult part of his business had been communicated. “Bad enough, you might say…”

“Oh, I would.”

“But the further difficulty—well, without going into the reasons why, we…I…would like to engage you to find proof of that affair.”

That confused her.

“Your friend—he isn’t sure that she was having an affair?”

“No, he’s positive,” Quarry assured her. “There were letters. But—well, I can’t really explain why this is necessary, but he requires proof of the affair for a…a…legal reason, and he will not countenance the idea of letting anyone read his wife’s letters, no matter that she is beyond the reach of public censure nor that the consequences to himself if the affair is not proved may be disastrous.”

“I see.” She eyed him with interest. Was there really a friend, or was this perhaps his own situation, thinly disguised? She thought not; he was clearly grieved and troubled but not flushed—not ashamed or angry in the least. And he hadn’t the look of a married man. At all.

As though her invisible thought had struck him on the cheek like a flying moth, he looked sharply at her, meeting her eyes directly. No, not a married man. And not so grieved or troubled that a spark didn’t show clearly in those deep-brown eyes. She looked modestly down for a moment, then up, resuming her businesslike manner.

“Well, then. Have you specific suggestions as to how the inquiry might proceed?”

He shrugged, a little embarrassed.

“Well…I thought…perhaps you could make the acquaintance of some of Esmé’s—that was her name, Esmé Grey, Countess Melton—some of her friends. And…er…perhaps some of…his…particular friends. The, um, man who…”

“And the man’s name?” Picking up the quill, she wrote Countess Melton, then looked up expectantly.

“Nathaniel Twelvetrees.”

“Ah. Is he a soldier, too?”

“No,” and here Quarry did blush, surprisingly. “A poet.”

“I see,” Minnie murmured, writing it down. “All right.” She put down the quill and came out from behind the desk, passing him closely so that he was obliged to turn toward her—and toward the door. He smelled of bay rum and vetiver, though he didn’t wear a wig or powder in his hair.

“I’m willing to undertake your inquiry, sir—though, of course, I can’t guarantee results.”

“No, no. Of course.”

“Now, I have a prior engagement at two o’clock”—he glanced at the clock, as did she: four minutes to the hour—“but if you would perhaps make a list of the friends you think might be helpful and send it round? Once I’ve assessed the possibilities, I can inform you of my terms.” She hesitated. “May I approach Mr. Twelvetrees? Very discreetly, of course,” she assured him.

He made a grimace, half shock and half amusement.

“Afraid not, Miss Rennie. My friend shot him. I’ll send the list,” he promised, and, with a deep bow, left her.

The door had barely closed behind him before there was another knock. The maid popped out of the boudoir, where she had been discreetly lurking, and glided silently over the thick red Turkey carpet.

Minnie felt her stomach lurch and her throat tighten, as though she’d been dropped out of a high window and caught by the neck at the last moment.

Voices. Men’s voices. Disconcerted, she hurried into the hall, to find the maid stolidly confronting a pair of what were not quite gentlemen.

“Madam is—” the maid was saying firmly, but one of the men spotted Minnie and brushed past the maid.

“Miss Rennie?” he inquired politely, and at her jerky nod bowed with surprising style for one dressed so plainly.

“We have come to escort you to Mrs. Simpson,” he said. And, turning to the maid, “Be so kind as to fetch the lady’s things, if you please.”

The maid turned, wide-eyed, and Minnie nodded to her. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh and her face felt numb.

“Yes,” she said. “If you please.” And her fingers closed on the paper in her pocket, damp with handling.

Do you think this is wise?

THERE WAS A coach outside, waiting. Neither of the men spoke, but one opened the door for her; the other took her by the elbow and helped her politely up into the conveyance. Her heart was pounding and her head full of her father’s warnings about dealing with unvouched-for strangers—these warnings accompanied by a number of vividly detailed accounts of things that had happened to incautious persons of his own acquaintance as a result of unwariness.

What if these men had nothing to do with her mother but knew who her father was? There were people who—

With phrases like “And they only found her head…” echoing in her mind, it was several moments before she could take notice of the two gentlemen, both of whom had entered the coach behind her and were now sitting on the squabs opposite, watching her like a pair of owls. Hungry owls.

She took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her middle, as though to ease her stays. Yes, the small dagger was still reassuringly tucked inside her placket; the way she was sweating, it would be quite rusted by the time she had to use it. If, she corrected herself. If she had to use it…

“Are you all right, madam?” one of the men asked, leaning forward. His voice cracked sharply on “madam,” and she actually looked at him properly for the first time. Sure enough, he was a beardless boy. Taller than his companion, and pretty well grown, but a lad nonetheless—and his guileless face showed nothing but concern.

“Yes,” she said, and, swallowing, pulled a small fan from her sleeve and snapped it open. “Just…a little warm.”

The older man—in his forties, slender and dark, with a cocked hat balanced on his knee—at once reached into his pocket and produced a flask: a lovely object made in chased silver, adorned with a sizable chrysoberyl, she saw with surprise.

“Try this,” he said in a pleasant voice. “It is orange-flower water, with sugar, herbs, the juice of blood oranges, and just a touch of gin, for refreshment.”

“Thank you.” She repressed the “drugged and raped” murmuring in her brain and accepted the flask. She passed it unobtrusively under her nose, but there was no telltale scent of laudanum. In fact, it smelled divine and tasted even better.

Both of the men saw the expression on her face and smiled. Not with the smile of satisfied entrapment, but with genuine pleasure that she enjoyed their offering. She took a deep breath, another sip, and began to relax. She smiled back at them. On the other hand…her mother’s address lay in Parson’s Green, and she had just noticed that they were heading steadily in the opposite direction. Or at least she thought so…

“Where are we going?” she asked politely. They looked surprised, looked at each other, eyebrows raised, then back at her.

“Why…to see Mrs. Simpson,” the older gentleman said. The boy nodded and bowed awkwardly to her.

“Mrs. Simpson,” he murmured, blushing.

And that was all anyone said for the remainder of the journey. She occupied herself with sipping the refreshing orange drink and with surreptitious observation of her…not captors, presumably. Escorts?

The gentleman who had given her the flask spoke excellent English, but with a touch of foreign sibilance: Italian, perhaps, or Spanish?

The younger man—he didn’t really seem a boy, in spite of smooth cheeks and cracking voice—had a strong face and, regardless of his blushing, an air of confidence about him. He was fair and yellow-eyed, yet that brief glimpse when the two had looked at her in question had shown her a faint, vanishing resemblance between the two of them. Father and son? Perhaps so.

She flipped quickly through the ledger she carried in her head, in search of any such pair among her father’s clients—or enemies—but found no one who met the description of her escorts. She took a deep breath, another sip, and resolved to think of nothing until they arrived at their destination.

Half an hour later, the flask was nearly empty and the coach lurched to a stop in what she thought was possibly Southwark.

Their destination was a small inn standing in a street of shops dominated by Kettrick’s Eel-Pye House, this being evidently a successful eating place, judging by the crowds of people and the strong scent of jellied eels. Her belly rumbled as she got down from the carriage, but the sound was lost in the noises of the street. The boy bowed and offered her his arm; she took it, and putting on her most blandly pleasant face, she went with him inside.

IT WAS SHADOWY inside, light coming through two narrow, curtained windows. She noticed the smell of the place—hyacinths, how odd—but nothing more. Everything was a blur; all she felt was the beating of her heart and the solidness of the boy’s arm.

Then a hallway, then a door, and then…

A woman. Blue dress. Soft-brown hair looped up behind her ears. Eyes. Pale-green eyes. Not blue like her own.

Minnie stopped dead, not breathing. For the moment, she felt an odd disappointment; the woman looked nothing like the picture she had carried with her all her life. This one was tall and thin, almost lean, and while her face was arresting, it wasn’t the face Minnie saw in her mirror.

“Minerva?” the woman said, in a voice little more than a whisper. She coughed, cleared her throat explosively, and, coming toward Minnie, said much louder, “Minerva? Is it truly you?”

“Well, yes,” said Minnie, not sure quite what to do. She must be; she knows my real name. “That’s my name. And you are…Mrs….Simpson?” Her own voice broke quite absurdly, the final syllable uttered like the squeak of a bat.

“Yes.” The woman turned her head and gave the two who had brought her a brief nod. The boy vanished at once, but the older man touched the woman’s shoulder gently and gave Minnie a smile before following suit, leaving Minnie and Mrs. Simpson frankly staring at each other.

Mrs. Simpson was dressed well but quietly. She pursed her lips, looked sidelong at Minnie, as though estimating the possibility that she might be armed, then sighed, her square shoulders slumping.

“I’m not your mother, child,” she said quietly.

Quiet as they were, the words struck Minnie like fists, four solid blows in the pit of her stomach.

“Well, who the bloody hell are you?” she demanded, taking a step backward. Every cautionary word she’d ignored came flooding back in her father’s voice.

“…kidnapped…sold to a brothel…shipped off to the colonies…murdered for sixpence…”

“I’m your aunt, my dear,” Mrs. Simpson said. The nettle grasped, she had regained some of her starch. “Miriam Simpson. Your mother is my sister, Hélène.”

“Hélène,” Minnie repeated. The name struck a spark in her soul. She had that much, at least. Hélène. A Frenchwoman? She swallowed.

“Is she dead?” she asked, as steadily as she could. Mrs. Simpson pursed her lips again, unhappy, but shook her head.

“No,” she said, with obvious reluctance. “She lives. But…”

Minnie wished she’d brought a pocket pistol instead of a knife. If she had, she’d fire a shot into the ceiling right this minute. Instead, she took a step forward, so that her eyes were no more than inches from the green ones that didn’t look like hers.

“Take me to her. Right now,” she said. “You can tell me the story on the way.”