Chapter Twenty-Seven
Despite being labelled an informal luncheon, Lady Davenport’s event was a lavish affair. Three rows of dining tables had been laid out in the ballroom, an abundance of crystal, china, and silver glinting beneath the chandeliers. Ladies in elaborate day dresses gossiped in the buffet line as a half-dozen footmen served out delicacies such as roasted turbot, pressed beef tongue, and vegetables molded in aspic.
Waiting in queue with Emma and Pandora, Thea whispered, “Should we go and conduct the search now?”
“Not yet, dear.” Em’s brown eyes took in the environs with an experienced sweep. “We’ll wait until everyone’s seated and occupied with eating before we make our move.”
“Lady Davenport will give a speech. That should buy us fifteen minutes of distraction,” Pandora said in an undertone. “We’ll go then.”
“Your Grace? Miss Kent?”
The timid voice came from behind them. Thea turned and saw a plump, red-haired girl with bright blue eyes and the face of a pixie. Gabriella Billings was the sweet and artless daughter of a wealthy banker. Emma had met Gabby last year and brought her into the Kent fold. Thea liked the girl tremendously.
Exchanging greetings, Emma introduced Gabby to Pandora, who acknowledged the girl’s diffident curtsy with a nod before returning to her vigilant perusal of the ballroom.
Thea gave Gabby’s hand a squeeze. “How nice to see you.”
“It is a relief to see you and Emma,” Gabby said with feeling. “I thought I was going to have to muddle through another one of these ton affairs alone. Papa secured me the invitation, you see. He’s donated oodles to this charity since he’s been friends with Uncle George forever—”
“Uncle George?” Used to Gabby’s free-flowing conversation, Thea knew the other didn’t mind being cut off now and again.
“Well, he’s not really my uncle, not by blood, but he and my father are old cronies. They’ve done business together forever. Papa says Uncle George is the best solicitor in London, and every banker needs a good solicitor. And vice versa. Uncle George is Millicent’s—I mean, Lady Davenport’s—papa, so I’ve known Lady Davenport for ages, too. When she was Millicent Clemens, that is. Now I don’t see her all that much.” Gabby’s brow pleated. “At all, actually.”
“It must be nice to see an old friend,” Thea said.
Gabby sighed. “Papa says I must model myself after Lady Davenport. After all, she caught a title, and in two Seasons all I’ve attracted are fortune hunters.”
“It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“Believe me, it’s worse. Most of them are as old as Papa, missing their teeth and hair, and they all have a depressing tendency to forget my name.” Gabby mimicked an aged, aristocratic voice. “You there, the ginger-haired chit. Pass me my walking stick, won’t you?”
Chuckling, Thea said with sympathy, “I know the feeling. You must take care, however. I hear fortune hunters are clever at getting what they want.”
“Not as clever as my father. When it comes to money, Papa knows best,” Gabby said cheerfully. “He’s protected my inheritance with a trust.”
“What’s a trust?” Thea asked.
“I’m not sure exactly. Some sort of legal rigmarole that Uncle George helped with. The gist of it,” Gabby said brightly, “is that I’ll retain control over my own money after I marry.”
“How extraordinary,” Thea mused. “That sounds like something every woman should know about.”
Before Gabby could reply, a thin, brittle voice cut through the conversation. “Ladies, how lovely to see you!”
Lady Davenport was thin and short, and what she lacked in stature, she made up for with the voluminous layers of lace on her gown. Her hair was a mousy shade, her dark gaze beady and assessing. She gave an impression of twitching energy.
“La, a duchess,” she exclaimed in tones that carried, “at my own little luncheon! You honor us with your presence.”
“Thank you for having us, Lady Davenport.” Looking discomfited, Emma said, “Um, may I introduce my sister, Miss Dorothea Kent?”
Thea made her curtsy.
Gabby opened her mouth to speak but was cut off.
“A pleasure, Miss Kent, I’m sure.” Their hostess hooked her arm through Emma’s. “I’m so pleased to have you here, Duchess. I feel as if we are kindred spirits, and I know we shall simply be the best of friends.” To Lady Blackwood, she said, “And my dear marchioness, how exquisite you look! I simply adore your necklace.”
“Your own is very fine. New?” Pandora said casually.
Lady Davenport preened, brushing her fingers over the rope of large, unblemished pearls dangling over her scant bosom. “As a matter of fact, yes. Davenport spoils me terribly, you know.”
Thea thought a necklace such as that must cost a pretty penny. And the lady’s gown looked expensive too. If the Spectre was indeed in need of money, then Lord Davenport might not be a likely suspect after all.
“I’m about to give a few words. You must take the place of honor next to me, Duchess,” Lady Davenport said. “I insist.”
“Um, hello, Lady Millicent,” Gabby blurted.
Lady Davenport’s brows formed thin arches. “Miss Billings. I didn’t see you there.”
Gabby’s face turned scarlet.
Turning her back to the girl, Lady Davenport said, “Ladies, shall we proceed to the head table?”
Thea was aghast at the lady’s rudeness. Seeing Gabby’s bottom lip tremble, she said firmly, “Miss Billings is in need of a seat, too.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t room at my table.” Lady Davenport’s mouth turned down at the corners. “I’m sure Miss Billings can find a seat elsewhere.”
“It’s all right, Thea,” Gabby said anxiously. “I’ll just—”
“Miss Billings can have my seat,” Thea said.
“You cannot mean to sit on your own, Miss Kent?” her hostess said in a hard voice.
“I’ll go with Miss Kent,” Pandora drawled. “Miss Billings can accompany you and the duchess.”
Lady Davenport’s face rippled with ill-temper… and then smoothed into pragmatic lines. Her hand closed on Emma’s arm, holding on to her ultimate prize. “This way, Your Grace.”
She led Emma toward the table at the front of the room, Gabby trailing timidly behind.
“Good work,” Pandora murmured. “That was a narrow escape.”
Thea had only been reacting to Gabby’s snub, but she realized that Pandora was right. It would have been far too conspicuous to leave and conduct a search if they had been seated with their hostess. She followed Pandora to a pair of seats closest to the exit. A bell rung, bringing the room to order.
Lady Davenport stood at the front of the room, clearing her throat importantly. “Welcome, dear ladies. How good of you to take time out of your busy schedules to attend my luncheon. Even the Duchess of Strathaven herself, a close personal friend, is here to join us in our worthy endeavor. Please welcome my distinguished guest.”
At the polite applause, Emma turned beet red.
“But, as you know, not everyone has been blessed with the same good fortune as you and I,” Lady Davenport went on, “and it is for the benefit of these Unfortunates that we gather here today. Through our good works, we shall lift these Downtrodden from their doomful fates. Our moral strength will fill them with virtue. Our shining example will teach these poor, diseased creatures to disavow their lives of sloth and turpitude.”
A coal began to smolder beneath Thea’s breastbone. Having known hunger herself, she was quite certain the Downtrodden needed food more than moral condescension. And if the poor ought to be taught anything, it was the skills of an honorable trade that would earn them a fair living wage. According to her papa, the true antidote to poverty was education.
Give a man a fish and you’ll feed him for a day, he’d say. Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime.
“To that end, I am proud to present my newest charitable cause.” Lady Davenport gestured imperiously at the footman posted at the entryway. “Send her in.”
The door opened, and Thea’s stomach churned as a young woman in a mobcap shuffled awkwardly toward the beckoning Lady Davenport. She was dressed in a tawdry, low-cut gown that bore the stamp of her trade. Gasps and titters went up as the woman stood slouched at the front of the room.
“Behold,” Lady Davenport said with a self-satisfied cluck, “a Woman of Loose Virtue.”
Thea’s jaw tightened. Beside her, Pandora stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“Our mission today is to rescue slatternly creatures such as this from a life of sin. How, you ask?”
Lady Davenport waited, smiling, as murmurs rose in the room. Then, with dramatic flourish, she produced a piece of white cloth. Bustling over to her model, she made a great show of tying and tucking in the fabric, so that the scarf covered the woman from bosom to chin.
Stepping back, Lady Davenport declared, “I introduce my newest pet project, which I like to call Fichus for the Fallen.”
Thea blinked as applause broke out, excited murmurs rolling through the room.
“After lunch, we will retire to the sitting room to sew these mantles of modesty,” their hostess went on. “Thanks to our efforts, these Fallen Women will regain dignity and virtue—and be an eyesore to civility no more.”
A lady dressed in blue satin waved her hand.
“Yes, Miss Simpson?” Lady Davenport said.
“I was thinking we might add a touch of embroidery to the fichus. Perhaps a cross—or some other reminder of piousness?” the lady said in simpering tones.
“An excellent suggestion.” Lady Davenport beamed. “Any others?”
Why not sew hair shirts for the poor and be done with it? Thea wanted to snap. But she restrained herself. She couldn’t afford to attract attention when they were on a covert mission.
“Time to go,” Pandora whispered.
Thea gave a quick nod. As the crowd debated vital issues such as embroidery designs and thread color, she and Pandora slipped unnoticed from the room. Outside, she drew a breath, trying to put the scene of smug pretension behind her. She must concentrate on the present task.
If Pandora had been affected, she showed no sign, leading the way through the hallways with focused intent. They rounded a corner into another corridor, and, as they approached the end, voices could be heard coming from the intersecting hallway. Pandora pressed against the wall, and Thea immediately did the same, waiting with bated breath until a pair of maids passed. Once the servants disappeared, the marchioness turned right, and moments later she and Thea arrived at a set of double doors.
Pandora tried the door—locked.
“Keep watch,” she murmured, removing a length of wire from her reticule.
Nerves prickling, Thea did so as the other worked on the lock. A minute later, there was a click, the soft sweep of the door giving way. Pandora went inside first, and Thea followed, closing the door with damp palms.
With the curtains drawn, Davenport’s study was dim and cavernous. It seemed ordinary enough with its dark wood and leather furnishings, the book-lined shelves. The large portrait over the fireplace dominated the room. It depicted Lady Davenport sitting beneath an oak tree in a gown of frothy lace, her hat dripping with plumes. Thea presumed that the man in the painting—the one Lady Davenport gazed up at such with wifely adoration—was Lord Davenport. The viscount was a distinguished-looking man in his forties, with slight greying at the temples and a tall, fit figure.
Yet there was something disturbing about his eyes, which met the viewer’s straight on. That pale gaze seemed so penetrating and life-like that Thea had the sudden panic that she was being watched. A shiver chased over her nape.
“We don’t have much time.” Pandora’s urgent tones broke the spell. “Both of us will have to search. You start with the desk. Try not to disturb anything.”
With a quick nod, Thea padded over to the desk, its surface neatly organized with a silver tray of writing instruments and a thick leather blotter. With trembling hands, she pulled open the top drawer and carefully rifled through the contents. Nothing remotely suspicious. She continued onto the two other drawers. Still nothing, not even a hidden compartment.
If I were Davenport and had something to hide, where would I put it? As she mulled, she drummed her fingers against the desk… and awareness prickled over her at the faint hollow vibration. The resonance was similar to the sound she made when tapping against the lid of a pianoforte. Crouching, she placed her ear close to the top of the desk, repeating the rhythm of her fingers, and she heard it again—a muffled echo coming from within. There’s an empty chamber inside. Heart thumping, she ran her hands under the ledge of the desk, her fingers encountering a hidden button. She pressed it, and the entire blotter slid to the side, revealing a hidden cache.
Excitement rushed up her spine at the sight of papers.
“Pandora,” she called softly.
The marchioness arrived just as Thea lifted out the top document for inspection. Written in a bold hand, the string of words was strange and nonsensical. She heard the other’s sharp indrawn breath.
“Spectre,” Pandora whispered.