A Useful Woman (24 page)

Rosalind leaned the drawer up against the desk, and claimed the paper. It was a receipt from Messrs. Jacobs, Thomas & Walsh, Jewelers, for a silver hair comb set with garnets and freshwater pearls, to be delivered to 12 Thurlough Square. The bill had been signed by Jasper Aimesworth.

The young maid Becky Lewis had been sure Jasper Aimesworth had a woman he didn't want his parents to know about. And here, to all appearances, was proof of that. Rosalind thought of the keys that Honoria had returned to her. Was one to a door in Thurlough Square?

Rosalind straightened up and turned. There was no sound from the boudoir, not even the rustle of skirts or the sound of footsteps. Frowning, she crossed into the other room. Honoria stood facing the bare dressing table, her head bowed and her fingertips resting on the polished surface. Her black gloves were smeared with pale dust, as were her skirts.

“Honoria?” said Rosalind, but the other girl shook her head.

“I'm trying to picture Jasper in here,” she said quietly. “I'm trying to see him living in this place and drinking with those . . . persons on the stairs. But I can't. They've left nothing of him at all.”

Rosalind stepped closer. She wished she were friends with Honoria. If they were friends, she could embrace her, or at least put a consoling hand on hers. But they were not friends, even though they did not seem to be exactly rivals anymore. There were no rules for them, and Rosalind did not know what to do.

“It will get easier to bear,” Rosalind said. “I promise you.”

“How would you know?” Honoria muttered.

“I've been left behind as well. I know what it's like.”

Honoria sniffed, but she also lifted her head. For a moment their eyes met. Rosalind thought Honoria might say something, about the past, about the circumstances that brought their separate lives crashing back together. But she only asked, “Have you found anything?”

“It seems Jasper bought a gift.” Rosalind showed her the yellowing bill.

“More than one.” Honoria's hand had hidden a torn scrap of paper on the dressing table. She gave it to Rosalind. “I found it under the bed.”

It was clearly a piece of another receipt, similar to the one Rosalind had found in the desk. The words “—
ver gilt
” were still visible, and a bit of Jasper's signature.

“Becky Lewis said he was seeing a woman.” Rosalind held the receipts up to the window so she could examine them more closely. “And now it seems we have her address.”

“We should go find the creature,” said Honoria, some semblance of her usual spirit returning to her voice. “She could well be the thief the landlord's working with.”

Rosalind shook her head. “I doubt that.” She folded both the receipt and the scrap away in her reticule.

“Why?”

“This.” Rosalind gestured about the room. “Stealing an entire apartment's worth of belongings is an enormous risk for someone who has so far kept herself hidden from the family. It took organization, and outlay. Not only would that letter have to be forged, but carters and porters would have to be hired.”
Clearing out a house takes staff, and time. I've seen it done.
“A woman who can command jewelry and gifts from one young man would be no more likely to endanger herself that way than a thief would be to leave those candlesticks. She'd simply move on to another protector.”

“But she still might know something.”

“She might,” Rosalind agreed slowly. But there was something else in the back of her mind, something she'd half forgotten, or perhaps half remembered. “Regardless, we should get out of here, in case I was wrong about that landlord, and he is working with a gang of thieves. They might not stop at burglary.”

Honoria looked ready to take on an entire gang of hooligans. Fortunately, however, her practical side prevailed. She made no further complaint, but followed Rosalind out of the empty rooms and down the stairs.

But it was when they were being assisted into the carriage by the very relieved-looking driver that a fresh thought struck Rosalind.

“Wait here,” she said to Honoria and the driver. Before either could question her, she hurried back to the house and banged on the scarred door the landlord had come out from previously. She heard a shout inside, which she took as an affirmative, and pushed her way through.

The landlord looked up from a battered desk surrounded by packing crates and papers.

“What's this?” he demanded. “You've 'ad your look, you and your mistress can be on your way. Sister, my eye.” He spat again. “I know the quality, and I say she's—”

“She's his sister and a baronet's daughter and I'm the one who is keeping her from calling the watch,” Rosalind replied evenly. “Now, tell me quickly, do you remember anything about the persons who came to clear the rooms? Could you tell me what he, or they, looked like?”

The landlord lowered his brows until they almost touched his bulbous nose, and for a moment Rosalind feared she'd overplayed her hand.

But then, he snorted. “Couldn't forget 'im. All in black, 'e was, like 'e'd just come from the undertakers, and thin as a darning needle. Not to mention bein' the tallest cove you ever clapped eyes on.”

The Evidence of the Betting Book

In the zenith of his popularity, he might be seen in the bow window of White's Club, surrounded by the lions of the day, laying down the law.

—Captain Rees Howell Gronow,
Anecdotes of the Camp, the Court, and the Clubs

“Well, well.” Sanderson Faulks carefully folded up Miss Thorne's letter of introduction. “I confess I am astonished, Mr. Harkness.”

“I would not have thought a man such as yourself would be easily astonished, Mr. Faulks.”

The first word that had come to Harkness's mind when he met Sanderson Faulks was “affected.” Clearly one of the dandy set, his hair was brilliantly anointed with the macassar oil George Byron had made popular, and if his white breeches and bottle green coat had been any tighter, he would have asphyxiated. His hands were the whitest Harkness had ever seen. It might be a hazard of his profession, but Harkness distrusted any man whose hands were too clean. It usually meant they spent a great deal of time washing off the stains.

The rooms Faulks occupied were a match for the man. Harkness had never seen such a collection of paintings and statuary outside a public gallery. The furniture was all curved and carved
and curlicued, with enamel panels, marble tops, and an astounding variety of marquetry decorations. It was all also so delicate that Harkness felt afraid to move, lest he accidentally break some priceless artifact.

“Oh, but I enjoy my astonishments,” said Faulks, who in contrast to his guest seemed perfectly at ease in these elaborate and overcrowded environs. “Gives me something to wake up for in the morning. Now.” He steepled his fingers, and regarded Harkness over their neatly kept tips. “Miss Thorne begs that I offer you every assistance. Frankly, I had not thought to hear that from her.”

“Why not?”

“Because of her very close connection to Lady Blanchard, of course. I would not think any lady patroness would want anything other than to close the books on Jasper Aimesworth.”

“I am not employed by the lady patronesses,” Harkness reminded him. “And I understand from the papers that Lady Blanchard is resigning her position.”

In fact, the papers had been talking of little else since Sunday. Harkness did not as a rule pay much attention to the society columns, even at those times when they took up much of the front pages. At the moment, however, he regarded reading them as part of his inquiries. He also found himself looking longingly toward the time when he could go back to his blissful ignorance of the pending details of dresses and dances that didn't exist yet.

“Yes, the famed resignation. That does rather force a change in perspective,” Mr. Faulks acknowledged. “Still, when one leaves, one generally wants to be sure there's something to come back to.”

“Generally,” Harkness agreed.

“Yes. So. Astonishing, as I say.” Faulks offered no further explanation but tucked Miss Thorne's letter into one of the pigeonholes in his elaborately carved desk. “Still, I have seldom
ever refused Miss Thorne a favor, and I don't care to refuse this one. When shall we go to White's?”

“The sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned.” It had been far too long since Miss Thorne had written out the letter of introduction, but the delay was unavoidable. Even when he was hired for private work, a principal officer's time could never be devoted to just one matter. There were only eight of them, after all, and with London, Westminster, and all the provinces clamoring for their attention, it was perhaps inevitable that the matter of Jasper Aimesworth slipped in importance. Harkness had to give testimony at court, assist the day patrol that was looking into the matter of the robbery of the Tassel Street Bank, and spend time with his fellow principal officer, Stephen Lavender, to help with the particularly tricky coinage case that had landed on his desk.

But yesterday a second letter arrived from Miss Thorne, this one hand-carried by Mrs. Kendricks. Harkness did not, however, feel any particular need to inform Mr. Faulks of its contents. At least, not yet.

“As it happens, you find me entirely at leisure. We can go at once if you like.” Faulks pulled the embroidered and fringed bell rope and summoned an ancient valet.

Faulks's solemn and efficient manservant bundled the dandy into a cape lined and trimmed with sable and gloves of leather and sealskin. An ebony stick with a gold handle in the shape of a leaping stag completed his walking costume. By the time he was suitably attired, his well-sprung and comfortable barouche had been brought 'round to the front door.

The men rode in easy silence for a time, which gave Harkness a chance to study the man across from him. If this made Faulks uneasy, he gave no sign. As little as Harkness cared to admit it, it was taking him longer than usual to get the measure of the man beneath the highly polished surface. Faulks was slippery
but not, Harkness thought, in the way of the habitual charlatan or aesthete.

“If I may, Mr. Faulks, how did you come to be a member at White's?” asked Harkness eventually. “I understood that . . . new men were not entirely welcome there.”

Faulks chuckled. “I know I may not look it, Mr. Harkness, but I am a member of the old country gentry in very good standing. My family's lands are broad and only moderately encumbered. In addition, none of us has done a lick of work since the time of Charles the Second, and I have done my utmost to keep up our reputation for idleness and aristocratic display.” He touched the sable collar of his cloak. “It also happens that I can be a useful fellow to know. I'm damnably lucky at dice, and yet very easy about repayments.”

“You mean that men owe you money.”

Mr. Faulks touched the side of his nose.

“And may I ask, how it is you came to know Miss Thorne?”

“Her father introduced us,” said Faulks quietly.

Harkness raised his brows, and waited for the man to elaborate, but he did not. Instead, he peered out the carriage window. “Ah! Here we are.”

White's had started its existence as a chocolate house, but had rapidly evolved into one of the most notorious of London's social clubs. On any given night, thousands of pounds might change hands at its famous gaming tables, and frequently did.

Not even the bitter winds outside could make Sanderson Faulks hurry. The man sauntered up the club's steps as if it were the mildest spring day. He waved his cane toward the liveried porter at the door, and doffed his hat to hand to the similarly attired boy who waited in the marble lobby to receive them.

“Now, as you aren't a member, it's quite against the rules for you to be in the club rooms,” Faulks said as Harkness let himself
be helped out of his blue great coat. “But you wait in the stranger's room and I'll see about having the book sent down.”

“If you don't mind, I'd rather you sent down a waiter instead.”

Faulks raised one eyebrow. “Any waiter in particular?”

“A boy named Toby Fergus.”

“You intrigue me, Mr. Harkness. Again. All right. I'll have him sent through.”

Faulks sauntered across the lobby to have a word with an older serving man who Harkness put down as the club's steward. The steward bowed and moved off, his face betraying neither surprise nor curiosity.

The stranger's room was off the entrance hall, about where the parlor would be in a private home. It was a sumptuous room, replete with gilding and stylish furniture, obviously meant to impress visitors as to the wealth and taste possessed by the club's members. There were newspapers and leather-bound books scattered about on the tables to amuse anyone waiting. There was no one to take advantage of this, however, except for one young lady who was perched on one of the chairs. She did not read, but sat with her hands tightly clasping her reticule, as if she feared she might be robbed at any moment. Harkness bowed, and she instantly dropped her gaze and blushed furiously.

As Faulks returned to Harkness's side, he also took note of the young woman. He touched Harkness's elbow in apology and went over to make his bow. The girl looked up at him, and Harkness saw she was on the edge of tears. Faulks whispered something in her ear and patted her hand. In answer, she clutched at his sleeve, and a spasm that might have been either distaste or anger crossed the dandy's face. Without another word, the girl got to her feet and hurried from the room.

Harkness raised an eyebrow. Faulks just shook his head.
“There's no excuse for a gentleman to treat a girl like that shabbily. None at all.”

Before Harkness could ask another question, a short, slim young man in the club livery stepped into the room. He looked at Harkness, and he blanched.

“Hello, Fergus,” said Harkness quietly.

“H . . . h . . .”

Harkness held up his hand. “Easy does it, Toby. You're not in trouble, at least none that I know about.” For a minute, Harkness thought the boy might faint dead away from relief. “But this gentleman and I need the betting book brought down here. Quiet like. He's a member, so it's all right, isn't it? Will you oblige?”

“I . . . um . . .” Fergus's eyes narrowed and flickered back and forth. Considering the number and types of things that had once upon a time found their way into Tiny Toby's pockets, temporarily pinching a book shouldn't be a stretch of his skills. Fergus's father had been a poacher, and Toby had helped out the family by picking a few pockets on market days. That family, incidentally, had helped hide Red Lowell and his men a time or two. When Lowell was discovered in the Fergus's hut, Old Fergus had begged Harkness to let his boy, then only twelve years old, get away.

There were times when Harkness considered justice and the law to be separate matters. Young Toby did get away and Old Fergus went quietly to his fate, aware he'd done what he could for his son at the last.

Harkness watched the memory of all this flicker behind Toby's eyes. “Yes, sir,” the young man said. “Since he's a member and all. Will you come up, Mr. Faulks?”

Faulks nodded and Harkness bowed and settled down to wait, patiently watching the hands of the case clock in the corner.
They had not advanced five full minutes before Toby and Faulks once more descended the stairs. The steward barely glanced in the young waiter's direction as the pair entered the stranger's room and Faulks brought the book out from under his coat.

“It'll be on the last page or so,” Faulks said as Harkness turned over pages covered with all manner of handwriting, some of it barely legible. “Things get quiet out of season.”

He was right. At the very bottom of the second to the last page waited a scrawled note:

Jasper Aimesworth wagers to five pounds, even odds, to Devon Winterbourne, Duke of Casselmain, that he can enter Almack's Assembly Rooms without having obtained a voucher or ticket.

There were the two signatures and a date.

“That would seem to settle the matter,” said Faulks. He sounded a little disappointed.

Toby glanced nervously toward the entrance hall, probably looking out for the steward.

Harkness didn't bother to respond to either of them. On the strength of Miss Thorne's brief letter, he had fully expected the wager to be here. It was the rest of the book that interested him now. Harkness flipped through the pages, skimming them as quickly as he could decipher them. Some of the handwriting was so atrocious that it could only have been laid down by some very drunken men. God in heaven, what a thing it was to have money! There were bets on elections, marriages, births, deaths, and duels, as well as horse races and other of the more usual games. There were bets on the color of waistcoats, on the weather. Bets had been registered for ladies as well as club members.

Toby shifted his weight and glanced toward the hall again. Harkness closed the betting book and handed it back to the
waiter. “That'll do.” Clearly and openly relieved, the boy took the ledger, bowed, and hurried away.

Harkness didn't bother to look after him. He pulled his own book from his pocket and made a few notes.

Sanderson Faulks consulted his gold pocket watch against the time displayed on the case clock. “May I take it you are finished, Mr. Harkness? I'd like to get back home in time to dress for dinner. Can I drop you anywhere?”

“If you're passing by Bow Street, I would take it kindly, Mr. Faulks.”

“Certainly.”

The barouche was duly sent for and their coats brought. When they had settled themselves once more in the carriage, Faulks regarded Harkness with his lazy gaze. “Well, Mr. Harkness. You clearly didn't need my help to get into White's, or to get your hands on the book. Why did you come find me?”

“I am interested in Miss Thorne's friends.”

“I believe I could take that very much amiss, sir.”

“You shouldn't.”

“I shouldn't yet, you mean.” Faulks presented him with a narrow, false smile. Underneath his veneer, Faulks was an intelligent man, and his luster disguised a certain darkness. Probably he was more dangerous with that stick than most people would imagine.