Black Gold (17 page)

“Is there a gentleman nearby overseeing the transaction?”

“Yes, a tall hard-faced man,” Anne replied, intrigued by Paul's question, “but very well-dressed and polished in his manners. Is he really what I think he is?”

Paul nodded. “In Paris it's the same. This ‘gentleman' must work for a luxurious brothel, probably located nearby, and is in charge of the three women. To deceive the Master of Ceremonies, he pretends to be their escort. The English would call him a pimp.”

“William is too young for that sort of thing,” said Anne, but she immediately imagined him at the peepholes leering at Mary Campbell.

“He's big and
looks
older than his years,” Paul observed. “Critchley should take better care of his student. This evening's pleasure will cost the boy a small fortune, not to speak of what it will do to his character—and perhaps to his health. The brothel of course will extend credit to him—nephew of the richest man in Bath—but there will be a harsh reckoning. I doubt Sir Harry will pay for this.”

Eventually, an agreement was reached. The young men sauntered toward the exit, the young women on their arms.

Anne stared after them. “Incredible! Pandering at a fancy ball!”

“Yes, but it won't come to the Master of Ceremonies' attention so long as it's elegant and discreet.”

***

Back in the Tea Room Anne and Paul hoped to join Madame Gagnon for a light supper. She wasn't in sight. They had just sat down at a table partially sheltered from public view when Paul saw Burton walk in. “I think he's going to eat. Shall I ask him to sit with us?”

“Of course. We share a common interest in Jack Roach.”

As Paul approached, Burton's eyes narrowed for a brief moment, then brightened with recognition. He followed Paul to the table. “Delighted to join you,” he said to Anne. “I had intended to find you, but I've only just arrived. Staying at the York.”

As he took his seat opposite her, Anne noticed a long thin scar on his left cheek from ear to mouth. Suddenly, she realized he had caught her staring.

“A French sabre, Miss Cartier. Battle of Minden. Many years ago.” The officer cast a quick wry glance at Paul. “No hard feelings, Colonel.” With a smile, he turned their attention to the fashionable dress of the crowd around them, the indifferent quality of the musicians, and the heat and noise of the place.

Anne sensed Burton was assessing Paul. Apparently reassured of his character, the officer leaned forward and addressed Anne. “As solicitor Barnstaple has explained in his letter to you, I've come to investigate extortion and fraud by Jack Roach. A group of wealthy Bathonians stand ready to pay a generous commission if I rid the city of this pest.”

He paused, gave Anne a hopeful smile. “God willing, I shall also bring him to justice for his assault on you.”

“And you, Colonel Saint-Martin….” He tilted his head quizzically. “I'm wondering what has brought you here. Official business? I understand a certain Captain Fitzroy is also in Bath, wanted by French authorities for fraud. According to rumor, he had an affair with Baron Breteuil's goddaughter.”

“In truth, sir, he beat and raped her. But, to satisfy your curiosity, I'm here privately. By coincidence—believe it or not—I met Miss Cartier, who has added greatly to the pleasure of visiting this beautiful city. I'm staying at Combe Park as the guest of Sir Harry Rogers.”

“Rogers?” Burton glanced at Anne, then at Paul. “I've overheard talk concerning an attack on a coach belonging to the family.”

While Paul briefly described the incident, Burton stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Roach's behind it, you believe? How did he know about your trip to Bristol?”

“I suspect Rogers' personal clerk—Critchley's his name—betrayed our plans to Roach,” Paul replied.

“Mr. Critchley's one of his spies? Fancy that! Personal clerk to Sir Harry? Very interesting.” Burton gave Paul a crooked smile. “Bath, city of intrigue, wouldn't you say, Colonel.”

Paul agreed, hoping Burton would continue. He obviously had more to say about Critchley. But Anne, pointing toward the door, broke in with an excited whisper. “Lady Margaret and her cousin have arrived.”

They sat themselves at a table occupied by the two British officers Tarleton and Corbett.

Burton followed Anne's gaze to the newcomers and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Paul had barely begun to explain, when Jack Roach also entered the room, walked directly up to Fitzroy and Lady Margaret, and bent down to speak to them. After a heated exchange, the Irishman leaped to his feet, shoved Roach back, and slapped him hard across the face. In an instant, Tarleton and Corbett were at Fitzroy's side, ready for battle. Roach stood stunned for a moment, then turned abruptly and left the room.

“That's cause for a duel,” exclaimed the Bow Street officer. He rested his arms on the table, clasped his hands, and stared at Anne and Paul. “What do you make of it?”

Chapter 14

Fateful Theft

Tuesday, April 3

Anne rose early after a restless sleep. In her dreams she had seen Roach, like a leering red monster, strut through the Card Room, lean over Lady Margaret's shoulder, and bare fang-like teeth as if to bite her. With a shudder, Anne sat herself in front of the mirror and began brushing her hair. There was a soft knocking on her door. She drew a light blue robe over her shift and opened to Paul.

“Sorry, I'm early,” he said, taking her hands. “I wanted a minute alone with you.”

She stepped back, gazing at him. Although it was only seven o'clock, he was dressed for a day in the city: light brown coat, dark brown breeches, and pale yellow waistcoat.

“I'm going to meet Burton after breakfast,” he said, after they embraced, “and visit the Pump Room together….” Before he could say more, there were footsteps outside.

“Breakfast!” Georges' voice echoed in the antechamber. Anne smoothed her robe, opened the door again, and stepped back. He swaggered in, a large round breakfast tray balanced on one raised hand. As he passed her, he twirled the tray, grinning like a clown.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Georges! Be careful.”

Paul had moved to the table and was checking his watch. At Anne's exclamation, he looked up, alarm clouding his face.

Georges stopped, blinked, apparently having expected his superior to arrive a little later. “Sorry, sir,” the adjutant mumbled, lowering the tray.

With a flourish he laid out the cups, saucers, plates, quince marmalade, butter, and the basket of rolls. Anne and Paul seated themselves at the table. Georges poured coffee for them.

“Lady Margaret and Captain Fitzroy have only just arrived home,” said Georges, dropping a lump of sugar into the colonel's cup. Anne declined with a shake of her hand. Georges continued, while serving butter and rolls. “Shortly after you returned to Combe Park, they left the Assembly Rooms in a rush. Lady Margaret had torn her gown and insisted on going home to have it repaired. The captain was angry. Had a party in mind with friends in the Crescent. ‘Faster,' they shouted, though Peter the coachman was driving at breakneck speed.”

At a gesture from his superior, Georges pulled a chair up to the table. He had brought an extra cup and poured for himself. Between buttered rolls and sips of coffee, he explained that Lady Margaret had been in the house no more than ten minutes when out she came, calm and smiling. Then off to the party. The coachman had to wait outside for them all night long. Georges chuckled. “He gave us an earful of it in the servants' hall.”

Paul asked, “Have you heard
why
they left the Assembly Rooms so abruptly?”

“Not yet.” Georges looked up from his cup, puzzled by the question.

“I'm surprised.” Paul went on to inform his adjutant about the incident in the Tea Room.

Georges frowned. “While I was talking to the servants, I did hear that Fitzroy struck Roach, and Roach walked away. But that doesn't account for Lady Margaret's panicked return home.” A puzzled frown creased Georges' forehead. He put his cup on the table and sat still for a moment, eyes cast down, fingers tapping together.

Suddenly, he looked up. “Aha! the torn gown! You couldn't know that Lady Margaret tore the gown herself. Deliberately. In the Ladies' Parlor off the Tea Room. Must have been just after the incident you witnessed. Madame Gagnon was watching her for me and saw her sneak into a corner and rip the hem. At the time we couldn't understand why she did it. But, now I see. She wanted an excuse to go home first rather than drive directly to the private party.”

That puzzled Anne. What did Lady Margaret want to do at Combe Park that she couldn't reveal to her escort? Something prompted by Roach's remarks in the Tea Room. Something important that required only a few minutes. She turned to Paul.

He anticipated her question. “Roach probably hinted he had discovered evidence of scandal concerning Lady Margaret and Fitzroy and would conceal it for a certain sum. Otherwise, he would pass it on to Sir Harry.”

Georges scratched his head. “At Combe Park, Lady Margaret must have looked for that evidence, then left the house believing Roach didn't have what he claimed. But, I don't think he was trifling with her. He's a serious gambler playing for high stakes. And very clever.”

“His cleverness is about to meet its match,” observed Paul. The conversation turned to Dick Burton, whom Georges had not met. “Burton was the London officer who helped me find Anne. Our contact was brief.”

Georges' eyebrows arched. “Shall we tell him about our pursuit of Fitzroy?” He glanced doubtfully at Anne, then at Paul.

The colonel shrugged. “He already knows why we're here. That could be a problem. He's loyal to the Crown and might obstruct our plans to abduct a man who enjoys its protection. We must find ways to convert him into an ally.”

“We can help him arrest Jack Roach,” Anne interjected. “For that I personally would be most grateful.”

Georges drained his cup and stood up to leave. “By the way,” he said to Anne, “your friend Harriet left the ball shortly before you and Colonel Saint-Martin.”

“Yes?” Anne stared apprehensively at Georges.

“She climbed into an unmarked coach, shades drawn. I recognized it. From Combe Park. When she opened the door, I could see a man inside. Too dark to tell who he was. The chairbearers say they've often seen the coach at the theater.”

Anne sighed. “Sir Harry. He's her patron, not her lover. He hopes for a more intimate relationship. I fear he'll hurt her.”

When Paul and Georges left, Anne paced the floor, mulling over the aftermath of the Tea Room incident. Why had Roach deliberately precipitated Lady Margaret's panicked rush home? When he had first conceived the idea of prying into scandal at Combe Park, he must have felt confident he would somehow find evidence to justify Sir Harry's divorce. Thus far, he had gotten nothing. The old nursemaid Betty had refused to speak to him. Nor had he uncovered much of use at the Assembly Rooms or other cesspools of malicious gossip. Lady Margaret and Fitzroy had appeared circumspect: playing whist, dancing and dining always in company. So, Roach would have to conclude the most likely place for any damaging evidence was at Combe Park. But where?

Anne stared out the window. The wind drove a cold, steady drizzle against the glass. Spring in Bath was not a season for the cousins to have romantic trysts out of doors. That ruled out the park. In the public rooms of the house there were too many servants, guests, and, of course, the gimlet-eyed Critchley, William Rogers, and Sir Harry himself. By a process of elimination, Anne was left with few choices: Roach must focus on Fitzroy's room or Lady Margaret's or both.

She turned and leaned back against the window sill. Raking her fingers through her hair, she glanced at the large ornate mirror on the wall. One of the fauns seemed to ogle her with its bright protuberant eyes.

Peepholes! Lady Margaret's suite was directly below Anne's own room. Could the closet that was used to spy on her also have served for spying on Lady Margaret?

Anne immediately hurried next door to the storeroom. No one there. She pulled the hidden lever, entered the shallow closet, and studied the panels hiding the peepholes to her room. She had left them slightly ajar. They appeared to have been moved. Closely examining the floor, she found a section that could be raised and, beneath it, an ingenious optical instrument that could be pointed through small openings into Lady Margaret's dressing room and her bed chamber. Without knowing much about lenses and the like, Anne was sure this was an elaborate, expensive device. Who could afford it and would want to spy on Lady Margaret? Only Sir Harry himself. And, Jack Roach.

Alarmed by her discovery, Anne carefully plotted her next move. It was time she and Charlie went to his mother's rooms. She liked to visit briefly with her son during her breakfast, though she couldn't communicate with him very well. He was shy and she was impatient. She had asked Anne on the six previous days to come along and help the conversation. Each of those visits had been a little more cordial and natural than the previous one: the boy, more at ease with his mother; she, more patient and appreciative of him.

This morning, however, she seemed nearly exhausted. Her hands trembled; her eyelids were half-closed. A night of gambling and brandy had taken its toll. Nonetheless, she struggled through questions about the boy's progress in writing, reading lips, and pronouncing words. Charlie performed well enough to bring a tired smile to her lips.

While the boy showed his mother some sketches he had made, Anne examined the walls for the openings she had discovered upstairs. Since she knew approximately where they had to be, she quickly found them in the corner molding, masked by sculpted garlands. With the optical device, the peeper could watch Lady Margaret if she brought Fitzroy to her room or tried to hide anything.

After breakfast and the conversation with Charlie, Anne followed the boy to the door, wondering how to reveal the spying to his mother. Anne told Charlie to go on to his lessons, she would soon follow. She stepped back into Lady Margaret's room. The woman started, then frowned at this intrusion.

Before she could object, Anne raised her hand in a warning. “Someone is spying on you in this room.” She beckoned her to the corner and pointed up toward the garlands. “If you look carefully, you will see the openings. A clever instrument is pointing through the molding. And I'm sure there are similar openings in your dressing room. A spy can watch almost every movement you make.” Anne paused for a moment, then added, “And I'm almost certain someone spied on you last night.”

Lady Margaret stepped back as if struck, stared up at the garlands, then looked at Anne with shock and disbelief. “Roach tricked me.” She rushed to a small writing table, fumbled frantically with it and opened an ingeniously hidden drawer. “It's gone,” she cried, staring down into a shallow empty space. With an anguished, childlike moan, she clutched at her throat and swayed. Anne caught her and eased her into a chair. For several minutes she sat there, leaning forward, hands clasped tightly in her lap, whimpering softly.

What could have been hidden in the drawer? Anne asked herself. Jewels? Incriminating love letters?

The whimpering slowly subsided. She sat up. A flash of anger crossed her face. “Where's Sir Harry?” she demanded.

The question took Anne aback. Shouldn't the woman keep track of her own husband? Anne happened to know the answer and replied calmly. “He told Colonel Saint-Martin he was going to a place near Calne with several other men to inspect the arrangements for tomorrow's match.”

Lady Margaret fell silent, her shoulders slumped, her face lined and pale. She glanced up at the hidden instrument in the corner, then turned to Anne. “Go to Charlie. There's nothing you can do for me.”

***

Colonel Saint-Martin put on his coat, inspected himself in the mirror, and walked toward the door of his room. He was on his way to the city. Georges was behind him, about to go downstairs to the servants' hall. There was a knock on the door. The colonel opened it and Anne rushed in, breathless, face flushed. “I've run up the stairs.” She paused for a moment, breathing deeply. “Lady Margaret has just learned she's been spied upon in her rooms. She's taken it badly.”

Anne described the optical device, the lady's discovery of the empty drawer, and her despair. “I'm sure she'll be here in a minute looking for Fitzroy.” She waved a hand toward the room across the hall.

“Do you want to wait here and see what happens?” Paul asked.

“Sorry. I can't stay. Charlie's expecting me.” She smiled apologetically and slipped down the hall toward the boy's room.

Paul watched until she disappeared, then closed the door. “We'll wait here,” he told Georges. A few minutes later, they heard steps in the hall, then sharp knocking.

“What in God's name do you think you are doing?” the Irishman barked. “I'm trying to get some sleep.”

“Something awful has happened,” stammered Lady Margaret. “May I come in?”

A moment later, the door shut. Saint-Martin and Georges could no longer hear what was said, only murmuring. It seemed unwise to eavesdrop from the hallway. Saint-Martin opened his door an inch. The sound from Fitzroy's room increased. Suddenly, the Irishman shouted loudly. The words were indistinct but the tone was angry. Saint-Martin stepped into the hall. The crack of a hard slap came from the room, followed by a woman's shriek. More slaps and louder shrieks.

Leaving Georges behind, Saint-Martin crossed the hall and knocked on Fitzroy's door. “What's going on in there?” he shouted. The room instantly fell silent. After a few moments, Lady Margaret came out and edged past him, the clear creamy color of her face now a blotched pink. Blood trickled from her nose and the corner of her mouth. “It's nothing, Colonel. Please excuse me.” She gathered her skirts and hurried away to the stairs.

For an instant, the image of a battered Sylvie de Chanteclerc surged into Saint-Martin's mind, almost blinding him. Then, the crumpled form of Mary Campbell at the foot of the stairs. Through the open door he noticed Fitzroy staring out the window. “Captain! What evil spirit compels you to beat women?”

Fitzroy spun around and advanced toward Saint-Martin. “Colonel, this is my affair.” His face was gray, his eyes narrow slits. Without another word, he slammed the door.

***

Concealed by a screen of large green plants, Georges waited in the entrance hall. Captain Fitzroy wasn't the kind of man to sulk in his room when he came under pressure. His violent reaction to Lady Margaret indicated he had been unaware of what she had hidden and was furious when he found out. Love letters? Private journal?

While waiting, Georges wondered who had actually spied on her and discovered her hiding place. Not Sir Harry. He had come to the Fancy Ball by that time. Nor nephew William, who was mired in sin at a brothel. Roach also had remained in the city. That left only Roach's confederate, Critchley. He had quit the Fancy Ball early in the evening. After observing Lady Margaret open the drawer, he must have found a way to steal its hidden contents. Had he stolen her key? Bribed a maid?