Francesca (13 page)

“Any idea where she keeps it?”

“No, we’re not close. But if it were me, I’d have it under lock and key, especially now. I expect she knows she’d hang if she were caught with it.”

“It was given to her. She didn’t steal it. She has only to say she didn’t know it was entailed.”

Mrs. Ritchie looked disappointed to hear this. “She
does
know. Much good it does her when she can’t wear it. I heard she was boasting about it when David died. ‘Finders, keepers,’
she said. It’s the likes of her that give the muslin company a bad name.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where she resides?”

“A two-by-four apartment in Soho Square, from what I hear.”

“Thank you. Where can I drop you off?”

“At my place, as soon as you stop at your bank.”

Devane patted his wallet. “I came prepared.”

Mrs. Ritchie gave him a coy glance. “So did I, but not for this.”

She pocketed her ill-gotten gains happily enough, and went shopping to ease the guilt of having fiddled a sister worker. A length of emerald-shot silk and a new bonnet proved entirely efficacious.

Lord Devane drove to Soho Square and discovered where Miss Sullivan resided, but he did not call on her then. There were arrangements to be made first. He must learn something of the woman, and make another trip to his bank in case the lady was immune to threats.

Lord Maundley disdained to meet his victim in person and sent his solicitor to outline the steps that were being taken. Mr. Rafferty was a shady character who looked more like a Captain Sharp than a solicitor. He had black hair and eyes, and a sallow complexion. He sought an audience with Lady Camden, who was supported in this trial by Mrs. Denver and the ever-faithful Mr. Caine. With much assistance from obscure Latin phrases and other legal mumbo-jumbo, Mr. Rafferty presented his client’s case, mentioning briefly that the price of the missing necklace would be taken from Lady Camden’s widow’s portion. When everyone was thoroughly confused, he slid a document across to Lady Camden to sign. “This is the release I have prepared,”
he told her.

Mr. Caine took strong objection to the diminishment of Lady Camden’s dowry by five thousand pounds. “Lord Maundley cannot do this. He hasn’t proven anything. Let him bring a charge of theft if—”

Lady Camden, pale and defeated, touched his hand. “I don’t want to have to go to court.”

“But this is an outrage! He can’t just seize five thousand pounds without so much as a by your leave from the courts. Maundley is taking advantage of the fact that he is guardian of your moneys. It sounds highly irregular to me.”

“If the lady will just sign this paper,”
Mr. Rafferty repeated, nudging it forward.

“Don’t sign it, Fran,”
Mr. Caine said. “You haven’t even read it. It may be an admission of guilt. Leave it here, sir, and we’ll take it to Lady Camden’s solicitor.”

Mr. Rafferty sighed resignedly. He would have had a very poor opinion of them if they had not insisted on this precaution. A pity the gentleman was present. The lady, he thought, would have signed on the dotted line if she’d been alone. “This paper is designed to avoid a public charge of common thievery, but if you wish to have your man peruse it, no harm. I shall leave it with you. As to the residence, that is entirely under Lord Maundley’s authority. You have been occupying the premises rent-free at his pleasure. When will it be convenient for you to remove, Lady Camden? Lord Maundley’s sister wishes to take occupancy as soon as possible.”

This was a blatantly transparent ruse. Maundley’s sister had lived with him for twenty years. A spinster in her sixties was not likely to suddenly require a residence of her own. It was a device to lend an air of decency to the expulsion, no more.

“You can see she is not fit to travel,”
Mrs. Denver exclaimed. Francesca looked as if she had been dragged from her sickbed, which was not far from the truth.

“I shall be well and truly ill if I have to endure much more of this. We shall vacate the premises this week, Mr. Rafferty,”
Francesca said.

“There is no furniture removal to worry about. Everything belongs to Lord Maundley. We rather hoped—tomorrow?’’

“Sometime this week,”
Mr. Caine repeated. “And if Lord Maundley wishes to send over a bailiff, he will find himself charged with—”
No actual, namable crime came to mind.

“Say the day after tomorrow,”
Mr. Rafferty suggested, a grin growing on his sallow face.

“That will be fine,”
Lady Camden said.

The wretched man left, and Francesca said in a listless way, “Would you be so kind as to take the house in Crawley for us, Selby? What is the price?”

He mentioned a modest rental.

“I can cover that, and as the solicitor said, there isn’t much to move. I shall begin sorting my things.”

“Go to bed, Fran. The servants can do that,”
Mrs. Denver said. She was concerned as much for Fran’s emotions as for her physical health. The girl looked burned to the socket.

“Perhaps I shall just rest a little before I begin.”
She wrote the check and gave it to Selby.

Her legs would hardly carry her up the stairs. She felt as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. What would Mama and Papa say when they heard? Was there any way of keeping it from them? Five thousand of their hard-earned pounds gone with the wind because she had married a wastrel, against their wishes, and inherited a rapacious, evil father-in-law along with him.

Escaping from London seemed more tempting by the moment. Before long, she was lying on her bed, gazing at the ceiling. London was horrid, and the most horrid person in London was Lord Devane. If she remained here, the best she could hope for was offers similar to his, but probably less generous. Oh, there were a few decent men, of course. Mr. Irwin had been very nice, but he was not the sort of man a lady would want to marry. Not that he had offered. And not that she could even conceivably drag a good man’s name through the mud. Her eyes closed, and she fell into a feverish slumber.

Within half an hour Mr. Caine returned from the real estate agent and met with Mrs. Denver. “The house in Crawley has already been taken,”
he said. “I’ve brought a list of other possible places. With only two fifty a year to live on, it looks as if Fran will have to settle for an apartment.”

“Fran detests apartments of all things,”
Mrs. Denver sighed, and accepted the list. “Nothing is available until the first of June,”
she announced after reading it through twice. “We have to be out of here the day after tomorrow. That is two expensive weeks to put up at a hotel, along with the servants ... I don’t know how we will manage.”

“Mary would be happy to have her at the Elms. There is plenty of room for you, too, Mrs. Denver. Ronald, her husband, has a good-size place. And with young Harry to distract her, it might be the very thing for Fran. She was mighty taken with the baby the one time she saw him. I would invite her home to my place, but it is so close to White Oaks, and there would be no end of talk if she moved in there.”

“It is not to be thought of. Mary’s place will do nicely. Will you write her?”

“I’ll do it this very minute, and send my man off with the letter. And I’ll speak to my solicitor about this release Rafferty left as well. Scoundrel.”
He left to write and dispatch the letter and discuss the infamous release with a Mr. Duncan.

Mr. Duncan was neither dishonest nor stupid. He first listened to Mr. Caine’s verbal account of the case, asking an occasional question. Next he read the document through with interest, giving an occasional grunt of dissatisfaction. While he read, Mr. Caine stood at the window, gazing with unseeing eyes at the street below, while he swayed to and fro.

When he had finished his perusal, Mr. Duncan said, “I cannot recommend Lady Camden sign this unless she wishes to incriminate herself. It is an acknowledgment that she took the necklace. It gives Lord Maundley permission to deduct its price from her moneys. Is that what she wishes?”

“She certainly does not wish to sign an admission of guilt. She didn’t take it.”

Mr. Duncan did not rub his hands in anticipation, but he gave that impression. “Ah, well, then the matter becomes more complicated. If you wish me to undertake the case, I shall set up a meeting with Mr. Rafferty.”

“By all means. Lady Camden is willing to pay the money, but only to avoid scandal and bother. She is not ready to confess to a crime she did not commit.”

“Yes, payment without prejudice, but I think we can do better than that for the lady. Paying is tantamount to admitting she is at fault. Maundley hasn’t a hope in hell of proving she took it. He didn’t see her. No one saw her. It is his word against Lady Camden’s. Where are his unbiased witnesses, after all these months? Where is his proof of possession? Who, except himself, will stand up and say Lord Camden was a man of unblemished character? So long as there is a shadow of a doubt—”

“But Lady Camden is most eager to avoid dragging the dirty linen into court.”

“Bah! So is Maundley. He is too stiff-rumped to want his own family name on public parade. He hoped to get his hands on her money on the quiet. It will never come to court. Maundley is shamming. At the very worst, and I have no intention of letting it come to the worst, my client may have to go snacks on the price of the thing. Perhaps a thousand guineas.”

Mr. Caine smiled to hear this news, and hastened back to Half Moon Street to discuss it with Mrs. Denver. “I expect Mr. Duncan is very dear?”
she asked.

“He isn’t cheap, but he won’t charge anything like five thousand guineas, and there is the principle of the thing to consider as well.”

“Yes, except that the stain will always cling to Fran. No smoke without fire, folks will say.”

Mr. Caine found himself in the unusual position of cheering up his companion. “She won’t hear them, Mrs. Denver. She’ll be safely away from it all. And it will be only a nine days’
wonder before something else comes along to distract society. Some lady will leave her husband, or kill him, or her lover, and the ton will forget Lady Camden. Why don’t you run up and tell her the good news? It will ease her worries.”

“I just looked in. She’s sleeping, so I shan’t disturb her. You have been so very kind, Mr. Caine, and so helpful. I truly don’t think we could have endured this without your assistance.”

“Always happy to help. I sent my man off to Mary with a note. He’ll bring back her answer. It is only a formality. Mary will be delighted to have her. You can prepare to leave the day after tomorrow.”

“Forty-eight hours to be got in somehow.”

“Less than that,”
he said bracingly. “We shall leave at the crack of dawn.”

“And there is all the packing to do. You are coming with us?”

“For an escort. And I would like to see Mary and Ronald, too. And of course my godson. From there, I shall go home—to the country, I mean.”

“We’ve pretty well ruined your Season. I am sorry, Mr. Caine.”

“Think nothing of it. The Season is usually a dead bore, to tell the truth. I don’t know why I bother coming. Perhaps I shan’t next year.”

He left, and Mrs. Denver set the servants to work packing the trunks for their removal and tidying the house. She felt a strong inclination to remove every ounce of flour from the bin, and the potatoes from the cellar, except she would not sink to Lord Maundley’s level.

Francesca came downstairs for dinner, and was somewhat cheered to hear of the new developments. Yet she was not so cheered as her companion thought she should be. Something more seemed to be bothering her.

“I daresay you regret having to leave the gaiety of London at the height of the Season?”
she asked, angling for information.

“I can hardly wait to get away.”

“You will be able to take a tidy little house somewhere, Fran. We shan’t be stuck with a crabbed apartment now.”

“Yes, that is a relief. I do like to have a garden. And best of all, I shan’t have to confess to Papa that I lost his money—my dot, I mean.”

“When the dust settles, you will meet some nice gentleman—”

“Never again,”
Francesca said, chin jutting with determination. “Twice was enough.”

“Twice!”

Her cheeks turned pink, and she said in confusion. “I have been ill-treated by two men: Camden and his father.”

“Oh, I see. For a moment there I wondered if you meant Mr. Irwin.”
She peered suspiciously across the table.

“Certainly not! He has been a good friend, and I am grateful to him. He has been nearly as helpful as Mr. Caine, during the brief time that I have known him, I mean.”

Mrs. Denver didn’t smile, but she was cheered to see, or imagine, an interest in Mr. Irwin. She wondered if Fran had expected an offer. “Perhaps Mr. Irwin will drop by this evening,”
she said nonchalantly. “In any case, you must write and thank him for his help, and let him know you are leaving.”

“I did thank him. Selby will tell him where we are going.”

Francesca chattered on to cover her near gaffe. It was the most pleasant meal Mrs. Denver had enjoyed for weeks. For Francesca, every bite was like swallowing a stone. She had promised to repay Lord Devane for his insult, and now she would not have the opportunity to do it. But at least she was getting away. It seemed she would not have to pay Maundley for the necklace, and she was looking forward to seeing Mary again.

Lord Devane spent a day doing his homework before confronting Marguerita Sullivan in his attempt to recover the necklace. He learned it was her patron’s custom to call on her at eight each evening. He was at her apartment in Soho Square at seven-thirty. Sir Percy Kruger was high in the instep. He would not tolerate such grave misdeeds as thieving in his mistress. Devane had decided on using both the carrot and the stick. He would frighten her by explaining the outcome if she was caught with her ill-gained treasure: holding stolen goods was a punishable offense. She could not wear the thing, and she could not sell it. By holding on to it, she would acquire the reputation of a grasping woman, which was as harmful to a lightskirt as to a lady, perhaps more so. She would lose her present patron, and have difficulty in finding another.