Gilded Lily (9 page)

“Phineas knows her. Knew her. Before she married Wallingford.”

His tone must have given something away, because she pursed her lips in obvious disapproval. Of him, of Sophie, of Phineas, he couldn't be sure.

“I see. Did Phineas have any money?”

“Well, I suppose one must give Lady Sophie credit for being honest about her motivations, if her friend knows that's the important question to ask. No, of course he hadn't any money. Not to speak of. Nothing like Wallingford has, naturally.”

She shot a frown his way. “Nothing like Wallingford
had
, you mean.”

Barnabas wanted to crow a bit, but something in Freddie's eyes stayed him. “He lost his money? A tragedy, to be sure.”

“Lost it? I suppose you could say so. He left it all to Sophie. Alas, he has no use for it where he is now.”

“What, dead?”

“Yes. Over a year ago, just after their second anniversary. The time's flown. I asked whether Phineas had money because if he hadn't, I wondered at his being allowed to know Sophie at all back then, if he was just a young naval officer with nothing much else to recommend him. Her parents controlled her every move until she married Wallingford, kept her locked up until it was time to parade her in front of eligible bachelors. Wallingford essentially bought her freedom for her. He was the only one who could meet their price. Their debts were quite heavy.”

“I suppose that's one perspective.” She'd let herself be bought, if Phineas had the right of it. Actively marketed herself to the highest bidder. “She never seemed particularly unhappy with her circumstances.”

The glare Freddie leveled at him could have razed buildings. “Of course she didn't
seem
so. What good would that have done her? I take it your brother was a would-be suitor. Consider that his view of things may have been skewed.”

About that, Miss Murcheson was absolutely correct. Phineas hadn't been a mere would-be suitor, he had been deeply in love with Lady Sophie Howard. Whatever the facts, Phineas had taken her rejection three years earlier all too much to heart. He'd turned to the oblivious solace of opium to forget and disappeared shortly thereafter. Or perhaps not; perhaps that was only what he'd let people think as part of his cover story. What Murcheson had told people so they'd be less likely to come looking for him. Barnabas didn't know what to believe anymore.

“Your parents have you on the marriage mart, at least ostensibly, and yet you seem to have managed a good deal of freedom.” He gestured at her costume, at the steam pony before them and the street beyond.

“My parents don't keep me locked up. Did you think I was speaking figuratively about Sophie? I wasn't. There were literal locks involved. I was the one who taught her how to pick them.”

“But how . . . that's ridiculous. That's something from a novel. Things like that don't happen anymore.”

Now her look wasn't so much angry as disgusted, and far too weary for such a young woman. “If you believe that, you're a fool, my lord. A fool who's very lucky to have been born a man. And firstborn son to a peer, at that. You know nothing of how the world works for the rest of us. Just as I've no real idea how bad things are for these poor people my father seems bent on putting out of work. All I can do is imagine, and be grateful I don't have to know firsthand.”

He pondered that all the way into Belgravia, where the late-afternoon traffic dwindled to a polite minimum. He didn't like the lingering, angry tightness around the corners of Miss Murcheson's lush mouth. Nor did he care for the silence, which was all the louder because she was usually so voluble.

The grooms at Wallingford House were clearly familiar with Freddie. Scarcely had she brought the trap to a halt before two strapping lads whisked it away into a stall, flinging an oilcloth over it. Another stood ready with a brush, to knock any tinkering-related debris from Freddie and Barnabas's coats and shoes before they proceeded into the house proper. Brisk, efficient, respectful . . . and apparently paid to be blind and deaf about their lady's unorthodox visitor.

Freddie—it was growing difficult to think of her as Miss Murcheson, after calling her Fred all day—led the way up the back stairs to a broad corridor, and thence to a daintily appointed salon that appeared washed in every shade of pale green. It was as though they'd stepped into a fresh spring morning.

Its only denizen, however, wore a somber gray afternoon dress and a frown.

“Freddie, darling, you're late. I was beginning to worry. And who have you brought with you—
oh
.”

“Lady Sophronia.” Barnabas bowed curtly, never taking his eyes off the woman. She hadn't changed, other than the exchange of a girlish frock and curls for postmourning attire and a simple chignon. “A pleasure to see you again.”

Upon her seeing an unexpected face, her visage had cleared into a smooth mask of beautiful affability, an illusion as practiced as any parlor trick. “Lord Smith-Grenville. I'll assume you meant that ironically. Freddie, what is going on?”

Freddie was still frowning, a state of affairs that Barnabas found he categorically disliked. He wanted her to be smiling always.

“Lord Smith-Grenville came to London looking for his brother. Just now he told me that you knew Phineas Smith-Grenville as well. I believe there are misconceptions to be aired between you.”

Sophie Wallingford would be an excellent poker player, Barnabas decided, if she ever chose to do such a thing. Far better than he. Her expression never altered, her clear brown eyes and heart-shaped face remained as gently welcoming as anyone might wish for. “We're cutting things a bit fine, so we'll have to air them succinctly. But all right, if you must.”

He didn't know that he must do anything. “Another time, perhaps?”

“Now will suffice. No time like the present, my lord. Freddie, do hurry up to my rooms. Angelica is preparing a bath for you. And none too soon, I might add. You're even a bit more pungent than usual.”

“We were at a butcher's. I'll go up. Lord Smith-Grenville, I'll speak with you this evening. I have an idea.”

“Oh, dear,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

She smiled, a flash of sunlight on an inexplicably dark day. No matter what, it was better than the frown. “Don't worry. We won't even need to leave my house to implement it.”

Biting back another
Oh, dear
, Barnabas nodded and watched her out the door before turning to Sophie. The agent, perhaps, of his brother's destruction.

“You look well,” she offered.

“As do you.” She always had, he recalled. Always beautiful, always composed. Serene to a fault. Phineas had said once that loving Sophie felt like a moth loving a warmly lit window. Burning himself on the flame would have been almost a relief, if only he could have gotten close enough. Barnabas preferred his beauty less chilly, more accessible. If he were going to immolate himself, he'd rather get straight to it. Freddie was a merry bonfire of a girl.

“If you come seeking news, I'm afraid I can't help you. I haven't seen or heard from your brother since . . . well, it's been three years. I'd heard he resigned his commission and returned home to the Dominions.”

“Was thrown out under a cloud of opium smoke, you mean. Don't pretend you hadn't heard the rumors. He did return to the Dominions, apparently, but not home. He was in California, I believe, at least until recently. But one of my brother's former colleagues here swears he spotted Phineas back in London a few months ago on the West India docks. Father was skeptical, but it's all I have to go by.”

“Your father is no longer bankrolling your search efforts? Is this why you're Freddie's latest shadow, or is there some other connection between you and Murcheson?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “I'm the latest in what I gather is a long line of shadows. I can't tell if she thinks I'm the worst or the best one yet.”

The placid Madonna before him smiled, a hint of wickedness showing around her eyes. “You're certainly more honest than the others. And she never invited any of them along on her adventures as Fred the tinker. She always had to dodge them to get out and work. Freddie tells me your relationship is one of mutual extortion.”

“More or less. Sometimes,” he confessed, “I wonder if I'm not still back in the Dominions, delirious with fever from influenza, and simply hallucinating this entire episode in my life.” If it was a hallucination, would he consider it a good or bad one? Hard to say.

Sophie's smile faded. “You're not the only one to wonder that. It's time you returned to the Murchesons' house to prepare for the evening's entertainment, Lord Smith-Grenville.”

He wasn't quite ready to leave, however. “Do you have any insight for me as to why Phineas might have gone into such a sudden decline, Lady Sophronia?”

“Are you asking me if he suffered from unrequited love, my lord?”

Barnabas was stunned at her being so blunt, but he decided he could follow her lead, especially as he knew the answer already. “Yes.”

She inhaled, the tiniest whisper of breath, then sighed equally quietly before answering. “I was never anything but truthful with your brother, sir. He would have pursued me. I was not in a position to accept his suit, and I told him so. We . . . didn't part happily, when last we saw one another.”

Subtle as she was, he could see it all there on her face, now that he knew what he was looking at. The same pain he'd seen in Phineas's eyes. The years had eased it, perhaps, but not eliminated it. That pain and her words implied more than a passing relationship between this lady and his brother, but he'd already asked and she had told more than propriety allowed. He wouldn't press for the salacious details.

“I see.”

“Will there be anything else?” She was already moving toward the bellpull, summoning somebody to see him out.

What else could there be? “No. I've taken enough of your time, my lady. Thank you for speaking with me. I'm aware it was a topic of some sensitivity.”

“I wish I could have eased your mind.”

“I wish you could have eased his,” he countered before he could censor himself.

She laughed, but the sound was more pain than joy. “Oh, I wish that too. So much.”

“I apologize, I didn't mean to—”

“That's not necessary.” The door opened to admit a footman, and Sophie schooled her face back to its customary pleasant blankness. “Jacob will see you out now, Lord Smith-Grenville.”

F
REDDIE'S GOWN WAS
a buttery-pale yellow silk with white lace trim, and she hated it. Her mother had insisted on including it in her wardrobe, claiming that it helped Freddie appear mild and innocent, and that she might one day find it useful to give off such an impression. The lace itched where it edged her décolletage and under her arms. The bodice was designed to conceal, rather than exploit, her bosom. All in all it was an insipid ensemble, for all it was beautifully made. She wondered, as she always did, whether it might not be improved or done away with by timely “accidental” exposure to a measure of ratafia.

It was a strategy worth considering. Spilling a drink on herself might also excuse her absence from the “entertainment” portion of the evening, a musical interlude featuring a popular soprano and her accompanist. Although Freddie's mother remained in France this Season, her renowned exotic Continental tastes still dictated the Murcheson household's social mores. Father was always inviting singers of borderline dubious repute, violinists and the like, world-famous chess players, and an assortment of other examples of untrammeled culture. A visiting poet had once composed an ode—ex tempore, or so he claimed—to Freddie's hair. She gave him full marks for effort, but had deducted points for egregious overuse of the word
titian
. Which did not, as she'd felt compelled to point out, rhyme with
frisson
. He'd never been back.

Tonight's soprano was giving her a headache. And to her surprise, she found she missed the company of Lord Smith-Grenville. She'd thought up one or two pointed remarks about the performance she thought he might appreciate. He was seated all the way across the salon and at the back, however, and might as well be miles away.

She'd seen him in rumpled, rough clothing all afternoon, things he'd borrowed from Dan. They hung on him loosely, adding to his disheveled appearance. Tonight, he was back in his own exceedingly well-cut, proper clothing and sporting a fresh shave. Upon greeting him earlier she had discovered that he smelled very nice as well. Freddie wasn't sure which version she liked better, but properly clad Smith-Grenville looked more comfortable in his skin than poor Barney the aging apprentice.

The soprano trilled out something Italian and lyrical, and Freddie risked a glance over her shoulder. Smith-Grenville was no longer in his chair. He was standing behind the rows of seats, in the small crowd of duly appreciative-looking gentlemen near the back of the room. A few more steps and he'd be next to the door. He'd evidently decided to take a slow, subtle approach to leaving the room without arousing suspicion.

Seated up front as she was, Freddie had no hope of slipping out unnoticed during the performance. But during the performance was her only chance to sneak into her father's study unobserved. As host, Murcheson would be compelled to stay for the duration. She could sneak in through the priest's hole, have a good look around, and be out before anyone was the wiser. Though it would be safer still if somebody—Smith-Grenville, for example—could stand lookout for her.

She'd finished the small crystal cup of ratafia in her hand without realizing it. There was nothing left to spill.

Damn.

What would her mother do in a situation like this? Mignonette Murcheson always seemed to get away with whatever she liked, socially. Freddie had spent most of her life wishing she'd inherited even a fraction of her mother's skill at navigating the web of relationships and rules that governed their lives. She would have been able, no doubt, to come up with a reason to leave discreetly that was compelling, but not so compelling as to rouse anyone's suspicion.

Lady DeVere's cologne wafted over her, rosy and redolent, tickling her nose and adding to the soprano-induced headache. Freddie groaned inwardly as she felt a sneeze coming on.

A sneeze! Of course!

She didn't do anything so vulgar as actually
a-choo
. A delicate almost-touch of her gloved finger to her upper lip. A not-quite-sniffle, and a less than ladylike fumbling for a handkerchief. None to be found, how unfortunate. Then a slightly louder sniff, drawing the attention of Lady DeVere.

Smiling apologetically, Freddie breathed deeply of the cologne and let the sneeze have its way with her until it finally broke forth, stifled but painfully obvious nonetheless. Her father leaned forward from his front-and-center seat and shot her a glare. Trying to look suitably mortified, she departed the room in a flurry of yellow silk, under the disgruntled eye of the soprano. She hoped Barnabas correctly interpreted the subtle wink she threw him on the way out the door, but as she was trying to muffle another sneeze at the moment he might have mistaken her gesture for an involuntary one.

The hall was blissfully free of guests, and only the pair of upstairs maids were in evidence when Freddie ventured from the room.

“Janet, have you a handkerchief?”

“Of course, miss.” The older of the two young women produced a tidy, starched square of linen, dropping a pretty curtsy as she presented it. “Will there be anything else? If you're feeling ill I could fetch Mrs. Hudson.”

The housekeeper was the last person Freddie cared to see. “No, thank you. Lady DeVere's scent just gave me the sniffles, I'm afraid. I'll listen from out here for a bit.”

“Yes, miss.”

The two disappeared silently, leaving Freddie alone. They'd been listening at the door, obviously, and she felt bad to spoil their treat. She might not enjoy the music herself, but she didn't begrudge anyone else's pleasure from it. Still, better to have them gone. She plied the handkerchief, waiting a few moments to be sure the coast was clear before slipping down the hall to the front parlor. It was lit only by the few remaining embers in the fireplace, and she fumbled at the paneling before finding the catch and easing herself into the priest's hole.

Only afterward did it occur to her she might have just as well used the study door. That was apparently what Smith-Grenville had done while Freddie was working her way along the dimly lit parlor wall. She spied him by her father's desk when she cracked the study wall panel open, and had to keep herself from giggling at the notion of tiptoeing up behind and surprising him. It would have been too easy. In fact she could scarcely avoid it.

“Lord Smith-Grenville,” she whispered. He jumped and spun to face her, which was most gratifying.

“What the—what are you—how? Good
Lord
, Fred, don't sneak up on a fellow like that!”

She should have corrected him for calling her Fred, but she was too busy trying not to giggle at his startled reaction to bother. “You should have seen your face!”

“I thought the jig was up.” He straightened his cravat and tried to look dignified again.

“I believe it's an aria, and no, she's still singing it.” The sound was muffled, but still audible, even this far away and through two closed doors.

“Oh, very droll. Yes, the noise should provide us ample cover, at least.” He returned to his examination of the papers on Mr. Murcheson's desk.

“How did you know I would be here?”

“I didn't. But you mentioned earlier you had a plan that didn't involve leaving the house. When I came out of the salon to inquire after your health, or pitch my woo, or whatever it is a real suitor would likely do in such a case, you weren't there. I considered what I knew of you and this seemed the most likely place to look. Now tell me what exactly we're looking
for
, so we can find it and get back before we're noticed.”

He'd said
we
. Freddie smiled, inordinately pleased at the unexpected sense of camaraderie. “I can't say exactly, but anything related to an undersea station would be a good start. Plans, or some sort of correspondence. Our window of opportunity to search is as least as long as that woman continues singing.”

She moved to the large portrait of her mother, commissioned by Murcheson shortly after their marriage. It always hung on his study wall in his primary residence and had been the first item unpacked when they moved back to London to marry Freddie off. A swag of dark green velvet arched over it, with ornately beaded tassels hanging down on either side.

“It's a good likeness,” Barnabas commented. “A bit impersonal, perhaps. I prefer you smiling.”

“Not of me,” she corrected him. “My mother. I'm told I look just like her, but personally I've never seen it. Oh, where is that catch—ah!” With a push on the concealed latch, the counterweighted tassels dropped slowly to the mantel as the painting rolled up the wall with a faint rattling of chains and gears. A small wall safe was revealed. By the time Freddie was halfway through the combination, Barnabas had abandoned his halfhearted search of the desk and was standing behind her.

“How do you know the combination?”

“I had it from the chap who installed the safe. I was seven or so, and the fool had it written on a scrap of paper. He knew I was watching him, but he must have assumed I was too young to know its importance.”

“I can't believe he left something like that lying about.”

“He didn't,” Freddie confessed. “I nicked it from his coat pocket. I was a very naughty little girl. Here we are.”

She turned the lever, opened the safe, and stared at the contents for several moments memorizing where everything was. Collecting herself too and trying not to crow at the fact that the combination had actually worked. She'd never dared try it before.

“Are we waiting for something good or bad to happen, here?” Barnabas asked over her shoulder.

Freddie turned, startled to find his face only inches from hers. She could feel his breath against her cheek, her lips, a ghost of warmth and a hint of the flavor his mouth might have if she leaned forward and kissed him.

Not that she would do such a thing. Of course not, it would be ridiculous. Absurd. Preposterous.

Even if she
had
dreamed about him the night before. Which she wasn't entirely convinced she had, because she couldn't quite make out the face in her dream. It had been dark. But the rest of him had seemed achingly familiar. In the dream they had been on more than friendly terms.

He was staring at her expectantly.

“Um. Sorry?”

“The safe,” he reminded her. “Are we going to see what's inside?”

“Oh. Of course. I wanted to make sure I knew what it looked like first, so I could put everything back just as it was.”

There wasn't much. A canvas pouch containing a thick stack of notes in varying denominations, and a handful of sovereigns. A velvet box that held a diamond necklace and some other fine pieces that had belonged to Freddie's grandmother—her mother had feuded with her late mother-in-law, so had never worn her jewelry. A few loose documents related to her father's personal finances and the household. And a slim leather portfolio, which Freddie opened to find—

“Pay dirt,” Barnabas whispered near her ear. “Can we go now?”

“What's pay dirt?”

“It's what miners say when they've struck a vein of something good.”

“Oh. We can't go now. We can't take anything with us, we have to look at it here.”

On top of the stack of papers lay a diagram, a carefully inked depiction on foolscap of what appeared to be a submersible. Someone had penciled in a sketch of “whiskers” on the vessel's nose, clearly an array of hydrophonic sensors like the ones Freddie and Barnabas had seen on the smuggler's sub. The drawing's scale, though, suggested that this was quite a small submersible. A mere dozen or so sensor stalks were sketched in, as opposed to the multitude on the larger vessel.

“No wonder he wanted a larger trial vehicle,” she murmured, running a finger along the bracket that indicated the submersible's length. “This is nothing compared to the one we saw. Oh look, the name's on the side. The
Gilded Lily
. That makes sense. It does resemble a lily flower before it's fully opened up, I suppose.”

The tiny sub was roughly bullet-shaped in front, but the flared tail evoked petals, and the propellers could probably be taken for stamens if viewed from a certain angle. Extending the analogy, the tendril-like sensors on its nose resembled roots. The name was apt enough. And if she recalled her father's words correctly, the sub's sensor array was operational, if underscaled. What a shame he apparently planned to scrap it.

“We need to hurry,” Barnabas reminded her.

She ignored him and rifled through the other papers in the stack, spending some time studying a diagram of what appeared to be the sub's main control panel. There were several submersible schematics, and a hasty sketch of what looked like the tunnel entrance they'd seen, but a frustrating lack of correspondence or other useful text. “It would be so much more convenient if there were a neatly labeled file. ‘Top Secret Plans,' or something like that. ‘Steps to Take When Spying on the French or Smugglers, with Helpful Appendices.'”