Queen of Diamonds (16 page)

Browne cleared his throat again. “No. As I said, she told me it was a personal matter. I gave her your address.”

“She never came here. How young?”

“Early twenties, I would guess.”

“Was she a beauty?”

“Definitely.”

“Most likely she was one of Endicott's old amours, then, trying to get money out of him.”

Harry knew he did not like the man.

Rourke set his notes aside without writing. Harry and Browne both released the breaths they had been holding. But then Rourke showed why he had Lord Carde's confidence: he was a bulldog for details. “I thought you explained the club was to be a school for working females, not a finishing academy for young ladies. Why would your widow think charity girls needed French lessons?”

Browne sighed. He'd known this was going to be hard. He also knew who paid his salary. “She suggested giving sewing instructions. The woman is a dressmaker.”

If Rourke had dog ears, they would have perked up. “This is not the same dressmaker who so suddenly and so gainfully employs Miss Hellen Pettigrew, is it?”

Browne had to nod. Then he had to readjust his spectacles.

“Now there is a coincidence to fair send chills up a man's spine: Ize, Miss Pettigrew, and a pretty seamstress who came looking for Jack Endicott, all on the same morning, all connected somehow. Meanwhile the world knows Endicott is searching for a female whose mother was a seamstress, who may have known Ize, who had to have had a friend in London. Molly Godfrey came to town to withdraw money from her bank. We know that, but we never found where she stayed, or who watched the little girl. Hm, I wonder when Mrs. Pettigrew will return to London.”

“I have no idea. She did not say.”

“No matter. A pretty French dressmaker ought to be easy enough to find. You did get her name, did you not?”

Browne pretended to consult his notes. “Madame Denise Lescartes. Perhaps you have heard of her?”

Everyone in London who could read or listen to gossip had heard of her. And her supposed protector. Rourke looked at Lord Harking again. Harry could feel his blasted cheeks grow warm.

“I met her at the club when I called to see Jack Endicott to ask his help finding my brother-in-law. We were schoolmates.”

“Lucky,” Rourke said.

Harry did not think he meant going to classes with Jack. “I think so. The lady is charming.” He emphasized the
lady
.

Rourke was not intimidated. “And yet not quite a lady, if she was seeking employment, or Endicott.”

“Nonsense,” Harry told him. “You are grasping at straws because your case is at an impasse. Madame Lescartes has short, curly black hair. Lady Charlotte was supposed to have straight blond hair.”

“As does that Queenie woman we are looking for now,” Browne put in, lest Rourke accuse him of letting the object of their search slip through his fingers.

Rourke brushed both assertions aside. “Hair can be dyed, cut and curled. Does your friend have blue eyes?” he asked Lord Harking. “That is the one thing that cannot be altered.”

Harry did not answer fast enough. Browne gulped. “Yes. But hers are much prettier than those in the portrait of the child's mother, the previous Lady Carde, or her cousin, the new Mrs. Endicott.”

“I have met Mrs. Endicott, too, and her eyes are surpassing fine, so I would be interested in seeing the Frenchwoman's.”

Not if Harry could help it.

Rourke went on: “No one was quite certain what shade of blue little Lottie's glimmers would turn out to be.”

“Yes, well, Madame has a birthmark near her mouth,” Browne triumphantly added.

Harry did not mention that the enchanting mole was often migratory. He stood to leave. “This is a waste of time, time which would be better spent solving my problem, rather than a decades old disappearance. Madame Lescartes has nothing to do with your inquiry. If she did, she would certainly have come forth as soon as she returned from France.”

“Returned? She is not French, then?”

Harry could have bitten off his tongue, and then wondered why. His
chérie
was an honest woman with nothing to hide. He was positive of that, almost. She did not need his defense. She was a private woman, that was all, he told himself, who did not like speaking about her past.

He himself did not like Rourke and did not wish her subjected to the man's curiosity. “I cannot say where she was born,” he finally answered. She had never said, or anything about her childhood. “But she married a Frenchman.” At least Harry thought she had. “And she studied with a French fashion designer.” Now he felt on firmer ground. “Her name appears with his in a ladies' journal, to prove it.”

“The young woman we are looking for, Queenie Dennis, who may or may not be Lord Carde's half-sister, Lady Charlotte Endicott, could have been anywhere these past months while we searched high and low.”

“Absurd,” Harry declared, ready to dismiss the damned detective from his own inquiry. “There are too many contradictions.”

“There are too many coincidences,” Rourke claimed.

“But…but Madame Lescartes cannot be Queenie Dennis,” Browne said.

“She cannot?” both Rourke and Harry asked.

Browne shook his head. “All the reports from everyone who ever met the young woman say that Miss Dennis is quiet and shy.”

Rourke nodded. “Timid as a church mouse.”

Browne lowered his voice and leaned toward the Runner as if telling a confidence. “Madame Lescartes was the young woman with Lord Harking at the Opera.”

The one who wore half a dress, who defended herself from the mob in the pit with her reticule and her fists and a darning needle, who by all accounts was a brilliant, brazen Amazon in support of her lover?

No, that was not Queenie Dennis. Rourke sighed, defeated.

Chapter Sixteen

Rourke reached for his topcoat. “I still want to speak to her.”

Harry and Browne looked at each other, but it was Harry who asked, “Why?”

“To see what she wanted from Captain Endicott. I do not like loose ends any more than I like coincidences.”

“But Browne told you she said it was a personal matter.”

Rourke shrugged as he put on his coat, which was as well-tailored as Harry's own. “I act for the family.”

“Dealing with a man's former mistress is not a family affair,” Harry insisted, almost choking on the words that labeled the woman he l—liked so much a prostitute. “You will embarrass her.”

“You can't embarrass a whore.”

Now Harry almost choked the Runner. “Denise, that is, Madame Lescartes, is not a whore.”

“Then she wanted something else from the captain other than his money or his affections. I cannot be satisfied until I know why she came to his establishment.”

Harry did not give a damn if the detective was satisfied or not. He knew that Madame Lescartes would not wish to speak with Rourke—hell, Harry did not wish to speak with Rourke—and that was enough for him to try to protect her from the Runner. She never spoke of herself to Harry and they were friends, so she would hate answering a stranger's questions. She said the past made her sorrowful, and so Harry stopped asking. Rourke would not care if she cried.

Another reason Harry wanted to keep Rourke away was that he knew the fiercely independent female, all brave and brazen on the outside, was a coward at heart. She had a mole that moved, and a backbone that bent in the wind.

Harry recalled her hand fluttering on his sleeve at the Cyprian's Ball, her quavering voice, her ashen complexion when one of the choice spirits asked her to dance. She had put starch in her spine and soldiered on, but at a high cost, he knew. No one else knew, because she was that valiant an actress…for a church mouse.

Harry did not understand any of it. Chérie could not be the Endicott heiress, of course, or she would not be struggling to make a living. She would be knocking at the Earl of Carde's door, not dressing old biddies and Birds of Paradise. If she were the Queenie Dennis woman, she could have collected the reward.

What he knew, in his heart if not in his head, was that Madame Denise Lescartes, mysterious past and inconsistent beauty mark aside, was a good woman. She was no harlot, he would swear to that—and her kiss was too inexperienced for a paid paramour. She was good to her employees and caring of the less fortunate, like a lady. This was no opportunist, no adventuress, no underhanded conniver running a rig.

“No,” Harry said. “You cannot see her.”

Rourke stopped in his tracks and eyed Harry with disbelief. “I suppose the woman no longer seeks Mr. Endicott because she found herself a new protector, but to say I cannot see her? You are going to impede an officer of the law to keep your ladybird from answering a few questions?”

Harry could not decide whom he loathed more: his brother-in-law or the man he'd just hired to find him. Rourke made Madame Lescartes seem cheap, dirty. Harry took satisfaction in saying, “No, you cannot see her today because she is spending the afternoon with Lady Jennifer Camden. Daughter of the Duke of Camfield, you know.”

Rourke knew. And he knew that the likes of Queenie Dennis would never be invited to tea at a duke's house. A notorious courtesan might be, since Lady Jennifer was known to be eccentric in her choice of guests, but a common chit from the country with no countenance or connections? Doubtful. Rourke owed his employers a thorough report, however. “I'll wait at the shop for her return, then.”

“That will not do, either. You will destroy her new business and embarrass her customers, some of whom have husbands who vote to fund this very office, or not.”

“Then when?” Rourke asked, showing his impatience. “After you speak with her, and warn her of my coming? I wonder what it is you fear, my lord, that you would hinder my investigation?”

“I worry that you will treat the woman with less respect than she deserves.”

Rourke pushed past Harry. “And your family and friends, my lord, ought to worry that you treat your…dressmaker…with more. I am going to speak with the woman, with your approval or not.”

Harry knew he could not stop the man short of a fistfight, which Harry would lose, surrounded as they were by Rourke's fellow Runners. Browne and his spectacles were not much help. And violence was beneath Harry's dignity, and likely illegal besides.

“Then I am coming too,” he said. If Rourke wanted to think Harry was a jealous lover, so be it. He was not leaving a gentle female to face this hardened inquisitor alone, especially one who dressed well and spoke well and might be considered well-favored by some.

* * *

No one was in the shop except Charlie and Hellen, arguing over the last slice of lemon cake. As soon as the boy saw the Runner, along with Browne and Lord Harking, get out of a hackney carriage, he ran.

“I'll be gettin' more biscuits, then, gov,” he called over his shoulder from halfway down the street. He might just travel to Richmond to fetch the sweets, that's how long Charlie intended to stay away.

The light that shined in Hellen's eyes when she saw Browne faded a bit when she saw Lord Harking come into the shop behind him. Now she and Browne could not steal a moment's privacy before Queenie came back. The light died altogether when she saw the red-vested Runner. She did pour him a cup of tea, though, and offered him one of the gilt chairs placed around the shop's front room, as if her knees were not knocking together beneath her skirts.

“How nice to see you gentlemen,” she started to chatter. “It has been a boring afternoon, with Madame gone. The customers want to meet with her in person,” she explained, although no one asked, “and did not want my opinions about colors or fabrics or styles, which I thought a shame, since I am supposed to be Madame's assistant, although I have no training, of course. They all left when I told them she would not be back until late. So while I could make appointments and see that measurements were taken and fittings were accomplished, I did not have much to do.”

Except eat the cake.

Rourke eyed the empty plate and said, “I would like to ask you a few questions, Miss Pettigrew, if you do not mind.”

“Oh, I know all about the new designs. Do you want a gown for your wife?”

“I am not married, thank you. I want to know if you or your mother are acquainted with a fellow by the name of Ezra Iscoll, commonly known as Ize.”

She looked at Lord Harking, instead of the Runner. “Oh, did you speak with Mr. Ize about your diamonds?”

Rourke answered before Harry could. “I will speak to the man on Lord Harking's behalf, once I find him. Do you know where he lives?”

Hellen knew Ize would kill her and her mother if she peached on him to the law, and yet everyone had seen her talking to the toad at the Cyprian's Ball. “No, I only see him now and again, like at the assembly we all attended. He used to have the most cunning shop, though. Mother and her friends often gathered there to see his latest, ah, finds.”

“And sell their baubles to him?”

Now Hellen looked at Mr. Browne, refusing to deny her mother's profession or her own background. “Is there anything wrong with that?” she asked the Runner. “Trinkets are nice, but a full purse and a full belly mean more.”

Rourke sipped at his tea. Mr. Browne and his lordship looked uncomfortable. Hellen knew she was. Especially when the Runner asked, “Do you know of a Lady Charlotte Endicott?”

Hellen feigned a laugh. She held up her own cup and said, “Of course. Her ladyship and I take tea all the time.”

Rourke frowned, but Browne smiled, so Hellen went on. “Goodness, sir, if I knew aught of the lady I would be beating down your door for the reward money. There cannot be a soul in town what doesn't know about the missing lady.”

“What about Miss Queenie Dennis?”

It was a good thing Hellen had set her cup down, else she would have dropped it. She had sworn to Queenie not to give her away. Her friend had been so good to Hellen, giving her this job, giving her the chance to show John George Browne that she was a decent woman.

And Queenie feared for her very life.

“Her name is on all the posters too, isn't it?” Hellen asked, pasting a smile on her face.

“Everyone knows it is. But I wonder if you and your mother know the woman more personally,” Rourke prodded.

Hellen tried for another laugh. “Information about that female is worth a fortune too, according to your reward notices. Do you think my mother would be traveling north in this cold weather, trying to pry a dowry for me out of my father so's I don't have to make a living on my back, if she had that kind of news to sell?”

Browne was grinning. “Is she? A dowry, you say?”

Lord Harking smiled. “You'd better watch yourself, Browne. Your bachelor days are numbered, it appears.”

Rourke was the only one not amused at Hellen's improved prospects. There were still too many coincidences for his peace of mind. “Very well, then perhaps you can tell me how you met Madame Lescartes? How long ago and where?”

Hellen knew she was not needle-witted enough to make up a convincing story, and then remember it long enough to tell Queenie. She also knew John George was looking at her with love in his eyes. He could not marry a whore's bastard, but a baron's illegitimate daughter with a dowry and a respectable position, now that was a more suitable match for a schoolmaster. Mr. Browne's innkeeper parents would approve—if she were not in jail for lying to the Bow Street Runner.

So Hellen did the only thing she could think of: she spilled her tea in her lap.

She jumped up, screaming. “Oh, no! Madame Lescartes will strangle me! Worse, she will dismiss me!” She started crying, while Browne leaped to fetch napkins and Lord Harking reached for his handkerchief.

“She would not—”

“I have ruined another of her pretty gowns!” Hellen sobbed, ignoring their assistance and reassurance as she ran from the room, holding her sodden gown away from her. “I will lose my position and be out on the streets if I cannot remove the stain!”

The men heard her feet pounding down the hall, then up the stairs to the living quarters.

“Should I follow?” Browne wondered.

“Can you remove tea stains?”

Browne poured them more of the brew instead, and Rourke added a bit of spirits from the flask in his pocket to each of their cups.

“Drinking while on duty?” Harry asked, one brow raised.

“A woman's tears go above and beyond the call of duty, and sure as hell require more than tea.”

They all raised their cups to that.

* * *

“Just look at us now,” Queenie told her dog, who had been lavishly petted and amply fed in her hostess's kitchens. “Being driven in a duke's own carriage, with a crest on the door, no less.”

Parfait could barely wag his tail, he was so full of the French chef's delicacies.

“And being driven home,” Queenie went on as if the dog understood, “to our own profitable business. Who would have thought we could come so far?”

Surely not the dog, who went back to looking out the window.

And surely not Molly, even though she had not thought the village children good enough for her little girl. Queenie thought Molly would be horrified that she was socializing with the unworthy aristocracy. Molly never trusted any strangers, and some of Lady Jennifer's guests were strange indeed.

Then again, Molly trusted men least of all. She would be appalled that Queenie was thinking of when she could tell Lord Harking about her visit, her easy acceptance, the plans for the school. Sharing her exciting news with Harry would make the day that much better, in a way Molly would never understand. Queenie barely understood it herself, since she had never wanted to share her thoughts with anyone.

Harry was different. He was strong and capable, yet kind and gentle. He was silly and serious and he would surely break her heart, but he was—

Waiting for her at the shop.

As the carriage turned down her street Queenie could see the glow of the lamps that were lighted against the early dusk. Her lamps. Her shop. Her success. “Wake up, Parfait. We are nearly home.”

Then, as the coach drew to a stop, she could see an unmistakable, broad-shouldered figure outlined behind the mannequin in the store's window. Her friend. Her admirer. Her Harry.

Her heart was not shattered yet, so it warmed at the thought of spending the evening in his company. Queenie nearly tripped over the dog in her hurry to get out of the carriage when the groom let down the steps.

But Harry was not alone. Browne was there, looking pale and rattled and swaying on his feet. If Queenie did not know that there was nothing in the shop stronger than Madeira, she would think he was drunk. Another man had also stood when she hurried through the doorway. Parfait was stiff-legged, sniffing him suspiciously, a low growl rumbling in the poodle's throat.

A moan was rising in Queenie's. The man was wearing the red waistcoat of Bow Street.

Harry made the introductions and Mr. Geoffrey Rourke murmured the appropriate words. So did Queenie, she hoped, after calling the dog to her side. Then she said, “I see you took Mr. Browne's advice and consulted an expert at capturing criminals, my lord.”

“Yes, but Rourke has a few questions he would like to put to you, my dear. Do you mind?”

“Of course not, but…Where is Hellen? And Charlie?”

“Charlie went out to fetch more refreshments,” Harry said, his lips quirked in a half smile. “An hour ago. I doubt he will return any time soon. Are you hungry? I could find another lad to—”

“Oh, no. I ate enough at Lady Jennifer's to last until tomorrow morning. She has the most remarkable French chef. But what of Hellen? Surely she did not go with Charlie, leaving the shop unattended.”