Secret Letters (6 page)

If I had not already been interested in his past, those instructions would undoubtedly have sparked my curiosity, for his apprenticeship and manner were not the only remarkable thing about him. I glanced at his collar, remembering the cross-shaped scar that I had seen when we first met. Its shape and depth was that of a deliberate injury, and yet the location of the cut was quite unusual. Self-inflicted gashes are usually closer to an artery or a vein, to ensure maximum blood loss, while neck wounds from an attacker are typically located near the jawline, a straight slash beneath the chin made while seizing the victim’s head. This one was different; it was its own story, a crimson brand, his tiny, livid secret. He saw my puzzled look and followed the direction of my eyes. His cheeks flushed scarlet, one hand traveled halfway to his collar as if by instinct. I quickly turned my head and focused on the window, but he had already risen and walked away from me. “Good day, Miss Joyce,” he told me shortly. “I trust your cousin will forgive you for this last infraction.”

I grabbed my purse and joined him by the door. “I slipped away when she was out.”

“Well, then you’d best be going now, before she realizes that you’re missing. Otherwise you won’t be able to come back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! But—”

“At half past two. Mr. Porter will be out.”

“But—I—”

“Oh, and if, by chance, I haven’t yet returned,” he added with a little smile, “please try to wait for me in the study, on the sofa, like a normal girl. Not beneath my bed, or inside the chimney, or hanging like a kitten from the curtains.
Please
.”

A
DELAIDE WAS NOT
at home when I returned, and so I was able to greet her innocently at dinner. Cook had let me in the servants’ entrance and had stared pointedly at my muddy boots before nodding me upstairs. Though she knew that my three-hour absence and my dirty boots were not the result of a “little stroll” across the street as I had claimed, I knew about the “extras” that the cook purchased every week, bits of candle, fat, and sugar that she later sold in secret by the tradesmen’s door. Cook would never reveal my secrets out of fear that I would respond in kind.

Adelaide and I had a peaceful dinner with no further mention of my returning home, which I hoped meant that the subject would remain closed. Even so, I was no longer certain about my role in London or in this investigation. Cartwright and Porter would be taking over now; they were at Hartfield Hall already. Perhaps they would solve the case that very day, and I would hear about it in a letter, or through my cousin. Who was I that they should include me in their adventure? I was a child who made startling observations, who occasionally terrified her relatives and frequently flouted every decent rule. But most importantly, I was a
girl
.

And yet—he had asked me to come back. Perhaps that meant something after all.

I retired early that night, but I found that I could not sleep, for our final conversation played over and again in my imagination. Why had he asked me to come back—
again
? What exactly did he want of me? Did he wish to see me because I stimulated him, because I challenged him? I had always thought that young men hated that quality in a lady. I edged over to the dresser mirror and studied my reflection in the glass. Surely it had to be my mind that had charmed him, and nothing else. I was so slight and simple, after all, my cheeks so thin and pale. If I smiled just right, there was a sweet, coy glitter in my eyes, and if I held my breath, my figure rounded out a little—almost like a woman’s, but not quite. And that hair, the wayward coiling curls, that mass of fog around my forehead—my hair did not improve the picture. I pulled the covers around my shoulders and sank back into my pillow. It
had
to be my mind, I decided finally. There could be no other explanation.

I ought to have been proud of the distinction, of being recognized for my intelligence. That was what I’d worked for all this time. I wanted to be proud, to fall easily asleep with this new confidence wrapped tight around me. But somehow, I could not manage it. It was not a fitting thought, perhaps, especially for the daughter of the great detective, but I couldn’t help wishing that just once I could be seen as more than a useful brain.

The following morning, I was hovering by the fireplace like a nervous sentry, waiting desperately for my cousin to declare her schedule for the day. I was hoping she would announce a shopping trip, a stroll across the park, or perhaps another social call; I could refuse any of those plans, and they would take Adelaide from the house and leave me free. It was not until our lunch was finished and she had settled into her armchair by the fire with a book of poetry that I realized that my window for escape had completely vanished. I shrank miserably into the sofa and tried to read her thoughts. She could not possibly intend to sit there for the entire afternoon; it was her second day in London. The Season had already started, and there were shops to visit, people to meet in drawing rooms. What was she
doing
?

Already it was two o’clock, my appointment with Cartwright was drawing near, and still she had not moved. I watched her flip, flip, flip those pages, counted clock strokes, and gnawed the lace around my sleeve. She wasn’t planning to go anywhere; that was obvious. This was my last chance to see Peter, and there was nothing I could do.

I did not hear Cook enter, I was too busy being furious. She shuffled for a bit and cleared her throat. Adelaide looked up at her, and Cook glanced slyly at me before she spoke. “Lady Forrester, I was wondering if you wanted soup this evening. Or will you be going out?”

“No, I had no plans today.” My cousin shrugged. “You may put the soup up, if you like.”

I suddenly hated soup. Poetry, too, and downy armchairs, and fires, and London. I glared my feelings at our servant. She winked quietly at me and then turned back to Adelaide. “I’ve just heard of a new milliner’s shop in Knightsbridge. Supposed to be the latest styles from Paris, better than Fineman’s here on Oxford Street. Today is opening day, ma’am.”

“That sounds rather interesting,” Adelaide responded, thumbing through her volume. “Perhaps I’ll take a look. Knightsbridge is not so very far. Dora, what do you say?”

“Well, you ought to go, surely. Your riding hat is just a fright. But I have a little headache, so I think I’ll stay in today.”

My cousin shrugged and slid lazily off the chair. “I will be back for supper, then. Why don’t you try Dr. Brown’s elixir? It is just the thing for headaches. You will find it on my dresser.”

“Certainly, Adelaide,” I breathed and scurried off to fetch it.

My cousin took an age to dress, and it was nearly half past two when she was ready to leave the house. In the meantime, I had thrown a little jacket over my walking dress and had styled my own coiffure (a snaky bun with fifteen little pins to keep the curls down); but it did not matter that it sagged a bit, for when the door shut behind her, I knew that I was finally free.

As I flew through the servants’ entrance, Cook grinned at me and waved me on my way. “Thank you,” I called to her. “I won’t forget this!” That woman could sell the entire kitchen for all I cared; I would never breathe a word.

I was at Cartwright’s flat in little less than a quarter of an hour. A cab was hardly necessary: it was only several blocks away, and I ran the distance. I wish now that I had been less eager in my entry, for I practically barreled through his door. He was lounging on the sofa when I entered, his long legs stretched out before the fire, a tent of newspapers covering his eyes. As I came in, the sheets slid off; he pushed himself forward on his elbows and regarded my breathless, glowing face with some amusement.

“All right, Miss Joyce, I missed you too,” he smiled. “Won’t you sit down?”

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror on the mantelpiece and sank into the chair in mute embarrassment. My cheeks were shining from a thin film of perspiration that extended to my collar, and my hair had blown into a cloud of charcoal dust beneath my hat. There was a streak of something inky across my brow. I looked like I had rolled across the city.

“It was hard to get away. You needn’t laugh,” I gasped out angrily.

“Well, well, I’m sorry. A drink of water, maybe? You look a little—gray.”

“No, thank you, I don’t know how long I’ve got.” I paused for a moment and took a ragged breath. “And this is certainly my final trip. Please just tell me what you found at Hartfield.”

“Your final trip? You do not mean that, surely?” His tone was light and playful, but there was a glimmering of something else behind the sea-green depths—a silent question. “Why, then we must speak of pleasant things, Miss Joyce. Music, maybe, your favorite books, the weather? Let’s not spoil this moment with talk about kidnapped daughters and other scandals.”

“Then—you believe that she was kidnapped? Truly? Oh, you must tell me, please!”

He heaved a dramatic sigh and leaned back against the cushion. “I suppose you’ll want to hear all the details, what everyone was wearing, the color of the curtains, the size of the salon—oh, stop frowning, and I will tell you everything from the beginning.”

I folded my hands patiently and watched him with suspicious eyes. There was still something goading and deceptive in his look, like that of a child extending sweets which he intends to snatch away.

He shook his head at my expression, gave another sigh and began his statement. “We arrived at Hartfield Hall yesterday evening and were instructed to wait for Her Ladyship in the drawing room. Porter and I were both disguised as workmen, come to consult on alterations to Lady Rose’s bedroom. I was dressed in a
very
fetching number, brown plaid with patches at the elbow, and my colleague was all in gray, with a red scarf for accent. The room was
simply stunning
, Miss Joyce, for it was decorated in the Oriental fashion, but with a curious assortment of English antiques.” His voice had risen to a comic pitch during this description; his mocking falsetto tone resembled a chirping schoolgirl’s. “Oh, and next to the piano there was a charming little Ming vase which I was simply mad over—All right, where are you going?”

I had risen to my feet and grabbed my purse. “I am going home. You clearly do not need me here, and I am tired of being treated like a funny pet. Good day, sir.”

He leaned forward, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me down into my chair again. “I’ll stop, I promise. Please don’t go.”

“Then tell me only what you would tell a male colleague. In your regular voice, please.”

He cleared his throat and began again, hesitantly this time, but in his natural low, soft murmur. “A portrait of the missing Lady Rose smiled at us from over the fireplace—a duplicate of the one that the earl had given us. I was studying it when the door opened to admit the lady of the house and her stepson, Lord Victor.

“Lady Hartfield was quite handsome, petite and blond, with the same clear eyes as the ones that gazed upon us from her daughter’s portrait. Her face was pale and composed, but there was a tightness to her lips and a tense alertness in her posture that expressed her cautious pride. She smiled as she glanced over our workmen’s attire and thanked us both for coming in disguise and for the effort we had made to preserve their privacy—”

“One moment,” I interrupted. “Would you mind telling me exactly what everyone said? It’s more accurate than a summary.”

He raised his eyebrows and laughed quietly. “Just as you wish, sergeant,” he murmured. “Let’s see, I believe Lord Victor spoke next, and he echoed his stepmother.‘I admit that I was opposed to calling in a detective at this sensitive time,’ he said, ‘but my father has assured us that you have pledged to locate my sister quietly and without causing any scandal.’

“Lady Hartfield smiled and nodded approvingly. ‘My son expresses our concerns exactly. I would be devastated if any harm were to come to my daughter, but I recognize that she has brought this on herself. As a mother, I must also consider her brother’s future and recognize how his sister’s shame will affect his happiness.’

“The son murmured his agreement. They were an interesting contrast, sitting there next to each other, nodding almost in unison. She was fair and small; he had a swarthy complexion, a thick mane of black curls, and deep-set dark eyes.

“‘I assume you wish to question me about the meeting I observed between my sister and the gentleman in the garden,’ remarked Lord Victor after a short silence.

“‘I would like to hear your account, of course,’ Mr. Porter replied.

“‘I wish I could give you a more detailed description of the man, but I only saw them from my bedroom window, and that is some distance from the garden. I realize now that I should have paid more attention, but at the time I thought she was simply speaking to some visitor of my mother’s, and I did not think to question it. The interview was a long one, though, for when I looked out again nearly half an hour later, they were still there.’

“‘You did not mention the incident to anyone?’

“‘Not until she went missing, no. I hadn’t attached any significance to the meeting. My sister was such a quiet sort that it never occurred to me that she might have a lover.’

“‘I assume that you have not received any message from her since she left?’

“Lady Hartfield shook her head with a wounded air. ‘I wonder that she has not written to us, to at least ease our minds. We have had our differences, it is true, but I would not have imagined that she would have been so unkind.’

“‘Has an inquiry been made with your daughter’s friends?’ “‘I myself have paid social calls to the families of the young women she was close to. In each home I learned that no one has heard from her in several weeks. I also discreetly questioned her servants, to learn if they had observed any unusual activity around her disappearance. Her lady’s maid was quite surprised that a sudden trip took place without her knowledge and attendance, but, thankfully, she is not over bright and did not question the situation too closely. She did not mention anything out of the ordinary.’

“‘May we examine your daughter’s room?’

“‘Of course. I will be happy to show you upstairs.’

“Lady Rose’s bedroom was situated to the left of the winding staircase on the second story of the great house,” Cartwright continued. “Behind me, I caught a glimpse of a lavishly furnished dining room, about which several housemaids and footmen were milling, setting the long table with crystal glasses and gleaming silver.

“As we were ascending, one of the servants called his master’s name, and Lord Victor left us with a promise to return if he was needed.”