Sheri Cobb South (27 page)

Indeed, such was the uproar surrounding the trial that it seemed as if the whole of London was crammed into the Old Bailey for the grand finale. One person, however, was conspicuously absent: in vain did Pickett search the crowd for a glimpse of Lady Fieldhurst. The only representative of the Fieldhurst clan was the new viscount—taking notes, no doubt, in preparation for his own trial for bigamy. Pickett could have set his mind at ease; such cases were rarely prosecuted, and it was unlikely that a jury of peers, many of whom had likewise made loveless marriages to appease their families, would bring in a conviction against a man they no doubt envied for finding a way to eat his cake and have it, too. Caroline Bertram, in the meantime, had left London altogether; rumor had it that she had buried herself in the wilds of Cornwall.

Camille de la Rochefort was less fortunate. She was found guilty of the murder of her lover, the Viscount Fieldhurst, and sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. As she had so confidently predicted, she would soon be reunited with her lover. Pickett hoped she would nag him mercilessly for all eternity.

Ironically, now that the quest that had consumed his every waking moment had come to so successful a conclusion, Pickett was strangely blue-devilled. He lingered in the courtroom until the last of the crowd had dispersed, and he could no longer convince himself that he might yet spy her ladyship among the fashionables making their exits. At last, with the sigh of one reluctantly abandoning a forlorn hope, he made his way through the narrow door of the bail dock and into the street. As he stepped out of the shadow of the massive building and into the sunshine, a hand fell heavily on his shoulder. He turned and saw Mr. Colquhoun, puffing slightly from the effort of catching up with the much younger man.

“Well, Pickett, what did I tell you?” asked the magistrate, falling into step beside him. “Lovers’ triangle, crime of passion—I said so all along.”

The twinkle in the magistrate’s eyes robbed the words of any arrogance, and Pickett’s lips twitched in spite of his melancholy.

“Indeed, you did, sir.”

“Now, about that reward money—

Pickett shook his head. “I’m not interested in the money.”

“Just as well, for you’ll not be getting any,” said the magistrate with his usual candor. “I’m afraid the Foreign Office does not love you, John.”

“I don’t doubt it, after I burst in like a raving lunatic, accusing everyone and his Aunt Charlotte of espionage—or worse.”

“Actually, you were far too close to the truth for their liking. Mr. Canning and his cronies probably guessed the truth as soon as they learned of the circumstances surrounding Lord Fieldhurst’s death. But they were hoping to retain Mademoiselle de la Rochefort’s services—her political services, that is; I can’t speak for her personal ones—and you posed a threat. In fact, you robbed the Foreign Office of one of its most valued agents—for which they do not thank you.”

“Could a woman in her position really know so much?” asked Pickett, somewhat taken aback by this revelation.

“Not military secrets, no. But she maintained ties in France, friends and family members who lay low during the Terror and later aligned themselves with Bonaparte. The most trivial scrap of court gossip can yield volumes to those who know what to look for. And now,” he added, jerking a thumb in the direction of the Magpie and Stump across the road, “I could do with a spot of tea—or maybe something a bit stronger. Will you join me?”

“Thank you, sir, I will.”

As they neared the pub, Pickett reached into the pocket of his good black coat for his stocking purse, but the scrap of fabric he withdrew held no coins within its folds. It was a lacy square of finest lawn, embroidered with the ancient crest of a noble house picked out in blue and silver threads.

He recognized it at once, but it took him a moment to think how it came to be in the pocket of his best coat. It was on the night of the murder, the night he had first seen Lady Fieldhurst. He had removed the handkerchief from the face of her dead husband and, distracted by the lady’s beauty, stuffed it into his pocket, where he had promptly forgotten all about it. He should return it to her at once.

On second thought, no, he would not. Her ladyship was now carrying the black-bordered handkerchiefs of the recent widow, and would not need this one for some time yet. He would keep it for now, and someday, when the temptation to see her became too great to resist, he would call in Kensington and place it in her hands himself. Until then, he would be patient.

He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket with a much lighter heart. He would see her again, and that was enough—for now.

Copyright © 2006 by Sheri Cobb South

Originally published by Five Star (1594143700)

Electronically published in 2011 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.