A Dangerous Madness (25 page)

“And who is this, Tom?” Wittaker’s chef turned to face her, and she had the impression of a fierce personality and a great deal of passion.

“This is Miss Hillier, Mister Bisset.” Tom gave the chef a cocky grin and explained no further.

“
Enchanté
.” Bisset bent over her hand, and Phoebe had no choice but to curtsey in return. She could feel the heat of embarrassment rising up her neck to her cheeks. Even if society thought her ruined, she couldn’t help the feeling of exposure at being caught breaking the rules.

“The back door again. His Grace has something very mysterious going on.” Bisset looked at her thoughtfully, but there was no judgement in his eyes.

Phoebe pretended not to hear that. “My pleasure to meet you.”

“This is my dear friend, Miss Barrington.” Bisset indicated the woman standing at his side, and Phoebe looked up in shock.

“Miss Barrington.” She nodded her head, trying to pretend she didn’t know who the woman was. Which of course was ridiculous, because a month ago the whole of London was talking of Miss Barrington’s engagement to Lord Aldridge.

“Will His Grace be joining us?” Miss Barrington asked her.

“Not for some time.” Phoebe thought wistfully of his race across London after whoever it was he had found of interest in the coffee house. She would love to be with him, rather than trapped in this situation that was becoming more embarrassing by the moment.

What was Lord Aldridge’s fiancé doing in the Duke of Wittaker’s kitchens?

“I can see you are as at sea about my presence here as we are about yours, Miss Hillier.” Miss Barrington suddenly smiled at her, and it turned what was a beautiful face into an enchanting one. “Georges, I’ll take Miss Hillier to the library, and you can bring us some tea and cake.”

“
Bien
.” Bisset looked at Miss Barrington with affection and with a sweep of his arm, indicated they proceed.

Phoebe had taken only a few steps before Georges called out to them.

“Wait. Miss Hillier. Did you attend the Prince Regent’s dinner last night?”

Phoebe turned, struggling to keep her face neutral. Had they heard the gossip from the dinner already?

She nodded cautiously.

“Can you remember what was served for dessert?”

Phoebe was so surprised, she opened her mouth, closed it again, and then frowned. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bisset, but I can’t remember, which is strange. Dessert is my favorite part of the meal.”

“It is nothing.” Bisset gave a forgiving flourish of his hand, but he was smirking. “I had heard from His Grace it wasn’t very memorable. Not everyone can be Georges Bisset,
n’est pas
?”

Phoebe let herself be led out of the kitchen and through a long hallway to a library that must be at least twice the size of her own.

A man appeared in the doorway after they’d entered. He looked forbidding, but Miss Barrington merely smiled at him.

“Good morning, Harding, or is it afternoon yet? Miss Hillier and I will take some tea here.”

Tom had accompanied them in, but now he bowed and walked out of the room, forcing the butler to give way and then follow him out with his mouth in a thin, disapproving line. She wondered what explanation Tom was giving him.

“Harding is all right. Just a little stuck in his ways. Things haven’t been the same in this house since Georges was hired and I think he’s still recovering.” Miss Barrington was watching her with interest, but it wasn’t the unfriendly, aggressive stares she was used to at the balls she usually attended, and she relaxed a little.

Since society’s new darling was being so forthright, and since she no longer had much to lose, Phoebe decided to be forthright herself.

“May I ask how you know so much about this household?” She didn’t believe Miss Barrington was Wittaker’s lover. He would never have sent her to his house if he thought there was any chance they would meet, and she didn’t think he would have taken her up on her offer if he had a woman like Miss Barrington in his life already. There was something about her that said she would take up every corner of a person’s life and fill it completely.

Miss Barrington gave a small smile. “I don’t have many friends, especially not in London, but Georges Bisset is one of them. I visit him often, and in the process, I have learned a great deal about this household. About Wittaker, I know considerably less.”

Phoebe tried to align what she knew about Miss Barrington with the information that her best friend was a chef. “Your fiancé doesn’t mind your visits?”

Miss Barrington gave a low chuckle. “He does mind. But he’s wise enough to keep that to himself. And that’s most likely because he knows any objection he has has its basis in unfounded jealousy, and is therefore ridiculous.”

She had led them to a comfortable arrangement of chairs, but Phoebe turned away from it and walked to the shelves lining two whole walls of the room to look at the books.

“Would you consider telling me your story?” Miss Barrington asked from behind her. “I have to say that I have had a very soft spot for the Duke of Wittaker since I met him earlier this year. He was a great help to me, and I wish to see him happy.”

Phoebe turned at her words. “I wish to see him happy, too. So we are aligned in that.”

Miss Barrington gave a nod, and walked over to join her. “Are you the Miss Hillier who is engaged to Lord Sheldrake? I suppose you must be, if you received an invitation to dine with the Prince Regent last night.”

Phoebe should have known she would not be completely unknown. Gossip and ill-will had followed her ever since she had come out in society when her father had become a baronet. “I was betrothed to him.” She thought of merely saying he was now dead, but something rose up in her, a refusal to deny what had happened. “He broke off the betrothal on Sunday evening. He was killed on Tuesday.”

Miss Barrington’s gaze snapped to hers in shock. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She touched Phoebe’s arm lightly. “I imagine this is a hard time for you.”

The door opened and Harding brought in a tray with tea and piled high with cakes on an intricate, three tiered cake stand.

They both murmured their thanks and then realized Harding was going to stand there until they took their seats, so they gave in to the inevitable.

“We’ll pour for ourselves, thank you, Harding,” Miss Barrington told him, and he left reluctantly. Phoebe wondered if he thought they were going to steal the silver spoons.

When he was gone, Miss Barrington fussed with the teapot. “I’m usually a better companion. I’m sorry I didn’t know about Sheldrake and no doubt caused you pain asking after him.”

Phoebe hunched a little in her chair. “It is the high topic of conversation at the moment in the ton.”

“I’m sure it is.” The way Miss Barrington spoke, Phoebe had the impression of dry sarcasm, and relaxed a little more.

“I’m surprised we haven’t met already,” Phoebe waited until she had a cup of tea before she spoke again. “We must surely have been at some of the same balls.”

Miss Barrington shook her head. “My father died in February, and I’ve been in mourning. I haven’t socialized since I returned to England, except for some private dinners.”

“Oh.” Phoebe frowned. “But haven’t you recently become betrothed to Lord Aldridge?”

Miss Barrington looked down at her cup. “Lord Aldridge lives a few doors from me, and his family and mine have known each other since before I was born.”

There must be considerably more to it than that, judging from the way she spoke, but Phoebe did not pry any further. She had already overstepped the bounds of politeness with her questions.

“What will you do now,” Miss Barrington asked after a moment of silence, and Phoebe knew she meant now that Sheldrake had ruined her.

She shrugged. “I have a few plans. After last night’s dinner, I’m quite aware none of them should include being part of the ton any longer.”

“That bad?”

She shrugged again. “I’m more lucky than most. I don’t need money. I didn’t even like the demands of the Season, if I’m honest, so no longer attending the balls and parties will be a relief. But it feels like I don’t fit anywhere. My mother’s family is mostly gone. My grandfather sold his manufacturing works when he retired, because my mother was his only grandchild. And I’m untouchable now amongst my father’s circle. If I get a proposal of marriage from that quarter, it will be for my money, and I’ll be expected to be grateful. I’d rather forgo that altogether.”

She hadn’t sounded bitter. To her relief, she realized she didn’t feel it, either. She’d sounded matter-of-fact. But she hadn’t meant to reveal so much.

“I think you will like a friend of mine. Lady Durnham.” Miss Barrington fiddled with a tiny petit four iced in brilliant green, with gold-leaf on top. It looked too beautiful to eat. “She dislikes the Season as well, and her husband positively abhors it. I think it would be a most pleasant evening if I invited you and His Grace to dinner, with Lord and Lady Durnham, and Lord Aldridge.” She popped the petit four in her mouth and frowned. “He’s done something to this. I can’t quite…” Her eyes sparked. “Cardamom. Delicious.”

Phoebe stared at her and she laughed.

“Don’t mind me, Miss Hillier, Georges is always out-doing himself, is all.” She stood. “My carriage is waiting for me, and I have to be off. But I will send you an invitation within the next few days.”

Phoebe stood as well. “Thank you. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“And will I see you again here?” Miss Barrington asked, curiosity in the tilt of her head.

Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t think so. His Grace and I are involved in…something. My visit today is unusual.”

“You are mixed up in the investigation into Perceval’s death?” Miss Barrington had gone still. “I knew Wittaker had been drawn into it, Jonathan told me he was, but you’re in it as well.”

Phoebe didn’t know how to respond.

Miss Barrington shook her head. “Don’t worry. I know all about keeping quiet. I’m sure you can’t discuss it. But…how interesting!” She gave Phoebe another of her blinding smiles. “Well, good luck, Miss Hillier, and what a pleasure to have met you.”

She left the room on a wave of subtle perfume and a swish of silk skirts, and Phoebe sank slowly down into her chair.

Then she reached out, and took a brilliant green petit four with a gold-leaf flower on it from the tray.

Chapter Thirty-three

W
ilson began to get twitchy again somewhere near Mayfair. James guessed he must be getting close to his destination.

He found it handy that the merchant was heading in the direction of his own home, but the deeper they got into the most exclusive, expensive enclave of London, the more dread weighed him down.

This was not going to end well.

He wondered which of his acquaintances had plotted to kill the prime minister.

Wilson took a final, furtive look over his shoulder and ran up some stairs to a black door set between two Grecian columns in a well-proportioned town house. He was granted access after a minute of waiting on the doorstep, fidgeting as he cooled his heels and looking up and down the street.

James waited until Wilson was admitted, and then walked up the narrow access lane between the house and its neighbor to the back door.

He could find out later from Dervish who this house belonged to, but if he could find out now, so much the better. He had little to lose while he waited for Wilson to re-emerge.

The kitchen door was down a narrow, slightly slimy set of stairs on the basement level, and it was propped open with a half-brick.

“Hello?” He knocked and poked his head in.

A girl was sitting at a table peeling carrots, and she jumped up and came towards him.

“Yes?” Her fingers were stained orange from her task, and she rubbed them against the gray apron she wore over her skirts. She looked thin, and very young.

“I’m from the papers,” James said. The clothes he’d worn today would cover journalist well enough. “Got a guinea or two for some information on what happened when the prime minister was shot.” He pulled out two coins and extended his palm. At worst, she could tell him she didn’t know what he was talking about and he could pretend to have come to the wrong house.

The girl looked at the guineas longingly. “What would the papers want with questioning the staff? You don’t know I’ve got anything to say.”

James winked. “My boss is interested in anything he can get. Good or bad. Whatever you’re comfortable saying. You’ll go down as an anonymous source.” He proffered the money to her, and she covered his palm with her own, and slid the coins off. She crouched and forced them into the hem of her skirt. “In case Mr. Hartley searches my pockets,” she said, and gave him a cheeky grin. “He could come in at any time.”

He gave a nod.

She lowered her voice. “All I heard was that General Gascoyne were a right hero. Saved the day. And from that mad man that came round here a couple months back.”

“Bellingham came here?” James had read in the transcript that Bellingham had met with Gascoyne, that’s how the MP had recognized him at the scene of the crime, but he’d thought it was to his offices in Liverpool, or London, not his home.