Lady Meets Her Match (24 page)

And the diverting black silk-wrapped queue settled down the middle of his back, a thick coil she wanted to unravel. Beside her, blue silk rustled, the fan moving languidly.

“You know you ought to consider playing a little hard to get.” Lady Foster's voice hit droll notes.

Claire's cheeks flushed with warmth. She brushed her palms across her frothy red skirt and gave her attention to the tapestry, stifling a wicked smile. If the lady only knew…

Lucinda raised her voice enough to be heard around the room. “Ladies, we shall convene our meeting in a few moments.”

The women gathered in the circular array of chairs and settees while footmen began to place pastries on dishes. Silver forks glinted on fine china plates, and conversation sprinkled the room, part of the meeting's preamble.

Lady Foster took the seat beside Claire, whispering behind her fan. “Prepare yourself.”

The frowning Duchess of Marlborough claimed the red settee angled close by, arranging dove-gray-and-yellow skirts with a harsh eye on Claire. Her Grace's hip roll allowed only her plumpish friend, Lady Sheffield, to share the settee.

Bad winds were stirring, turning the afternoon's smooth sailing stormy.

Claire tried to remember the proper comportment for drawing rooms, crossing her feet at the ankles, sitting tall, and linking her fingers in her lap. Lady Foster gave the barest nod of approval before shutting her fan to accept a coffee.

“Miss Mayhew, how delightful to have you in our midst.” Pearl hairpins glowed like tiny moons in Her Grace's graying ginger hair. “What you shared earlier about unfortunate women in need was most informative. Yet I can't help but wonder about you.”

“
Me
, Your Grace?”

“Yes. In particular, why a woman would pursue the life of a shop proprietress over marriage. I daresay an appropriate marriage.”

Did
her
marital
status
fall
under
the
purview
of
the duchess?

Claire waved off a footman's offer of coffee, and said, “I may marry someday, Your Grace, but for now I like living by the labor of my hands. I always have. There's satisfaction in it.”

“You
en-joy
making coffee?” Lady Sheffield gasped.

“Not only do I enjoy making it, but I
enjoy
making pastries and jams and jellies.”

Did Lady Foster smirk in her cup when Claire emphasized enjoy?

“Miss Mayhew was gracious to bring the pastries we're about to enjoy,” Lucinda said, balancing her cup. “My brother has taken me to her wonderful coffee shop in Cornhill.”

Lady Sheffield's subtle hiss of censure couldn't match the duchess's silent condemnation.

“Someone should counsel your brother about that,” Lady Sheffield advised. “But without a motherly influence, one can only guess what social misfortunes a young woman might fall into.”

The sweetly daft Lady Millicent Seabright took the chair beside Lucinda, nodding her agreement. “A young, unmarried woman roaming London…it simply isn't done, my dear.”

At the mention of young ladies, Claire looked to Her Grace's daughter, Lady Elizabeth Churchill, still chatting on the other end of the drawing room. She felt sorry for the cloud of rules and disapproval the young woman must live under.

Lady Seabright peered at Claire over her coffee cup. “Did you say you make pastries
and
jams and jellies?”

“Yes, my lady, I hope to sell my rose petal jellies to Fortnum and Mason's grocery here in Piccadilly.”

“Oh, I do love a good rose petal jelly.” Lady Seabright inched forward. “It is so hard to find a cook capable of mastering the delicate flavors.”

“If you send a footman by my shop, I'll be glad to return him to you with a small jar free of charge.”

“Thank you, Miss Mayhew, I shall indeed.”

“Millicent,” the duchess scolded. “You are ruled far too much by your appetites.”

With that, the other ladies ducked into their coffee, if only to avoid Her Grace's censure.

The footmen began serving the plated pastries. Claire rubbed one of the flowered patterns on her skirt, a satisfied smile forming. Fine food ought to keep the waspish duchess silent; if not, glowing compliments from the other ladies would drown her out.

The duchess opened her fan. “And where, pray tell, did you develop your jelly-making skills?”

“I come from Greenwich, Your Grace.”

“A Mayhew from Greenwich?” The yellow fan rested near thin lips. “I've heard tell of a certain Mayhew of Greenwich, an adventuress of sorts. A crass social climber who seduced the now-departed Lord Jonathan, heir to the earldom. Would you know of her?”

A chill touched Claire's scalp. Her Grace unloosed cannon shots with her words, and Claire was the target.

“I don't, Your Grace.” Her mouth turned dry on the half-truth.

“I thought you might know her since you strike me as a woman of…relaxed morals.”

Collective gasps filled their small circle. Her Grace sat at the pinnacle of Society, with undisputed power. Who would cross her in defense of a coffee shop proprietress? The duchess's eyes narrowed on Claire, pale brown bayonets ready to eviscerate her from head to toe.

Across the room, disaster of another kind landed.

Dishes smashed to the floor. Four ladies gagged and choked. Finely coiffed heads bent low, bobbing and straining in an effort to expel something. Lucinda jumped out of her seat, spilling coffee.

“Get buckets and linens quickly,” she ordered the footmen.

The gentle luncheon took a sudden, violent turn. Remnants of dishes and mashed pastries littered the floor. Miss Alcott heaved, her hands at her throat. Another lady retched into her serviette.

The pastries served for dessert…

“Please!” someone cried. “Some water.”

Claire and Lady Foster rushed to the aid of the women. Tepid tea was brought in from the kitchens. The women downed the tea like thirsty sailors, splattering their fine gowns. Footmen and a maid strove to clean around the stirring assembly. Shrill demands were made for carriages to be brought to the front.

The Ryland House drawing room was pure mayhem.

One woman wiped her mouth with a handkerchief. “The pastries,” she moaned, her mouth working as though she swallowed brine. “They're horribly,
horribly
salted…not fit for man nor beast.”

Lady Atherton gagged behind her serviette, grabbing another serviette a maid passed to her. She grimaced at Claire, her voice shaking. “Why ever would you serve these to us?”

Claire passed a fresh cup of tea to Miss Alcott, the room a jumble of people, but the chaos slowed.

One by one, heads turned her way—a maid wiping the floor, the footmen with fresh cloths, the ladies in attendance. Some eyes were curious, some rounded from shock, but several skewered her with accusation.

Numb from head to toe, Claire couldn't feel the floor. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

A little scorn is alluring…

William Congreve,
The Way of the World

Jack Emerson's scarred cheek creased, but Cyrus couldn't be sure if the runner smiled or smirked. The tall thief taker had already folded himself into a chair and crossed one dusty boot over his opposite knee.

“I heard you found your flaxen-haired housebreaker.”

Cyrus stood behind his desk, one hand on the back of his chair. At the mention of Claire, he softened, his gaze flicking to the closed study door. He wanted to be with her. Truth be told, he didn't want to attend details of a petty theft at one of his warehouses; they were a fact of business, something attended by others. Pentree's message, however, made the matter sound dire.

“If you're concerned about not getting the reward,” he said, “I'll leave a portion with Sir John…compensation for your efforts.”

“Keep your gold, Ryland. I didn't solve anything,” Emerson said, a faint brogue in his words. “You're not the first nob to show up at Bow Street asking us to hunt down a woman.”

“It's not what you think.”

Emerson's smirk spread. “I'm sure it isn't.”

Mr. Pentree hugged his folio to his chest, sitting in the chair beside the thief taker. His stare scuttled from Cyrus to Emerson. Cyrus could only guess his employee was trying to decipher what went on here.

Bow Street's best slouched in the chair. Emerson's manner reduced everyone to level standing, Cyrus could see it in his assessing eyes. But he had to acknowledge his burgeoning respect for a man who refused to be paid for a job he didn't finish.

He gave Emerson a subtle nod. “Then may the recent events at Dark House Lane provide ample reward instead.” Cyrus took his seat, ready to listen. “What did you find?”

Mr. Pentree dug into his folio. “While Mr. Emerson inspected the warehouse, I compiled a list of the stolen items, their value and origin, as well as replacement costs.”

The agent passed a sheet of paper to Cyrus.

The document listed neat columns of words and numbers, but a flurry of carriages clattering through his driveway drew his attention outside. The wind of fast-moving vehicles blasted the footmen hanging on to the back. The luncheon was already over? Good.

Pentree cleared his throat. “Most of what was taken was minor and of little value. In fact, some of the crates taken were empty. Quite baffling.”

Cyrus glanced from the page to his agent. “And you did a thorough inventory?”

“Yes, sir. I combed the warehouse with Mr. Talbot, the Dark House Lane supervisor. What you see there is the extent of the thievery.”

Emerson withdrew paper and a lead stick from inside his coat. “I'd like a copy of that list.”

“I made one for you.” Pentree pushed up his spectacles and dug another paper from his folio.

When Emerson reached for the sheet, something metallic glinted from his wrist. He read the paper and put it on his lap, another quick flash of metal visible on his forearm. Was the thief taker carrying knives in his sleeves?

“The destruction to your sugar vats. There's your trouble.” Emerson tapped the paper. “This isn't about thievery. A business rival perhaps? Someone wants to get an edge on you.” His brows pressed together. “But there is another possibility…”

But the thief taker let his thought trail into silence, all while squinting at the paper as though he could dig more information from a list of words and numbers.

Cyrus looked over the list in front of him, finding nothing worthy of alarm. “What do you mean?”

“If this isn't the work of a business rival, then I'd say there's a distinct possibility someone's giving you a warning.”

“A warning?” Pentree riffled through more papers.

“Someone wants your attention.” The thief taker scanned the list again, his finger tapping one spot. “Taking low-value items, that's nothing. But damaging your vats dents your business.”

Pentree's eyes rounded behind his spectacles. “Sir, the iron vats are completely ruined. They'll have to be replaced. But I've no idea how long that'll be. They're forged in Brussels.”

“This isn't simply about the end result. There's
how
they went about damaging your vats. Acid was poured all over them. Something called
spirits
of
salt
,” Emerson explained. “Then whoever did this tossed salt everywhere. You won't make or sell sugar for a long time.”

“Months,” Pentree added. “Many months, in fact, before the refinery is fully functioning again.”

“Less sugar for Londoners.” Emerson's half smile returned. “There's the slim chance this could be random destruction…angry foreign sailors leaving the Fox Tail…did their damage and left on the morning tides.” He shrugged then added, “Maybe East End lads out for a bit of fun.”

Cyrus dropped his list on the desk. “But that's not what you think.”

“No. This has the feel of a calculated move.”

“There's something else,” Pentree said. “The night watchman was found bludgeoned on the wharf. He survived, sir, but remains unconscious.”

Emerson's eyes glittered like hard pieces of glass. “Given the ward he patrols, the attack might be related or might not. But he was found at the end of Dark House Lane.”

Pentree adjusted his spectacles, scooting forward in his seat. “Now you see why I'm not treating this as minor thievery.”

The thief taker began to fold his copy of the list. “I'd like to go back to the warehouse and—”

The study door burst open.

“Cyrus!”

He stood up, as did Emerson and Pentree, the reflexive nature of well-mannered men, when Lucinda rushed into the room. Her face was pale.

“Lucinda?” Cyrus hurried around his desk in time for her to collapse against him.

“I know you're in a meeting,” she cried, her voice muffled against his sleeve. “But I must talk to you.”

He wrapped an arm over her shoulders and looked to Emerson and Pentree. “Gentlemen…”

Cyrus didn't have to finish his words. The men nodded silently.

Pentree tucked his folio under his arm, speaking in hushed tones. “Sir, Mr. Emerson wants to visit the warehouse again. I'll take him there now.”

“Thank you. Please alert me as soon as you find out anything, anything at all.”

The men took their leave and Cyrus withdrew his handkerchief for Lucinda. He settled her in the chair Pentree vacated and planted himself on the edge of his desk in front of her. He folded his arms loosely across his chest and waited. Lucinda wiped her eyes, her sniffles decreasing.

“Doing better?” he asked, gentling his voice.

She nodded, watery, woeful eyes searching him. “Something awful happened, Cyrus.”

Lucinda dabbed her reddened nose with the crumpled handkerchief. After living with seven sisters, he understood a good listening ear and patience with feminine tears was the best course of action.

“I'm not even sure…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked into the distance. “Everything was going so nicely; then some of the ladies started retching…right there on our floor.”

“
Retching?
”

“Yes. Something was terribly wrong with the pastries. It affected only a few ladies…not everyone had eaten them yet, but Lady Atherton and Miss Alcott claimed they were terribly salted.”

His body went still.

“You speak of Claire's baked goods. Salted?” He couldn't ignore the ugly chill from the news.

“Yes.” She blinked at him. “Though I don't believe it was intentional, as some said. Miss Mayhew was terribly distressed.”

“Tell me everything. Start with what happened after I left.”

His sister relayed minor details mixed with salient facts. She started and stopped, looking to him when she stalled or forgot something. He nodded his encouragement, and Lucinda finished with the ladies demanding their carriages.

“And what of Claire?” he asked, not bothering with the social niceties of proper address. “What did she do?”

“After Lady Atherton accused her of salting the pastries on purpose, Belker and Lady Foster went with her…to the library, I think.” Lucinda's hands twisted the handkerchief. “But I was tending the other guests.”

One hand fisted on his thigh. “And is Claire still here?”

“No. Belker arranged one of our carriages to take her home. She left from the mews. Then he went back to the kitchens to investigate—”

He moved off the desk and paced the room. The vats. The watchman. Claire…alone above her shop.

Lucinda sighed, slumping lower in her chair. “You ought to know the Duchess of Marlborough said some spiteful things to Miss Mayhew.”

“Such as?” He stopped at the settee and turned to face Lucinda.

“Something about a Lord Jonathan and an adventuress from Greenwich reaching above her station. She made similar unkind remarks when I was calling for the carriages, and that's when Lady Foster took Miss Mayhew to another room.” Lucinda's face crumpled. “What Her Grace said could easily apply to me…to us.”

“Luce,” he chided, but a mild sting touched him. The same high reach applied to him.

His lips firmed. He needed to extract himself carefully from Their Graces, though a great deal rode on the tentative connection. They assumed much between him and Lady Elizabeth.

“It's true. I see how some ladies regard me when they don't think I'm looking. Sometimes all I want to do is go back to Stretford.” She sighed wistfully. “Miss Mayhew is very brave.”

Miss Mayhew. Claire. His hand rested on the same back cushion where he'd first seen her and where she'd announced she was no lady. He couldn't help but smile.

“It's rather obvious, Cyrus. You're in love.” Lucinda's startling words broke the silence.

He looked at his sister, another daze setting in on an already baffling day.

Love?

Lust most definitely. Attraction and enjoyment, no argument there. But
love
? Dangerous, foreign territory.

“It's written all over your face…the way you watch over her.” She smiled enough to show her dimple. “And I've never seen you fret over a gift before.”

He jammed his hands in his pockets. “I don't fret.”

Lucinda chuckled sweetly over that, her dark brown curls bouncing on her shoulder. Then one hand slipped inside his coat, finding the spot over his heart where she'd caressed him a few nights ago.

Love?

The floor blurred. Yes, love.

He was a fool for not seeing, not knowing, and having his imp of a sister inform him of his state of being.

But then, he'd never been in love.

He moved off the settee and strode to his desk.

The
salt.

The truth of something afoot demanded he act. First, the goings-on at Dark House Lane and now what happened in his own home. This couldn't be a coincidence. He dragged hard on the bell rope near his desk.

“Cyrus, what are you doing?”

“I'll be out tonight…all night.” He glanced at the clock on his desk. “Simon and Zach will be here within an hour. Peter should be along too. You'll stay in with them. Understood?”

She nodded, her eyes rounding. Then he yanked open a drawer, revealing a row of iron keys. He knew which one to pocket.

Emerson's words rang in his head:
Someone
wants
your
attention.