Queen of Diamonds (15 page)

The former nun wanted a gown just like Queenie wore; the divorcee laughed and said she could never afford one, but would send her cousin.

Queenie met a lady poet and an inventor and a retired general who was penning his memoirs, when he could remember where he left his notes. To her surprise, she was introduced to the musician playing the cello in a corner of the enormous room. She had thought he was hired to entertain in the background, not a guest.

More surprisingly, she was introduced to the proper, powder-haired butler, Ames, too. He was tall and erect, of middle years, and had a friendly smile, especially for Lady Jennifer.

Queenie decided that Lady Jennifer was truly an independent female of progressive ideas. She also wondered what the lady's family thought. Lady Jennifer's ducal father was in the country nursing his rheumatics. Her brother Camden did not make an appearance.

“My gatherings are too tame for him,” the lady admitted. “Not much opportunity for flirting, since you are one of the youngest females to be invited. I did not tell him you were attending today, on purpose. No cards or deep drinking either.”

But there was a loud argument in French near the fireplace. Three guests were debating the merits of a large, smoky seascape that stood on a nearby easel. Queenie peered at the signature, then realized she had just been introduced to the artist himself, one of the loudest defenders of the new style of painting.

“What do you think, Madame?” he asked in his native tongue. “You obviously have an eye for style and color.”

“I?” Queenie wanted to shout that she was nothing but a wardrobe mistress's stepchild. What did she know of fine art and polite conversation? She did not even know if she was supposed to curtsy to the butler. Luckily the cellist had his bow in his hand so she did not have to wonder about offering hers. Lady Jennifer was looking at her. So were three prospective clients of various ages who were expensively if unfashionably dressed. Queenie took a deep breath.

“I think it is wonderful,” she said in French. “It reminds me of when I left France to return to England to start my business. You see the gleams of light through the fog? That was how the passage appeared, and that was how I felt. With hope, yet uncertainty. The grays, the swirls of clouds, such were my emotions leaving the familiar for the unknown. I was going to England, but as a new person, carried on the roiled waves of fate. Surely a painting that speaks so eloquently with so few words is the work of a genius.”

One of the women clapped her hands. Another shouted, “Brava!” And the artist instantly gave Queenie the painting.

“Oh, no, I could never accept such a valuable gift.”

“It is nothing, Madame. I have, to my regrets, many others equally as unsold. But if you hang it in your place of business, it is good for both of us,
non
? You get to enjoy the painting, and I get seen by your wealthy customers.”

Queenie was not sure of the protocol involved. But the butler was nodding encouragement, and if such a starched-up individual thought she should accept such a generous gift, it must be
convenable
. Of course a proper servant would have stayed in the background, invisible. “I would be proud to display your artwork in my humble store.”

“And accept a commission if any sold?” Lady Jennifer pressed, afraid her new friend would be taken advantage of by the talented and canny, if impecunious, artist.

“But of course, my lady,” Queenie answered. “I am not that humble.”

The others laughed. Queenie felt her shoulder muscles finally relax, aided by the excellent wine being passed around by liveried footmen under the butler's watchful eye. He winked at her as he went to stand by Lady Jennifer's side, far closer than any servant she had ever seen. And Lady Jennifer let her hand brush his.

No one else seemed to notice, or perhaps they were used to such intimacies between a lady and her upper servant. Progressive indeed! And perhaps, Queenie thought, that was why the wealthy woman had never married, to her brother's consternation. Lady Jennifer must not be quite as daring and free-thinking as she would pretend, if she was afraid to follow her heart out of her own class. Queenie wondered, while the others continued their discussion of the painting—her painting!—what she would do, were she of such elevated birth. Her own friends were clerks and courtesans, street urchins, seamstresses, and one viscount. Would she have the courage to keep her companions and others of lower birth? Or would she want to associate only with those of her own social level, who could further her ambitions? And what did Harry think?

Queenie laughed at herself, catching Lady Jennifer's observant eye. Luckily that woman could not know what Queenie was thinking, that Harry was no egalitarian. With one notable exception, he avoided doing anything to disturb his social set. He would never wed a servant, either. Or a seamstress.

Conversation had left the painting and moved on to the government's support of the arts, then the education of artists, and finally to the education of women.

After Hannah Moore had been quoted several times, Queenie told the others about the Ambeaux Silver School that Captain Jack Endicott was starting, with Lord Carde's help. She mentioned that she would be assisting there, if the brothers approved. If she were not teaching outright, then she could provide experienced instructors in the sewing arts, and later help by training their graduates for rewarding employment.

“A worthwhile cause indeed,” one of Lady Jennifer's friends said, “especially coming from that daredevil Jack Endicott. Nothing like a reformed rake, don't you know. I am hoping to meet the woman who could make such a difference, dragging him from a gambler to an educator of women.” She promised her patronage.

Another woman offered scholarships for worthy girls from unfortunate circumstances.

Soon the others were nodding and adding their support. Not that the Earl of Carde could not fund a hundred such ventures, but why should he carry all the burden? They all agreed the school offered promise as an example of what concerned citizens of every class could do to improve young lives, and thus the world.

Queenie felt she had done more to settle her debt this afternoon than she could do in a lifetime. She could not give the Endicott family peace of mind concerning their lost half-sister, but she could do this for them. If they truly believed in helping girls better themselves, she had done more than her few pounds and shillings could.

Now perhaps she could put off going to Bow Street.

* * *

Bow Street came to her.

Chapter Fifteen

Harry accompanied Browne when the man went to make his monthly report at Bow Street.

“I have to speak to Geoffrey Rourke there anyway, so I can introduce you. You said you are getting nowhere in your search for your brother-in-law.”

“Ah, but Charlie March's friends are eating better.”

Browne gathered up his notes. “That is something, I suppose, but is no closer to finding your diamonds any time soon.”

The viscount was no longer in such a rush. Finding Martin or the diamonds, destroyed or not, meant the demise of his London visit. Likewise, if Harry handed the case to Bow Street, he had no good excuse not to return to the country, and no practical reason whatsoever to remain in town.

Except that leaving might be like ripping his innards out.

At home he had spring planting to plan, all the new lambs and calves and foals to count, swamps to drain, cottage roofs to repair. He had an honest, competent land steward, of course, but in the country Harry would be busy from dawn to dusk or later. Once he called at Bow Street, Harry had nothing whatsoever that he had to do in the city.

At Harking Hall, scores of tenants, servants, and village businesses depended upon him. No one needed him here in London. Not even the scandal sheets needed him to sell newspapers, now that Earl Rucklesby's twin daughters had run off with twin footmen.

No, Harry's presence was not necessary, needed, or desired, it seemed. The dressmaking business was a success, and its proprietress had no time for foolish gentlemen who caused public spectacles. She would rather attend a fusty tea than go for a drive in the park with him.

Of course the tea would gain Madame Lescartes new clients and a drive with him would only damage her reputation further. But it might bring color to her pale cheeks.

With no one to drive with, the park was merely a cold, stark, and futile effort to bring the country into town. Harry did not even have a riding horse of his own here to exercise.

The gentlemen at his club had had enough chuckles at his expense, and the street children had earned—or not—as many of his coins as he could distribute without causing fistfights. He had left his card—and more largesse—at every bordello he could find. Truly, he had no choice—and no reason to delay—calling at Bow Street. And then leaving town.

He was right, Harry decided, already feeling a sour taste in his mouth. Leaving Madame Lescartes would tear him to pieces.

And he was right. He had no choice.

* * *

Geoffrey Rourke was a well set-up man only a few years older than Harry. He had deeper lines in his face, and a few gray threads through his reddish hair. He had papers and pencils and wanted posters above his scarred wood desk, not impressing Harry with his organizational skills, until he immediately found a clean sheet and started taking notes.

Harry sat in the single battered chair facing the desk while Browne stood behind his shoulder.

“With your permission, my lord?”

“Damn, you tried to cover my back at the opera, didn't you?” Harry replied. “And you know the whole sorry mess anyway. You might as well stay.”

Harry took out a sketch of the diamonds and a written description of his brother-in-law, to which he had added a broken nose and various bruises, but that was all he had to offer.

Except a reward, of course. The Bow Street men were salaried, if one considered their pay to be more than a pittance. Their livings came from pursuing cases that paid a bounty for the return of stolen property or the capture of criminals. The Crown and the magistrate's office provided some of the blunt; wronged parties posted rewards for others.

Rourke must be a successful thief-taker, after all, Harry considered, noting the man's well-tailored clothing, his neatly barbered hair and manicured fingernails. Dressing like a gentleman did not come cheaply.

The man spoke in educated accents, too, when he asked what avenues Harry had already pursued.

“I have been to every halfway respectable brothel I was told he might patronize, and as many of the others as I could find. I visited polite gambling clubs and low gaming hells. I also went to scores of jewelers and pawn shops. No one has seen Sir John Martin in recent days.”

“Or they are not talking to you, despite the color of your money. They might not know, or your brother-in-law might have found a crib with someone no one wants to cross. Either way, my lord, while your friends and fellow club members will speak freely, the common card sharp or Covent Garden familiar is more likely to speak to someone he or she knows. They all know me.”

“But why would they talk to someone in authority?”

“Because I have the authority to make their lives miserable otherwise. Bow Street turns a blind eye to a great deal that is illegal, until law-abiding citizens are threatened. That does not mean we cannot conduct searches and make arrests when the need arises, or as we see fit in order to gather information.”

Rourke's reasoning made sense to Harry, if not perfect justice. Besides, he had reached an impasse in his own search.

“So you will visit the same barrooms and bawdy houses?”

“I am sure I know of others you missed.”

Rourke might have smiled; his lips twitched. Harry wondered how much those repeat visits would cost him, again, and if Rourke would enjoy them more than Harry had. The smile seemed to say he would. He reached for his purse, seeing no other way.

“It might be too late to find your jewels, however,” Rourke told him as Browne shuffled his feet.

“So I understand. A friend mentioned a dealer in somewhat shadowy transactions that I might try to locate.”

Rourke nodded. “No one dealing by light of day would touch the gems. What was the name this friend gave you?”

“Ize, or some variation of that.”

Rourke immediately said, “You do not want to know him.”

Harry resented everyone thinking that he could not handle one small, petty criminal. He was no effeminate lordling, by Jupiter, who could not defend himself from a toad-faced felon. Nor was he some gullible flat who would let a man take his money without getting the diamonds in return.

Of course he was already close to handing his purse to Geoffrey Rourke for expenses, with nothing in return. He frowned, not certain if the man's red waistcoat truly made a difference in his honesty. “I did not want to know a great many people I have recently met. That has not stopped me from doing what needed done.”

Rourke ignored the implied insult, that he might be one of those less than desirable new acquaintances. Bow Street was not held in high regard by many. He was used to the slurs. “Ize might well know about your jewels, but you will not have an easy time finding him anyway, not unless he wishes to be found. He was running a lavish operation until a few years ago, with a fancy shop and all. Some of his merchandise was even legitimately come by, from your friend, perhaps, pawning the family silver or his watch. Then Ize went underground. I have not heard what cellar or alley he calls his office recently, and I have made inquiries.”

Harry felt some satisfaction in saying that Ize had been at the Cyprian's Ball. He was not certain why he resented Rourke, except that the man was going to take his money, and take away his reason for staying in town.

Rourke was more interested in Ize than he had been in Harry's brother-in-law. “A short, ill-kempt man of middle years, with eyes like a pug dog's?”

“Yes, but far less charming looking. His face was a mottled grey and his nose sprouted hair.”

“That's him. Who pointed him out to you?”

“No one precisely pointed him out. It was Miss Hellen Pettigrew who later mentioned he might know something about stolen diamonds.”

Browne's shuffling footsteps behind Harry had turned into a near gallop in place. The man might be uncomfortable mentioning his sweetheart's name at Bow Street, but Harry could not lie. His cheeks always turned red when he tried to, anyway. “I believe her mother might have had dealings with him. Legitimate dealings,” he hastened to add.

Rourke made a notation on a fresh sheet of paper. “That would be Valerie Pettigrew? And you say her daughter was at the Cyprian's Ball?”

“Miss Pettigrew is not following in her mother's footsteps,” Browne nearly shouted, although Rourke had not questioned her reason for being at the notorious mistress-mart. He had not needed to, in words.

“Mr. Browne is correct,” Harry said in a lower tone, but one more befitting a peer whose word was his bond, and whose fists were the size of plow horse hooves, only harder. “Miss Pettigrew is gainfully and respectably employed as an assistant to the owner of a prosperous dressmaking establishment. She is a particular friend of mine.” Which meant he would not hear of the little twit being labeled a light skirt.

Rourke looked between his two visitors, obviously wondering what a doxy did to deserve such defense from two such disparate men. “I daresay any number of women in London know Ize or his ilk. Females are always punting on tick, pawning their jewelry with or without their husbands' knowledge. Perhaps Mrs. Pettigrew might know of the man's current place of business.”

“She might, but she is traveling north to visit, ah, relatives. She left three days ago and is not expected to return for a month.”

“Too bad. I do not suppose Miss Pettigrew—”

“No!” two voices shouted at once. If Ize was too dangerous for Harry, he was certainly too dangerous for Hellen.

“What is your interest in the man, anyway?” Harry asked, wanting to get back to his own situation.

Rourke looked at Browne. “It has to do with your affair.”

“I told you, I am not having an—Oh, the Lady Charlotte Endicott business. You think a pawn-broker might be involved?”

Rourke shrugged. “A man was seen a few times in Manchester with Molly Godfrey, who called herself Molly Dennis.” For Lord Harking's sake, Rourke explained the interest in the child Molly had raised. “A small, shifty, pop-eyed man. There must be hundreds of such across the breadth of England, and Ize denied knowing any such woman or child or place. We could find no other ties between them. Of course he would not tell the truth if his life depended on it, but I had no cause to arrest him, where we might have interrogated the gallows bait with a bit more…”

“Enthusiasm?” Harry supplied. “As if his life did, indeed, depend on speaking the truth?”

“Precisely. Although we did keep an eye on him. When we lost all traces of the young woman known as Queenie Dennis, we also lost track of Ize, which was odd. We do not like coincidences in this line of work, Lord Harking. That is why I am interested in the man. So I shall certainly make an effort to find him and ask about your diamonds.”

“I can ask Miss Pettigrew if she can suggest an address.”

“Thank you.”

They next discussed a sum commensurate with the diamonds' worth, and the worth of getting rid of Sir John Martin. Harry offered a higher bounty if the man were transported after a speedy trial. “I do not wish my poor sister distressed more than she needs be.”

Rourke sympathized. “It's always best all around if scum like that meets a sorry end at the hands of one of his fellow crooks. Saves the Crown a trial and a cell. Saves the family the public notoriety, or a hanging.”

Harry did not wish to think he was paying for Martin's murder, although that was what Rourke's words seemed to imply, a misfortune in prison or some such. “I just want him brought to justice and gone.”

If Rourke understood, he did not acknowledge Harry's concerns. He straightened the sketch of the diamonds and the description of Martin, then set his pencil down and stood. “I shall see what I can do.” He gestured toward the other Robin Redbreasts scattered around the busy office. “With the promised reward, you will have a lot of eyes looking for your quarry. We'll find him if he is still in town.”

Harry stood up to make way for Browne to give his report to the Runner. The schoolmaster stayed him. “This will not take long, my lord. Almost nothing of note has happened at the club—that is, the school—concerning the search for Lady Charlotte.”

“Not much here either,” the Runner said in disgust. “But let us hear what you have to say.”

Browne consulted his notes.

There were two blond, blue-eyed Lotties who came for the reward, down from the scores of pretenders who used to come to The Red and the Black to try their luck, but not at the gaming tables. One of the would-be heiresses had not bothered coming to Bow Street with Browne's note. The other had not lasted five minutes before Rourke recognized her as one of Mother Carey's chickens.

One enterprising female declared she was Queenie Dennis, the newest name on the reward posters, but she had no idea where Queenie and her mother had lived near Manchester. A peddler did know the town, and could describe the girl and Molly, but he had not seen them in five years. An old actor who knew Molly Godfrey from her days at the theater thought he had seen her in London a fortnight ago. Since Mr. Browne knew the woman to be dead, and the actor to be out of work, he'd sent him off with two coins, instead of the one he gave the others.

Browne cleared his throat, debating loyalties with his own conscience. Just as he did not like Hellen's name being bandied about at Bow Street, he did not wish to mention her friend and employer. He was a law-abiding citizen, with a citizen's distrust of a policing force.

With an apologetic glance toward Lord Harking, he concluded with the last informant or claimant to appear at The Red and the Black. “It is undoubtedly nothing, but a young French widow asked to speak to Captain Endicott on a personal matter.”

Harry studied his fingernails.

“Not to apply for a job as dealer?” Rourke asked.

“Why, no. She did say something about a teaching position once I explained about the school.”

“So she did not actually come to apply for a job in the casino or the school?”