Secrets of a Lady (17 page)

Miss Goddard stared down at her well-tended nails.

“I assure you we mean Miss Trevennen no harm,” Charles said. “Surely she would appreciate my friend’s bequest and the sentiment behind it.”

Miss Goddard gave a faint, unstudied smile that made her appear more girlish. She was probably not yet five-and-twenty, Mélanie realized, younger than she was herself. “Helen had little use for sentiment, but she would undoubtedly appreciate the bequest. However, as I said, I haven’t heard from her in seven years.”

Charles wandered about the room and stopped to study a framed notice advertising Mrs. Siddons in
Fatal Marriage
. “I’ve always been very fond of the theater. Simon Tanner, the playwright, is one of my wife’s and my closest friends. You perhaps know that I am a Member of Parliament, Miss Goddard, and my grandfather is the Duke of Rannoch. It is unfortunately all too easy for persons of influence to create difficulties for a theater—the government censor is entirely too efficient, and a disparaging comment dropped at one’s club can have a tiresome effect on the success of a production. It would desolate me to be the cause of any difficulties for the Drury Lane.” Charles, ardent advocate of free speech, turned and fixed Miss Goddard with a cold stare. “But believe me, I am quite capable of doing so.”

Miss Goddard drew in her breath. “Mr. Fraser, I meant what I said.”

“Miss Goddard, so did I.”

Her gaze flickered over his face. “Your determination to carry out your friend’s wishes is extreme, Mr. Fraser.”

“Trust that I have my reasons, madam.”

She regarded him a moment longer. Mélanie could see her weighing the consequences in the blue depths of her eyes. Then Miss Goddard gave a slight shrug, fluttering the gold silk of her Norwich shawl. “I don’t know why I’m so determined to protect her. It’s more, I’m sure, than Helen would do for me.”

“She was your friend.” Now that he had achieved his objective, Charles’s voice turned gentle.

“I suppose you could say that.” Miss Goddard ran her fingers over the shawl. “Helen made a friend of me because she found me useful. I can’t tell you how many pairs of my silk stockings she ruined, how many scarves and earrings she borrowed and never returned.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I was only sixteen when I met her. Helen wasn’t that much older, but she was a font of useful advice about how to get on in the world. Besides”—Miss Goddard hesitated a moment, then continued, her head held high—“Helen knew how to speak and how to carry herself and which fork to use with the fish. I’ll always be grateful she taught me that. And she could be tremendous fun, even if she had a tendency to leave others to pay the reckoning and cope with the consequences.”

Charles returned to the desk. “You shared confidences?”

“Helen wasn’t the sort to confide much in anyone. But—” Miss Goddard was silent for a moment, then spoke in a rush. “The night before she disappeared she asked me to go to a tavern with her after the performance. There was nothing unusual in that. But she insisted we choose a tavern where we wouldn’t encounter anyone else from the theater. And when we got there, she told me she was going away.”

“Where?” Charles’s face was unreadable, but he held her with his gaze.

“She didn’t say. She wouldn’t say.” Miss Goddard’s artfully plucked brows drew together. “It sounds completely mad now. It sounded mad then, and Helen was one of the least fanciful women I’ve ever known. She said I shouldn’t expect to hear from her and she wouldn’t be coming back. She said it wouldn’t be—safe.”

There was a brief silence in the cramped, dusty room. “Not safe how?” Charles said, in the same patient voice.

“She didn’t explain.”

“Was that why she was leaving? Because she was afraid of something? Or someone?”

“Yes. No.” Miss Goddard disentangled a strand of hair from one of her antique gold earrings. “She didn’t seem to be running blindly. Truth to tell, she looked disgustingly pleased with herself.”

Charles leaned back and rested his long-fingered hands on the desk behind him. “Why do you think she told you she was leaving and no one else?”

“Oh, she explained that straight out. She asked me to visit her uncle and tell him she’d left London. She said she wouldn’t be able to say good-bye to him herself.”

“Her uncle lives in London?”

“He’s imprisoned for debt in the Marshalsea. He used to be an actor. Hugo Trevennen. Some of the company still remember him. He was quite talented apparently, but he had extravagant tastes and a weakness for the horses. I went to see him as Helen asked. A thoroughly charming man.”

“Did you ask him where he thought his niece might have gone?”

“Naturally, I was curious. He said he never had the least idea what Helen might do from one minute to the next.”

Charles swung his booted foot against the side of the desk. “Did she have any other relatives?”

“Not that I know of.” Miss Goddard pulled the folds of her shawl about her throat. “Until then she’d never spoken about her family.”

“Were there other men?” Mélanie said, hoping to catch her off her guard with the bluntness of the question. “Besides Lieutenant Jennings?”

Miss Goddard’s eyes widened. She looked at Mélanie as though reassessing her opinion of the decorous Mrs. Fraser. “Helen flirted with men by the stage door. We all did. I expect she did more than flirt, though I couldn’t swear to it. But the only man I ever met in her presence was someone she called ‘Will.’ He may have been your friend Lieutenant Jennings. He had the bearing of an army officer.”

“Dark hair?” Charles asked. “Blue eyes? Tall, midtwenties?”

She nodded. “He called to take her out after the performance every so often, though his visits stopped some time before Helen disappeared. She said he’d been posted abroad with his regiment.”

“Did you know he’d died?”

“Yes, I heard about it just before Helen disappeared.” Miss Goddard twisted the end of her shawl round her shapely fingers. Some further words hung unspoken in the air.

“But?” Charles said in a gentle voice.

Miss Goddard looked up at him. “That’s all, Mr. Fraser.”

“Oh, come, Miss Goddard, surely an actress knows how much can be read into a pause.” Charles hesitated a moment. “I know it sits oddly with my threats and I’d no doubt say it anyway. But I told the truth when I said I mean Miss Trevennen no harm.”

No one could look more compellingly honest than Charles when he put his mind to it. Perhaps because the honesty was genuine. Miss Goddard studied him for a long moment, an actress judging the authenticity of a performance. “That last night, Helen said she’d meet me at the tavern. But I forgot my gloves, so I ran back into the theater after most of the company had gone home. I heard Helen crying in her dressing room. Or laughing, I couldn’t be sure which—it sounded a bit hysterical. The door was ajar, so I peeked inside. A packet of papers was spread on the dressing table in front of her. When I asked her what was wrong, all she’d say is that she’d lost the person in the world who meant most to her and her life had just changed completely.”

“And you think she was crying with grief?” Charles said.

“At the time I did, though she didn’t act at all broken-hearted later in the tavern. But perhaps she cared for Lieutenant Jennings as much as she was capable of caring for anyone. She certainly must have meant something to him or he never would have sent her such a precious keepsake.”

Mélanie’s pulse quickened, as though she had been running. “What sort of keepsake?”

Violet Goddard raised her brows at the urgency in Mélanie’s voice. “He sent her a piece of jewelry with the letter. I couldn’t see it properly, but it was gold and there was some sort of red stone.”

Chapter 11

F
or a moment, Charles forgot to breathe. “Did Miss Trevennen say anything about the keepsake?”

Miss Goddard shook her head. “She pulled the pages of the letter over it. I don’t think she realized I’d seen. I don’t think she wanted me to see. Helen was free enough with other people’s property, but she was jealous of her own.”

“Did she say anything else?” Charles kept his voice even, stripped of all but essentials.

“No, just that she’d be ready in a minute. I fetched my gloves and she met me in the corridor. When I tried to offer my condolences on her loss, she laughed it off and said no man was worth crying over. We went to the tavern and had the conversation I told you about. It was the last time I saw her.”

“Did you mention any of this to Iago Lorano?” Charles said. “Did you tell him about her uncle in the Marshalsea?”

“No.” Miss Goddard smoothed the fabric of her shawl, a gesture that seemed uncharacteristically nervous. “I didn’t particularly trust his story—if he was someone who’d known Helen in the past, he might have had something to do with why she ran away.” The ironic look crossed her face again. “Besides, he didn’t threaten to use his influence against the theater.”

Charles got to his feet. “Believe me, Miss Goddard, I wouldn’t have resorted to such despicable tactics had I seen an alternative.”

Miss Goddard gave him one of her incandescent smiles. “Do you know, I have the oddest inclination to believe you, Mr. Fraser. You’re either a very honest man or an exceedingly good actor.”

When they returned to the stage, the foils were still clanging. “‘Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?’” said one of the actors, sounding more natural now.

“Thank God,” Miss Goddard murmured. “Perhaps we’ll actually get to one of my scenes before the midday break.”

Ned Thurgood emerged from the wings, a jeweled flask in one hand, a feathered mask in the other.

“Miss Goddard was a great help,” Charles said. “We appreciate her cooperation. And yours.”

Thurgood nodded, one eye on the duelists. “I’m glad to hear it. I wish you well in your search.”

Miss Goddard stared at the mask. “Please tell me that isn’t for me.”

“For the ball scene.”

“Neddie. Dearest. Chicken feathers make me sneeze.”

“Well, at least—”

Charles and Mélanie left them to argue it out and made their way out of the theater in silence. Charles turned toward the corner where Randall was waiting with the carriage. The full reality of what they had learned washed over him. He stopped and gripped a lamppost with one hand. “God,” he said, his forehead against the iron of the lamppost, his voice so wracked with relief it trembled. “Sweet Jesus.”

Mélanie laid a hand on his arm. Her fingers were shaking. “I know. I didn’t really believe Helen Trevennen had the ring until now.”

Charles released the lamppost. “She may have sold it. Do you have any paper?”

She dropped her hand and took a notebook and pencil from her reticule.

Charles propped the notebook against the iron lamppost and scribbled a brief note as he spoke. “I’ll have Addison start making inquiries among London jewelers while we visit Helen Trevennen’s uncle at the Marshalsea.”

“Mr. Trevennen told Miss Goddard he didn’t have any idea where Helen had gone.”

“But he must know something about her friends or at the very least her family. At present he’s our only lead.”

They returned to the carriage, and Charles gave Randall the note. “This is for Addison. Stop back at the Thistle and ask Baxter to have someone he trusts deliver it to Berkeley Square. Then take us to the Marshalsea.”

“Right you are.” Randall pocketed the note and accepted the direction to the debtors’ prison as matter-of-factly as if Charles had asked to be driven to Parliament or his club in St. James’s.

When they were settled in the carriage, Mélanie looked at Charles as though about to ask something, then clamped her lips shut.

Charles pulled his watch from his pocket and snapped it open. The fitful sunlight fell on the inscription inside the cover.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

The more I have, for both are infinite. M.

The familiar engraved words slashed like a sword cut. “It’s twenty-five minutes past eleven,” he said. “Colin’s been missing for at least eight hours.”

She nodded without looking at him. “Thank you.” Her voice was parched.

He returned the watch to his pocket. “Blanca can help Addison with the jewelers. Between the two of them they can cover a lot of territory.” At the mention of his wife’s maid, a hitherto unconsidered thought occurred to him. “Oh, Christ. I suppose Blanca was a French agent, too?”

“No, Blanca was my maid. I was a French agent.”

“And Blanca knew it.”

“Charles, you know as well as anyone it’s impossible to keep secrets from one’s maid or valet.”

“But disgustingly easy, apparently, to keep them from one’s husband. I think Addison may be in love with Blanca.”

“Of course he is. He’s been in love with her since they met, though they only actually became lovers in the last couple of years—Addison kept worrying she was too young or he was compromising her virtue. I have no doubt Blanca loves him just as much. And, believe me, I didn’t put her up to it.”

Her words grated on his nerves like nails on a schoolroom slate. “Believing you does not come easily at present, madam.”

She turned her head to look him full in the face. “Blanca was a fourteen-year-old orphan when I met her, Charles. Raoul and I rescued her from her uncle’s filthy tavern where she had to fight off her uncle’s blows and the wandering hands of the customers. She would have done anything for me after we took her away from there. Lay the blame for the deception where it belongs. At my door.”

“Damn you, there’s blame enough to go round.” Nausea gripped him for a moment, like a vise. He looked at his wife. She was as familiar to him as the salt breeze off the Perthshire coast or the smell of snuff and the crack of walnuts from the back benches in the House of Commons. And at the same time, she was as much a stranger as Helen Trevennen. “How old were you?”

“How old was I when?”

“When you went to work for O’Roarke.” He ran his fingers through his hair. He had laid himself open to her in an intimate detail it seared him to remember, yet he did not know even the simplest facts of her life. “Christ, how old are you now?”