Shady Lady (10 page)

She owed a lot to Chloë.

Chloë, where are you?
she whispered into the silence.

If something interesting had come up, Chloë wouldn’t have been breaking any engagements to accept it. If she turned up in Stratford, well and good. If not, Jo never worried about it. It wasn’t that kind of invitation. She and Chloë never stood on ceremony with each other.

She supposed Chloë had kept her appointment with Lady Brinsley at her country estate. Maybe Lady Langston had been there too. They were all keen gardeners. Was that the connection? Was there a house party?

Then where had Chloë gone next?

There were other entries in the calendar, parties and dos that Chloë had missed, and some that were just coming up. This was the height of the London Season. Chloë wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

Then where was she?

Jo went through the escritoire drawer by drawer. There were a few bills, several invitations to balls and musicales, but not what Jo was looking for, nothing that resembled a diary.

A quick perusal of the bookcase wasn’t much help. She found exactly what she expected to find: one shelf devoted to literary works and the rest an untidy hodgepodge of books and folios, all dealing with some aspect of gardening and the care and propagation of hothouse plants.

She went to the closet next and couldn’t help smiling at the disorder that met her eyes. On the lower shelves, there were stacks of old newspapers and periodicals, in no particular order. Above them were wooden boxes. Jo fetched a chair and climbed up to get a better look. All she found were receipts and an odd assortment of household articles and clothing that looked as though Chloë was storing for the parish poor.

On top of the sideboard was a silver salver with a number of calling cards. These would have come from ladies who had visited the house when Chloë was away. Chloë’s visitors had one thing in common. They all lived in Mayfair, the most prestigious residential district in London. Jo recognized only one name, Lady Langston’s. She wondered if Lady Brinsley had come up to town after the house party at her country estate. Or perhaps there was no house party. She knew that Chloë and Lady Brinsley were friends. Perhaps . . .

These endless speculations were driving her mad. She had to find answers. She had to trace Chloë’s movements before she vanished. But where to begin?

There was a tap at the door and the housekeeper entered. Mrs. Paige was in her early fifties, tall, handsome, and, so Chloë always said, a credit to her profession. The house ran like a well-oiled clock, even with no mistress in residence. Many ladies had tried to lure Mrs. Paige away from Chloë and failed. The secret of keeping good servants, Chloë once told Jo, was to pay them well. She was only partly right, thought Jo. Chloë’s servants adored her.

“Come in, Mrs. Paige,” she said, “and let’s see what we can make of this conundrum.”

Not only did she question the housekeeper, but she also questioned the inside servants. There were gardeners, but as they did not live on the premises, she left them out of it for the moment.

What she heard confirmed her own thinking. More than two weeks had passed since Chloë had set off for Oxfordshire, in the company of friends, to take in Lord and Lady Brinsley’s house party. And that was the last they had heard or seen of her. When the housekeeper became anxious—though she would hardly say she was alarmed—she had prevailed on Lady Langston to write to Jo and put the whole matter before her. So now the onus was on Jo to decide what to do.

She listened, nodded, and asked them one by one whether they knew where Lady Webberley kept her diary. No one did. No one saw the point of her question, and she did not enlighten them.

After this, she went from room to room, not in a desultory way, but to search for the diary, beginning with the dining room, then the drawing room, and finally the bedrooms. The housemaids had kept everything spotless. Nothing caught her eye; nothing seemed out of place.

In Chloë’s bedroom, she stood at the window, looking down on Chloë’s sanctuary, her beautiful and charming walled garden. Everything seemed in harmony, everything except Jo and her vague uncertainties. Would Chloë have left her garden unattended for so long?

It was time to call in the authorities. She would have to go to Bow Street and talk to the magistrate. No, that wouldn’t do. They wouldn’t take her seriously, not after all the trouble she’d given them.

If only she had something solid to show them. There was Chloë’s letter, but she didn’t think that would galvanize them into action, not coming from her.

So what should she do?

She would begin, she decided, by paying a call on Lady Langston, and after that, as many of Chloë’s friends as she could manage. Their names were all on the cards they had left in Chloë’s absence. And since they all lived in Mayfair, or on the edges of Mayfair like her aunt Daventry, the task wouldn’t be too onerous.

Though she was impatient to get started, she had to wait until the following day. No one visited on a Sunday unless by invitation. All the same, now that she’d decided how to go on, she felt her spirits lift. She returned to the morning room, found a large envelope, and filled it with all the cards, invitations, and other pieces of correspondence she’d found in Chloë’s escritoire. The desk calendar wouldn’t go into it, so she tucked it under her arm.

One way or another, she was going to track her friend down. On that resolute thought, she left the room.

As soon as he saw Mrs. Chesney leave in a hackney, Jacob Fry—not his real name—left the conservatory and presented himself at the back door. He’d been hired on as a part-time odd-job man when the regular man met with an unfortunate accident, which Fry had contrived only a week ago. It was just a broken arm, but it prevented Mr. Cable from performing his duties. In addition to taking care of the heavy work in the garden, the odd man had to stoke the furnace for the conservatory, bring in wood and coal for the many fireplaces, clean and fill the oil lamps, and generally make himself useful. It was a perfect cover for someone who wanted to have the run of both the house and grounds without rousing anyone’s suspicions.

Of course, he had to evade the vigilant eyes of old Sykes and Mrs. Paige, but Jacob was good at avoiding detection. That’s what made him so highly sought after. He was a Bow Street Runner turned bad. If the price was right, he was game for anything.

Today, Sunday, he had a free hand. Sykes wouldn’t be in till tomorrow, and Mrs. Paige would be reading her Bible. Nobody would be keeping an eye on him.

On this occasion, he didn’t want access to the various rooms in the house. He’d already been through them, searching for anything that might look like a diary. He’d found nothing. What he wanted now was information.

He couldn’t help thinking that whoever found that diary could make his fortune by selling it to the highest bidder.

Libby opened the door to him. He knew how to play her. She was only a servant, but he treated her as though she were a duchess.

He’d already removed his cap. “I’d best clean and oil those lamps now,” he said, “unless there’s something else you’d ’ave me do?”

She ushered him inside with a laugh. “You never stop, do you, Mr. Fry?”

“That’s what I’m paid for, Miss Libby. An honest day’s work for an honest day’s wages, that’s what I say.”

“You sound just like my da.” A wistful look came over her face. “He’s been gone five years now and I still miss him something fierce.”

Fry was well aware of it. “A man after my own heart,” he said, and was rewarded with a grateful smile.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, “and when you’ve seen to the lamps, we’ll have a nice cup o’ tea before you go.”

That was exactly what Jacob wanted to hear.

An hour later, when he left the house, he was feeling let down. It didn’t look as though he’d be selling the diary to the highest bidder after all. Mrs. Chesney had asked all the servants if they knew anything about her ladyship’s diary, but no one had.

All he could do now was make his report. Mrs. Chesney didn’t know where the diary was. She didn’t know where Lady Webberley was, or so she said. He was sure he could frighten the information out of her if only he could get her alone. It would have to be away from the house. The conservatory came to mind.

It was something to think about. Meantime, he had a report to make.

C
hapter
10

T
he following morning, Jo dressed with care. This was London at the height of the Season. She would be calling on fashionable society ladies. She didn’t want them to think she was a country bumpkin.

Even at the best of times, her wardrobe lacked panache. That’s what Chloë called it,
panache
. By that she meant flair and style. The trouble was, after John died, she’d become involved with the newspaper, and there didn’t seem much point in dressing up when there was no one special to please. She wasn’t a dowd by any means, but she didn’t keep up with the latest fashions. Now, as she studied her reflection in the looking glass, she wished she’d listened to Chloë. She looked like a colorless little governess.

The day was warming up nicely when she descended from her hackney in Berkeley Square, right outside Lady Langston’s house. She paid off the driver, mounted the stairs, and was admitted by a cheerful maid who told her to wait and she would see if her mistress was at home. This was a polite way of saying that the maid would ask whether her mistress wished to receive this particular visitor or not. On this occasion, Jo was sure of her welcome. After all, it was Lady Langston who had sent for her.

She was just beginning to feel the awkwardness of perhaps being turned away when the rustle of skirts on the staircase alerted her to the presence of, she presumed, Lady Langston.

“My dear Mrs. Chesney,” said that lady, coming forward and offering Jo her hand. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last. Chloë has told me so much about you. I have a snug little dressing room, so much more comfortable than the drafty drawing room. And I feel as though you are a friend. No need for ceremony between us.” And in this warm and effusive vein, she led the way upstairs.

The dressing room turned out to be a cozy parlor and reminded Jo of Chloë’s morning room. The escritoire was littered with correspondence; there was an untidy welter of books on the bookcase and sideboard, and the same pots of orchis on a table close to the window but not too close. It would never do for rare plants to catch a chill.

“Let me ring for refreshments.” Lady Langston pulled the bell rope beside the fireplace as she spoke.

Jo’s focus shifted to her ladyship. She judged her to be in her mid to late fifties. Her chubby cheeks were bunched in a smile; her eyes mirrored a friendly interest. She wore a fussy taffeta gown of dark plum that did nothing to flatter her buxom figure. Jo had a vision of the overstuffed maroon-colored sofa in her mother’s drawing room. It was very comfortable.

When they were both seated, her ladyship began. “What news of Chloë?”

Jo shook her head. “I think you must know more than I do. It was only yesterday I learned that she’d visited Lady Brinsley at her place in Oxfordshire.”

“Brinsley Hall,” her ladyship confirmed with a nod. “Didn’t I mention it in my letter?”

“No, not one word.”

“Oh, dear.” Lady Langston’s face lost some of its animation. “I think I took it for granted that you knew. It was a house party, just a small group of us, all members of the Horticultural Society. Elinor had invited us to show off the improvements she’d made to her conservatory. The earl was there, but he didn’t stay long, and we had a lovely time talking about gardens and walking around the grounds. The place is steeped in history, you know.”

“Elinor? That would be Lady Brinsley?”

“Yes. And her son was there, Viscount Morden. A nice young man.”

Jo knew all about the Horticultural Society. It was one of Chloë’s passions. That’s where she’d met Lady Brinsley. There was a method in this, Chloë said, because it opened doors for Lady Tellall. She would have been making copious notes in her diary for her London Life column.

“Is the viscount a member of your society?”

Lady Langston laughed. “I can’t see Morden getting his hands and boots grubby. He’s too fashionable for us, and we’re too old for him. No. Elinor had prevailed on him to be our guide. I told you the place is steeped in history. The Romans were there first, though there’s little left of them but a few statues and such like. The monks came next and built a monastery on the ruins of the Roman villa. Morden knows everything, and he’s very good about showing visitors around. It’s quite an education.”

“What happened to the monastery?”

“That became Brinsley Hall—all done over, of course, to make it comfortable.”

The thought that occurred to Jo couldn’t be voiced aloud. She was thinking that Chloë was, like Morden, too young for the gardening crowd.

She knew about Morden from Chloë’s column, but all that she could remember was that he came from a proud and illustrious family and was about to marry into another proud and illustrious family. Blue bloods, Chloë said, cared about things like that. He wasn’t colorful in the way that Waldo was colorful. Come to think of it, Chloë was colorful too.

She said, “When did you last see Chloë?”

“That last night, before we all went to bed. But I knew she wanted to get away early the next morning, so when I didn’t see her for breakfast, I thought nothing of it. Since then, I’ve talked to Elinor and to several of our mutual friends, and they haven’t seen or heard from her either.”

“You talked to Lady Brinsley?”

“I did.”

“Here, in town?”

“Yes. But she’s not here now. Elinor finds town life too harrowing. She prefers the country. All the same, there are engagements she must press herself to attend. She was here only a day or so ago to preside at a reception for her son’s betrothed. There are other functions planned that she must attend, so I expect to see her in town before long.”

“I see.” It didn’t sound as though she would be speaking to Lady Brinsley in the near future.

Lady Langston looked down at her clasped hands. When she looked up her expression was grave. “You’re like me, aren’t you?” she said. “You think that something dreadful must have happened to Chloë, some terrible accident?”

“I don’t know what I believe,” Jo said.

She debated whether to tell Lady Langston about Chloë’s alarming note and decided against it. Chloë had warned her to be careful, that she might be in danger, and she took that warning to heart.

But the note reminded her of something.

She said carefully, “I’m surprised Chloë didn’t write to me from Brinsley Hall, just to advise me when to expect her. And she knew I’d love to have a sample of Lady Brinsley’s notepaper.”

Lady Langston looked at her blankly for a moment or two before enlightenment dawned. “Oh, you mean with the earl’s crest emblazoned on the top?”

“A leopard’s head,” supplied Jo.

“Yes. I believe you are right. Perhaps she meant to take a sample of notepaper with her when she left.”

That was one piece of the puzzle solved. Chloë had written that note when she was at Brinsley Hall, probably that last night. Then the letter should have arrived more than two weeks ago, not four days ago. What was the reason for the delay?

This was hopeless. One problem was solved only to be replaced by another.

Jo said, “Lady Langston, you must have been one of the last people to see Chloë. I want to know what went on at that house party. I want to know the names of those who were there, what was said, and if anything out of the ordinary happened. Someone must have seen Chloë leave. She can’t have disappeared into thin air. Take your time and tell me everything you remember.”

Lady Langston regarded Jo sadly for a moment, as though she understood her reluctance to think the worst, then she began to speak. “Chloë and I were fortunate to be invited by Lord and Lady Skene to travel up with them. We arrived in the evening in good spirits, and after unpacking, we dressed for a late-night supper, which was laid out in the dining room.” She stopped and shook her head. “This is impossible. We went for walks. We played cards in the evening, or entertained ourselves at the piano. We spent part of every day in Elinor’s conservatory, or admiring the grounds and gardens. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Jo understood the older woman’s frustration. She didn’t know where to begin either. After thinking about it for a moment, she said, “What happened that last night? Who was there? Who said what? Perhaps someone invited Chloë to another house party or planted the idea in her mind of going off somewhere else. Don’t try to pick out what’s important. Just go over that last evening as you remember it.”

Lady Langston tried to remember, but it was obvious she was beginning to feel harried. However, two facts came to light. The first was that Chloë had hired a chaise to take her to Stratford, since she wouldn’t be returning with the others to London. The second fact was that her boxes were not at the Hall.

“Her boxes?” said Jo.

“For her clothes. Everyone’s boxes had been brought down the night before, for those who wanted to get an early start. Chloë’s boxes were not there. When I asked about it, I was told that Chloë had left long before breakfast.”

“Who told you that?”

“I . . . one of the servants, I think.”

They were interrupted when a footman and maid arrived with the tea things. Jo could see why her hostess was well upholstered. Tea and biscuits turned out to be a veritable feast. There were cream buns, buttered scones, macaroons, seedcake, and finally, an array of biscuits, all displayed to mouthwatering perfection on a three-tiered stand.

As they demolished one tier of dainties after another, the conversation became general, but Jo soon brought it back to what most interested her, the Brinsleys’ house party. There were only a dozen guests, and most of the names were known to her, but the ones that stood out were the ones she’d read about in Chloë’s column or were among the ladies who had left their calling cards at Chloë’s house.

“As I told you,” said her ladyship, “they know as little as I, at least the ones I’ve talked to. No one is particularly perturbed. Everyone seems to think that Chloë will turn up in her own good time.” A thought struck her. “You should talk to Elinor. She will be in town soon to make arrangements for a ball she’ll be giving next month to mark her son’s engagement to Lady Margaret Kintyre—you know, the marquess’s daughter?”

Shortly after this exchange, Jo rose to leave. Her ladyship walked her to the front door. They parted with promises on each side to keep in touch and let the other know if anything turned up.

Once on the pavement, Jo looked at her watch and decided that there was more than enough time to pay a call on the ladies whose cards she’d taken from Chloë’s house, or at least those who were also at Brinsley Hall at the crucial time. But it was really Lady Brinsley she wished to question. She’d just have to wait until her ladyship came to town.