Undesirable Liaison (6 page)

No
consternation was visible in the two countenances, though they
exchanged a look of question. The butler gave a slight shrug, but
the housekeeper addressed him in a tone of perplexity.

‘I can’t think
her ladyship would care to be disturbed, but I could ask
Gilmerton.’

Flo noted the
butler’s visible relief, but her attention had caught on the
existence of Lady Langriville. Had she after all added two and two
up to make five? But the housekeeper was on the move.

‘Pray come with
me, ma’am, and I will take you to Miss Gilmerton. She is her
ladyship’s personal maid.’

Now they were
getting somewhere. Florence rose with alacrity, taking up the cloak
bag in which she had placed the greatcoat dress and a few
necessities for the journey. Most fortunately, her quarry’s estates
had proved to be situated in the neighbourhood of East Bedfont and
Ashford, an easy distance of two to three hours on the stage.

Ever practical,
Flo had deemed it sensible to bring a change of underclothing and
other personal items, just in case. Leaving Bel under the
protection of their landlady, Mrs Halvergate, she had set out in
the early hours, determined to track down ownership of the ruby.
She had not doubted the wisdom of her actions until her
arrival.

Now, faced with
a second Lady Langriville to be fitted into the puzzle, Flo felt a
deal less positive. She was relieved to be meeting the maid rather
than the mistress. At least she might discover just how matters
stood before she unburdened herself of discomfiting facts that were
rapidly becoming troublesome.

The way taken
by Mrs Brumby took them down into the bowels of the mansion, to an
area occupied by the household staff. A set of confusing corridors
led past a variety of closets and apartments, emanating sounds of
bustle and activity, to a back stair. Climbing up two long flights,
they gained the first floor and re-entered the house proper.
Passing down a silent carpeted corridor of panelled walls,
ornamented by paintings interspersed with wall-sconces, they
stopped finally at a small door flush with the wall, upon which the
housekeeper rapped.

A voice from
within invited them to enter, and Flo followed Mrs Brumby into a
chamber almost as big as the room she and Bel were occupying in
Poland Street, but which was evidently a lady’s dressing room.
Among a plethora of presses and chests, a neat-garbed female was
engaged in sorting a pile of clean linen into appropriate
drawers.

She called a
greeting to the housekeeper, which fell into silence as she took in
Florence behind. While Mrs Brumby explained her presence, Flo had
leisure to examine Miss Gilmerton. A female clad in black
bombazine, and well into her middle years, with a glimpse of grey
visible under a white cap, was a surprise.

‘Great
heavens,’ uttered Flo unthinkingly, ‘you are a far cry from poor
Miss Pinxton!’

Her words
brought about a sudden silence. Both women stared at her, shock
spreading across each face. Florence silently cursed her unwary
tongue, but it was too late. A frown was gathering in Miss
Gilmerton’s eyes, which narrowed in a disconcerting fashion. Mrs
Brumby, by contrast, was going red again, puffing out her cheeks as
if she could not contain a growing indignation.

‘You never said
anything about Pinxton before. What do you mean by it? Who are you?
What do you know of Pinxton?’

Flo knew not
how to reply, but she was saved the trouble by the intervention of
Miss Gilmerton.

‘Ma’am, you
have mentioned a name well known to us. Pray will you explain how
you come to know it?’

There was
little point in withholding this much. ‘I met Miss Pinxton last
week.’

‘Lord a’ mercy,
where
?’ gasped the housekeeper.

‘In
London.’

Mrs Brumby was
moved to bless herself, turning to her colleague. ‘London! All this
time—!’

‘We do not know
they have been in London throughout,’ pointed out Miss Gilmerton.
‘Indeed, it has been supposed they have been for the most part upon
the Continent.’

Florence’s mind
was alive with interest as the woman turned once more to face her,
trouble in her eyes.

‘I had best
take you to my mistress, the dowager.’

Flo blinked.
‘Dowager?’

‘The Dowager
Lady Langriville. She will doubtless be further distressed, but I
cannot think she would wish not to know of this.’

Then the lady
was a parent rather than a wife. Florence’s pulse quickened. Was
this Lord Langriville indeed the spouse of the unfortunate creature
whose gown she had inherited? The remembrance of Belinda’s words
came back to her. What sort of a man was he, who could allow his
wife to come so miserably to grief?

‘For my part,’
interpolated the housekeeper, ‘I think we’d best ask Mr Fewston to
go back to his lordship.’

But, to Flo’s
relief, Miss Gilmerton shook her head.

‘I should not
dare bring any such matter to his ears. Not until the sum of it is
known. No, we will let my lady decide.’

‘Can she, do
you think? If we are shocked, how will it affect her ladyship? You
know how frail she is.’

The maid
remained firm. ‘Recollect Lady Painscastle is present. She can be
relied upon to steer my lady in the best direction.’

Mrs Brumby’s
face cleared. ‘I had forgot. You are very right, Miss G. That will
be best. Do you take Miss Petrie in, for I declare I am so put
about I don’t know what I should say to her ladyship.’

Bemused by
these hints, but triumphant, Florence followed the maid through a
connecting door into an elegant saloon and thence to a homely
parlour occupied by two elderly ladies. Drawing a breath for
courage, Flo made ready to embark upon her explanation.

***

Jerome’s mood
had lightened. Attempting to get back into Plato, his eyes had
passed over a page or more without his taking in much of what he
read, when a realisation had seeped into his brain. An explanation
for the puzzling conduct of his butler, preying upon a
half-conscious portion of his mind, had abruptly taken form.

Some phrase
concerning delicacy? Lord, no wonder Brumby had been insistent! His
half-witted housekeeper must have supposed the female in the case
to have been one of his lightskirts. What, did she think he
conducted his
affaires
in so haphazard a fashion he was
prone to be hunted down by some misguided doxy?

The notion
caused a spasm of mordant humour and he laughed aloud. Invite more
scandal into his household? He hoped he had learned a little more
sense. Wifeless for seven years, none could suppose him a saint.
But one might expect a trifle of prudence from a man past thirty.
His mistresses, such as they were, had been carefully selected—for
their way of life or, in the case of the one female of his own
class with whom he had been involved, the nicety of her discretion.
He had long ago trained himself to avoid entanglements based on
passion, an unreliable gauge, to say the least, as he had good
reason to know.

Jerome would
have thought his butler had been better acquainted with him.
Recalling the brief interview, it struck him that Fewston had
exhibited a good deal of discomfort. Persuaded by Brumby against
his better judgement? Not that he supposed either of them had put
their suspicions into words. Yet now he came to think of it, what
else might anyone suppose? The oddity of the event came home to
him.

If the female
in question was not here to hound him for an imagined slight, then
what the devil did she want? A slight sensation, perhaps of
apprehension, went through him. But before he could look to its
cause, the door behind him was heard to open and he suffered
another interruption.

‘Langriville!’

The voice
sounded urgent. Damnation! His Aunt Phoebe alone would fail to
respect his desire for privacy. Quashing his irritation, he set
aside his book again and rose from his chair to face her as she
marched into his sanctum.

A woman of
formidable stature, Lady Painscastle appeared to dwarf the bay,
although Jerome could give her several inches. Dressed in a
fashionable morning gown of purple grosgrain, with a cap partially
concealing her lush black hair—which owed something, Jerome
suspected, to artifice, for his mother’s had faded largely to
silver—she thrust her Roman nose at him in a manner that reminded
him forcibly of an excited eagle.

‘What is it
now?’ asked Jerome, not troubling to conceal his annoyance.

‘You are
wishing me otherwhere, I dare swear,’ she began, ‘for Avice always
claims you hate to be disturbed.’

‘Quite so, I
loathe it, especially in my library.’

‘But this,’
went on his aunt as if he had not spoken, ‘will not wait.’

Jerome gave an
exaggerated sigh. ‘What will not wait?’

For a wonder,
Lady Painscastle hesitated, as if she hardly knew how to begin. Her
quick gaze raked his face, as if she sought for inspiration there.
Jerome became impatient.

‘Well,
Aunt?’

She gave a
little shake of her head, looked away and back again. ‘There is no
easy way to say this, Langriville. A woman has come here with news
of a nature which—in short—’

‘I wish you
might make it short.’ The significance of her words sank in. ‘Lord,
do you tell me the female is still here? I told Fewston to send her
away. Devil take it, does no one in this house have respect for my
wishes?’

‘If that is so,
you may be thankful on this occasion,’ said his aunt on a tart
note.

Jerome
compressed his lips, eyeing her with dislike. Much to his
amazement, she made no further reference to his protest, but
instead came up to him, her hands reaching out to grip his
forearms. Her eyes were bright, luminous almost, and the pressure
of her fingers increased.

‘Jerome, my
dear, if what the woman says is true, you are
free
! It is
over, and you may marry again with impunity. Laetitia is gone. Your
wife, if ever she was truly that, is dead.’

Chapter
Three

The Little
Parlour, into which Florence had been conducted, was situated two
doors off the main hall. It was arrived at by passage through a
large apartment, which boasted, notwithstanding a cosy arrangement
of upholstered sofas and armchairs before the fireplace, several
tables scattered about with attendant chairs, which explained its
designation by her guide as the card room.

‘Be seated,
miss,’ instructed Mrs Brumby, not without a disapproving sniff as
she gestured to a small sofa set at the far side of the
fireplace.

Since there was
but one other chair, placed before a harpsichord taking up almost
one side of the little room, Florence could make no other choice.
Once seated, she was aware of sudden weakness in her limbs. Buoyed
by the consciousness of doing right, she had braved all without
flinching. Only now, with the prospect before her of confronting
the master of the house, Flo began to feel as if her bones had
turned to jelly. She had come here for this precise purpose, but in
light of her interview with the dowager, she was unable to look
forward to it with composure.

The elder Lady
Langriville, a frail creature wearing an expression of settled
melancholy, had been both confused and upset by the story Florence
related. Had it not been for the presence of another woman,
formidable both in manner and appearance, Flo might have had
difficulty making the matter plain.

As it was,
neither lady apparently had the slightest interest in the discovery
of the jewel, which had brought her thus far. It had been in her
possession for all of five days and she had thought of nothing
else. But her hosts had fastened upon the role played in the tale
by the ruby’s owner, asking questions Florence was unequipped to
answer.

When exactly
had the lady died? Had she been long in London? Why had not Pinxton
written to inform them? How dared she continue to style herself
Lady Langriville? These, and other queries Florence deemed equally
rhetorical, she had been obliged to turn off with no satisfactory
response.

‘You had best
see my son,’ had announced the dowager at length, wafting a vague
hand and turning, presumably for support, to the stronger
female.

The latter had
taken charge. ‘I will see Langriville. He must know of this at
once. I imagine he will wish to question the girl. I will direct
Brumby to take her to the Little Parlour.’ Her beak of a nose had
turned in Flo’s direction. ‘Have the goodness to wait outside this
room, if you please.’

Unused to be
dismissed in such a fashion, Florence had felt her feathers
ruffling. But she had dropped a curtsy and withdrawn into the
saloon next door without remark. Given the future she had mapped
out, she had best accustom herself to such treatment. In a few
moments, the housekeeper passed through, giving Flo no more than a
frowning look, and returned in a moment to lead her here to await
the coming of Lord Langriville. By which time, it had been borne in
upon Flo that the news of Lady Langriville’s death had excited the
most attention. Which meant his lordship must have had no previous
knowledge of it. A most unwelcome realisation.

Florence found
herself wondering if she might escape the encounter, and then
wishing she had at least taken pains to acquaint herself further
with Lady Langriville’s history. She must count herself a fool, and
could only suppose Lord Langriville would think so too. Had it not
been obvious from the outset there had been an estrangement in the
marriage? In her compassion for a creature brought low, Flo had
wondered at the cause, but failed to recognise this
implication.

She felt cold
all at once, and a shiver shook her. Her gaze caught the empty
grate within the fireplace, and a sudden wave of loneliness washed
over her. She was anxious, chilled and, as she now realised from
the growing emptiness at her stomach, beginning to be hungry. And
if Lord Langriville had any notion of browbeating her with
questions she could not answer, he would soon learn his
mistake.