Shady Lady (14 page)

“Chloë is not a threat to national security!”

“No, I didn’t suppose she was, but she’s a threat to someone, else why would he take the file of her notes? You’re sure of that, Jo? You’re sure that the file was missing?”

“Perfectly sure. But I don’t know why anyone would want it—I mean, it was already published in the
Journal
for anyone to read.”

“I see.” He lapsed into silence and stared at the fire.

“Waldo,” said Jo impatiently, “what are you thinking?”

He stretched his cramped muscles. “I was thinking about you and Chloë. You’re so different from each other that I can’t help wondering what made you such close friends.”

She looked for mockery and found none. “Yes,” she said softly, “I suppose Chloë and I seem unlikely friends. If we’d met in the usual way, at some assembly or in a lady’s drawing room, we probably wouldn’t have had anything to say to each other. She loves the social whirl, while I’m more of a stay-at-home.” She frowned when he chuckled.

He spread his hands. “I’m sorry. You and Chloë are unlikely friends? Go on. I’m truly interested.”

He seemed sincere, so she went on. “You could say our friendship began as a meeting of minds. Chloë subscribed to the
Journal
and wrote copious letters to the editor, letters that I answered. In time, we just wrote to each other.” She smiled as a memory came back to her. “There was hardly a subject we agreed on—the war with France, the Corn Laws, the rights of women. And when we finally met, we didn’t disappoint each other. We were opposites, all right.”

Her face softened and she blinked rapidly. “None of that mattered in the slightest. Somehow or other, in our copious correspondence, we’d become close friends. In fact, we were like sisters.”

She sat back and looked up at him. “It was Chloë who persuaded me to take over the reins of the
Journal
when John died. It was her idea to become Lady Tellall. She’s the best woman friend I’ve ever had. If our positions were reversed, she would move heaven and earth to find me. That’s the kind of friend she is. And I won’t give up looking for her either.”

His smile brought a quick frown to her brow. “Now what are you thinking?” she asked.

“Lucky Chloë, to have a friend like you.”

She gave a wistful sigh. “I think I’ll need more than luck to find her. I hardly know where to begin.”

“You’ve made an excellent beginning! Let’s—how did you put it—infiltrate the ranks of Chloë’s friends and make discreet inquiries. They’re more likely to talk to us than magistrates or Bow Street Runners. But let’s not be too obvious about it. We don’t want to frighten anyone into doing something rash.”

“We?” she said hopefully. “You mean, you’ll help me?”

“How could I not?” He gazed at her through his lashes. “I never could resist a lady in distress.”

She felt as though a great shadow had been lifted from her heart. They were in this together. She wasn’t alone.

Libby entered at that moment. “Mr. Sykes is here,” she told Waldo.

“Show him in.” He got up.

Jo could tell that Sykes had spruced himself up for the interview. His thinning hair was neatly combed over his balding pate. His coat was clean and his boots were shined. He’d been with Chloë since before her marriage. She chided herself for not talking to him before this. He would feel Chloë’s loss as keenly as anyone.

His face grave, Sykes said, “You was right, Mrs. Chesney. Someone as shouldn’t be there was in the conservatory. Some of ’er ladyship’s prize plants has been trampled. The work o’ hooligans, I shouldn’t wonder. There’s lads in this neighborhood that’s let out all hours o’ the day and night. Too much money and too much time on their hands is what I says. Their parents should know better.”

Jo looked at Waldo. He hadn’t been convinced that there was an intruder in the conservatory. “What did I tell you?”

Waldo’s gaze was fixed on Sykes. “Was anything else destroyed or trampled? Was anything of value taken?”

“Not as I could see. But them plants is valuable. Her ladyship won’t like it when she finds out. She’d as lief they ran off with the silver than hurt her precious nurslings.”

“How did they get in?”

Sykes shifted uncomfortably. “The doors are never locked.” He hastened to add, “Her ladyship did not think it was necessary. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“How many gardeners and outside workers are there?”

“Four, counting myself.”

“Find them and meet me in the conservatory in, say, half an hour.”

When Sykes left, Waldo sat down. His expression was grave. “From now on, I don’t want you going anywhere alone. Do you understand?”

She said slowly, “It wasn’t the work of hooligans, was it?”

“I don’t think so. Hooligans aren’t tidy. They run amok. They break windows in glass houses, not trample a few plants. This intruder was careful. He probably doesn’t even know he trampled some of Chloë’s precious plants. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s been here.”

When he paused, Jo said, “Do you think he was looking for Chloë’s diary?”

“I don’t think there’s any doubt of it.”

“In the conservatory? Why would she hide it in the conservatory?”

“I have no idea. Maybe she didn’t, or maybe our intruder knows more than we do. Maybe he found it and that’s the last we’ll see of him.”

“And maybe,” she said fiercely, “he should look over his shoulder, because I’ll be there. I won’t stop until I’ve found him or found Chloë. I swear it.”

There was a long pause, then Waldo smiled. “I wouldn’t be in his boots for anything. Now, finish your hot toddy and I’ll take you home. We’ll talk in the carriage and decide where we go from here.”

There was another thought circling his mind that he did not voice. Maybe the intruder had hoped to lure Jo into the conservatory and frighten her into telling him where Chloë’s diary was hidden. And when he discovered that she didn’t know, what then?

C
hapter
14

T
he push to find Chloë began a few days later when Jo moved into her friend’s house along with her aunt and Eric. She hated to impose on her aunt, but she couldn’t afford to shock the very society she wanted to impress by living alone with only maids for company. A suitable chaperon was an essential accessory. Chloë was different. She was an original and could break society’s rules, up to a point.

Waldo wasn’t too happy with the idea, not after the episode with the intruder, but Jo was persuasive. If Chloë’s friends came calling, she wanted to be there to receive them. As for repelling another intruder, she had borrowed her aunt’s pistol and she wasn’t afraid to use it. Waldo gave way, but only after making a few arrangements to ensure her safety. Sergeant Harper moved in as well, and extra gardeners were hired on, whose main job was to patrol the grounds when Harper could not be there.

Before they had unpacked, one interesting fact came to light. One of the gardeners, Jacob Fry, had, in Harper’s words, taken off like one of Congreve’s rockets.

“Do you think he was the intruder?” Jo asked.

Harper replied, “Captain Bowman thinks so.”

“Maybe he found the diary and that’s why he has run away.”

“He didn’t run away until he heard that he was wanted up at the house. Well, I was questioning all the gardeners, wasn’t I? He has something to hide, that one.”

After this conversation, she went through the house room by room, drawer by drawer, and still found nothing. The trouble was, she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for—a notebook, a diary, letters, a key—and as far as she knew, there were no secret drawers in any of the dressers or commodes.

In the meantime, she had plenty to occupy her. She sent letters to Stratford: one to Mac Nevin at the
Journal
, advising him of her situation and that it might be weeks before she returned, and the other to a friend and neighbor, Maeve Halliday, with a list of garments and other odds and ends to be sent on to augment her wardrobe. She spent the mornings with Eric, making sure he did his lessons or playing with him on the grounds, but her afternoons and evenings were to be reserved for Waldo.

She was anxious to begin questioning all Chloë’s friends and acquaintances, not only those who were present at that fateful house party.

Waldo advised her to be patient. These people were the cream of society. It was better to establish herself before trying to gain admittance to their hallowed halls. His mother, he was sure, would help sponsor her when he put the whole matter of Chloë’s disappearance before her. In the meantime, he was not idle. He was using his connections to find out about Chloë’s movements before she disappeared.

Over the next little while, with Waldo as their escort, she and Mrs. Daventry went to the opera, the theater, museums, and art galleries, all in the cause of increasing Jo’s circle of acquaintances. At first, it was nerve-racking. She wasn’t used to wearing fine clothes or making herself stand out in such exalted company, but day by day, her confidence increased, and to her surprise, she found that she was enjoying herself.

Much of the credit could go to Waldo. When she faltered, he would be there with a steadying hand on her elbow. When conversation lagged, he would unobtrusively fill in the gaps. When anyone asked her awkward questions, he would invariably lead her into answering vaguely though diplomatically. What he could not help her with were those moments of madness when a look from him, a gesture, would rekindle all those unsettling sensations she’d experienced when she’d worn the red dress.

It was the first time Jo had been out with Waldo unchaperoned. He’d arrived in his curricle, a vehicle that could seat only two comfortably, and had whisked her away before she had time to think. They were going to Hyde Park to see and be seen by all the fashionables who were out for a breath of fresh air. Jo knew she looked smart in her borrowed finery—an amber velvet pelisse with a matching bonnet. The color warmed her skin and made the red in her hair, in Jo’s opinion, less fiery, and the gleam of admiration in Waldo’s eyes was immensely satisfying.

It was now that Jo appreciated Waldo’s strategy. As they made the circuit of the park, she was surprised at how many faces she recognized. From time to time, their curricle was waved to a halt and Waldo would introduce Jo. It was becoming hard to memorize so many names. There was one, however, that was familiar to her.

“Morden,” said Waldo under his breath, “Lord Brinsley’s heir, and the lady with him is his betrothed, Lady Margaret Kintyre.”

The couple in question detached themselves from a small group of pedestrians at the edge of the drive and made their way to Waldo’s curricle. As parasols bobbed in the warm breeze and ladies curtsied, Jo had a vision of a field of spring flowers in all their delicate colors. It made her feel quite dashing in her amber pelisse. She wondered if anyone would recognize it.

The viscount was, Jo judged, a year or two older than Waldo, above-average height, and well-built rather than athletic. His features were regular and commanded by a pair of piercing blue eyes. He might have been considered a fine figure of a man except that there was an air of complacency about him that spoiled the effect.

Lady Margaret was a perfect match for the viscount, at least as appearances went. She was tall with fair hair and fine hazel eyes, but her expression lacked animation.

Waldo made the introductions and by way of explanation added that Jo had come up to town to visit her friend, Lady Webberley, only Lady Webberley was nowhere to be found.

Lady Margaret seemed startled, but Morden took the news in his stride. “Yes, I’d heard something to the effect,” he said. “My mother is quite anxious since, as far as we know, no one has seen Lady Webberley since she was a guest at our place in Oxfordshire.”

Jo said, “I should very much like to speak with your mother, Lord Morden. There may be something she knows about Chloë—that is, Lady Webberley—or something she remembers that could help me find her. Is she still fixed at Brinsley Hall?”

Morden’s eyes widened slightly. “No. She arrived in town yesterday, but I doubt that she knows anything or she would have told me. I shall certainly mention your concern to her, though.” He seemed to search for words, then went on, “Unfortunately, her health is uncertain and I would not wish to upset her.”

“I understood,” said Waldo conversationally, “that Lady Brinsley is to preside at your annual ball?”

Blood darkened Morden’s complexion. He answered abruptly, “Quite so. But ladies take pleasure in arranging balls. As I already told you, my mother is quite anxious about Lady Webberley, and I know I speak for my father as well when I say that we do not wish to add to that anxiety.”

This time, it was Waldo who spoke abruptly. “Of course. You and your father, however, can have no objection to answering a few questions. Not here, certainly. I shall wait on you at your convenience.”

Her eyes bright with curiosity, Lady Margaret said, “Should you not report your friend’s disappearance to the authorities, Mrs. Chesney?”

There was real interest here, and Jo responded to it warmly. “That has already been done, Lady Margaret, but there isn’t much they can do. You see, my friend comes and goes as she pleases. My own anxiety may be premature.”

“All the same . . .” A look from the viscount had Lady Margaret stumbling to a halt.

“Come along, Margaret,” said the viscount, his voice thin with impatience. “Your chaperon will be wondering what has become of us.” Then to Jo, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Chesney. Bowman.” He tipped his hat and sauntered off with Lady Margaret on his arm.

“Well,” said Jo. “What was that all about?”

“As you may have gathered, I cannot abide the man.”

“Why not?”

Waldo flicked the reins and the curricle moved off. “Morden,” he said, “has an exaggerated opinion of himself, an opinion, I may add, that was shared by his doting parents and the teachers at Eton, at least when I knew him well. He never got up to mischief like ordinary boys. His homework was always handed in on time, his desk was always neat. He didn’t sneak out to the tuck shop when he should have been in school. In fact, he never put a foot wrong. You can imagine what his classmates thought of that.”

“He sounds like a paragon of virtue.”

“Yes, and who can like a paragon?”

She looked at him sharply, wondering if this was a reference to John, but Waldo gazed back at her with guileless eyes.

“We were in the same form,” he said.

“I’m surprised. He looks older than you.”

“No. In fact, he’s a few months younger. What did you think of him?”

Jo made a face and Waldo laughed.

Someone called Waldo’s name and Viscount Morden was forgotten as he reined in his team and the next round of introductions was made.

They were on their second circuit of the park when Jo remarked that Waldo had a wide circle of friends.

He slowed his team to a walk, following in the wake of a line of carriages. “If you were not sitting beside me, no one would pay me the least attention. It’s you that has got them curious. You’re fast becoming the talk of the
ton
.”

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “What are they saying about me?”

“They’re calling you the ‘Shady Lady.’ ”

“What?”

“It means
woman of mystery
.”

“I know what it means, but I don’t see how I fit that description. I’ve only just arrived in town. What do they expect—my life history?”

He laughed. “In a word, yes. Even my family is curious.” He thought for a moment, then added, “
Especially
my family.”

“What have you told them?”

“I can’t tell them what I don’t know. As for what I do know, I’ve given them an edited version of the truth: namely, that we were introduced at some unspecified date in the past by a mutual friend in Stratford, that we met again on the road to town, and when you learned that your friend, Lady Webberley, was missing, not knowing anyone in London, you came to me for help.”

“You didn’t tell them about Bow Street,” she blurted out.

He grinned. “No. I’m saving that for when they know you better. Nor did I tell them that you have an active role in running a newspaper.”

She knew he was warning her for her own good. Ladies of fashion did not dabble in business. They whiled away the hours in a round of pleasure or devoted themselves to good works.

And just as though he could read her mind, he said, “Two of my closest friends are married to women who are much like you. One runs her own rare-book business, and the other writes pieces for various periodicals, yes, and makes a fair bit of money at it.”

She was astounded. “And their husbands don’t mind?”

“Apparently not.”

She laughed. “Sounds to me, Waldo, that you’re not sure whether you approve or not.”

“Let’s say I’m warming to the idea. What about your husband, Jo? Did he mind?”

“Oh, John would never have allowed it. Like most men, he believed that a woman’s place was in the home. Things changed when I became a widow. I had to find something to occupy my time, and the
Journal
was right there.” She looked at him quizzically. “Everyone needs something useful to do, Waldo, even you.”

He treated her to one of his lazy grins. “I’ve already found something useful to do, Jo.”

“Oh? What?”

“Keeping you out of trouble.”

A white terrier dog suddenly crossed their path, frightening the horses, but Waldo’s capable hands on the reins easily subdued them. Jo tensed then relaxed when she observed how deftly Waldo handled his team of bays.

A stray thought flitted into her head, and before she could stop it, those unsettling sensations were making her catch her breath. She was remembering those capable hands moving over her, touching her intimately, arousing her to an unbearable pitch. She gritted her teeth and started to count sheep.

She was just beginning to relax when Waldo said, “Now, don’t be alarmed, but my mother and sisters are anxious to meet you. I’ve agreed to accompany them some afternoon this week. There’s nothing to fear. They’re determined to like you if only to please me.”

She didn’t know why there were butterflies in her stomach. She’d known that Waldo was going to introduce her to his mother and sisters, but not quite so soon.

“You mentioned sisters,” she said. “Which ones?”

“A married sister, Maude, who has left her husband and sons in the country and come up to town to help my mother with Cecy. Cecy is the youngest, by the way, and I’m warning you now that, appearances to the contrary, she is a minx, so be on your guard.”

She dredged up a smile. “I’ve heard all about you and your sisters from my aunt.”

“Oh, what did she tell you?”

Her eyes glinted up at him. “Oh, everything was to your credit. Aunt Daventry is one of your greatest admirers.”

“Now, there’s a woman of discrimination.”

Jo laughed.

A moment went by, then Waldo said, “Well, Shady Lady, are you going to keep me in suspense or are you going to tell me about yourself? Why are you so secretive?”

She let out a tight little breath. Finally, she said, “What do you want to know?”

“You can begin by telling me about your parents.”

She exhaled another tight little breath. “My father writes plays. Sir Vivian Moore. You may have heard of him? He is retired now and lives with my mother in a nice little property just outside Dublin.”

“Sir Vivian is your father? Gertrude Moore is your mother?”

“Is that so astonishing?”

“Frankly, yes.”

She knew what he was thinking. Everyone knew about her parents and the wild lives they’d led. No one would ever take her for their daughter.

She looked at him as though she did not like him at all. “I suppose you assumed that my father was a vicar?”

He began to laugh. “Hardly. You’re too enterprising to be a vicar’s daughter, though I will say that sometimes you dress the part. I suppose you moved around a great deal when you were a child?”