Shady Lady (4 page)

Jo shook her head. There was so much Lady Langston had left out. How long had Chloë been missing? Who had last seen her? What did her friends and neighbors have to say?

Jo wasn’t terribly alarmed. Chloë was not only unpredictable, she was also thoughtless, not in a mean sense, but unthinking of the consequences of her actions. Impulsive, shocking, amusing, and fun to be with—that was Chloë.

She read Lady Langston’s letter again and decided that she might have been worried if she hadn’t known that a letter had arrived from Chloë that very morning. It was still in the
Journal
offices, unopened. What hadn’t arrived today, and she’d been expecting it, was Chloë’s copy for the next two editions of the paper. Chloë could never be pinned down to writing every week. Occasionally, nothing arrived, and Jo was left scrambling to fill the back page. She wondered if the letter that had arrived this morning was an apology from Chloë for the delay. She’d meant to take it home but had forgotten. She’d have to go back to her office and get it so that she could write by return to Lady Langston and tell her that everything was fine.

But she’d do it after dinner. By that time, surely there would be a letup in the rain.

The light was fading and it was still raining when they set off, Mrs. Daventry going to the rectory with the parcel for Eric, and Jo to her office in Waterside to get Chloë’s letter. The
Journal
’s offices were not far from the church, and the plan was that after they had done their errands, they would meet halfway and go home together.

All was quiet as Jo let herself in. She let down her umbrella and felt her way to the table in the corridor with the lamp on it. The tinderbox was kept in the drawer. She was groping for it when she heard something—a door opening, a step on the landing, something.

“Mac?” she called out. “It’s me, Jo.”

There was no response.

She must have been mistaken.

It took her only a moment to light the lamp and a few steps took her to her office. She set the lamp on her desk and went to the clothes closet where she kept her smock. The letter was still in the pocket.

She sat down at her desk, broke the wafer, and opened Chloë’s letter. She noticed the stamp at the top of the page, a leopard’s head, then she began to read.

My diary will explain everything.

Be careful, Jo. If I’m right, we could both be in mortal danger.

And that’s where the letter ended.

Shocked, Jo sat back in her chair, then read the message again. Was Chloë interrupted? If so, who had sent this? And what did she mean—
we could both be in mortal danger
?

She knew all about Chloë’s diary. It was a notebook that went everywhere with her. After every party, she would make notes to jog her memory when it came time to write her piece for the
Journal
. If the diary wasn’t with Chloë, Jo didn’t know where it could be.

She turned the note over and looked at the postmark. It had been posted in Oxfordshire, but that didn’t tell her much. Some postmarks had dates. This one didn’t. And all the country mail went through London. It wouldn’t have taken more than two days to reach Stratford. Yet Lady Langston’s letter implied Chloë had been missing for some time.

She looked again at the leopard’s head at the top of the page. It could be a family crest. Or the sign of an inn.

She glanced up when the flame in the lamp fluttered. A cold draft streamed through the door.

“Mac?” she called out.

She was beginning to feel nervous, and no wonder after reading Chloë’s note. The next instant, she froze. She heard the soft tread of steps going along the corridor, then the click of a latch.

She sat there for a long time, ears straining, heart racing. There was nothing. She got up and looked around for something to use as a weapon. There was a poker in front of the grate. It would do.

With the lamp in one hand and the poker in the other, she went cautiously from room to room. In the storeroom at the back of the building, she found a window half open. It hadn’t been forced. Someone had carelessly—or deliberately—left the sneck off for the intruder to get in.

Other than that, nothing seemed to have been disturbed or taken.

Then who had been here and what did he want?

She made a more thorough search and found that something
was
missing—a folder with Chloë’s notes for back copies of the
Journal
.

A name flashed into her mind—
Waldo Bowman
. She remembered how, not many hours ago, he had demanded to know who supplied her with information for the back-page gossip column, then he had threatened to take action against her.

Waldo Bowman! Her temper began to sizzle. She had no need of the poker now. She wasn’t afraid of Waldo Bowman.

She didn’t think for a moment he’d come in person to burglarize her offices. A man like that would hire others to do his dirty work for him. Besides, she couldn’t see Waldo Bowman creeping away from anything, not even if he were caught in the act.

First the visit from Bowman, then the letter from Lady Langston, then Chloë’s cryptic note, and now the break-in. She was thoroughly rattled.

London wasn’t so far away. If she left early in the morning, she could be there by nightfall. Mac was capable. He could take care of things in her absence.

When she left, she made doubly sure that all the windows and doors were securely locked.

C
hapter
4

W
ith one thing and another, they did not leave for London till almost noon of the following day. There were simply too many things to do, too many details to take care of. One of those details was to collect a parcel of clothes from the vicar’s wife, a parcel for Master Foley that the vicar had inadvertently left behind that morning when he set off with the boy. Since Barnet was not far out of their way, Jo was happy to deliver it.

All these delays meant that they would not reach London that night, not unless they were prepared to cross Finchley Common at dusk and risk being accosted by highwaymen. This neither Jo nor her aunt was prepared to do. Travel on the king’s highways was risky in the best of circumstances so Mrs. Daventry, much to Jo’s amusement, never set out on a long journey without her late husband’s pistol concealed in her reticule—not that she knew how to use it, but it made her feel safe. But Finchley Common was so notorious that only seasoned soldiers or duelists thought nothing of crossing it after dark. There was nothing for it but to stay the night at Barnet, preferably at the Red Lion if a room was available. Once they reached London, they would stay at her aunt’s house.

As their chaise bowled along, Jo paid little attention to the hamlets and villages they left behind. She was going through all the letters she had received from Chloë in the last month or two, looking for clues as to what could have prompted her friend to write that cryptic note. But there was nothing odd or out of the ordinary. Chloë loved shopping, entertaining, and going to parties. There wasn’t a hint of anything suspicious or sinister, until that last letter.

She felt as though she were on a seesaw. One moment she felt confident that Chloë would turn up, hale and hearty, and be shocked to discover how she had alarmed all her friends. The next moment she feared the worst.

Waldo Bowman.

Now that he had Chloë’s notes, he would know that Chloë was the author of London Life. If, in fact, he was responsible for the break-in . . .

“Why the sigh?”

Jo looked up with a start. Her aunt was gazing curiously at her. She’d told her aunt as much as she knew, but those were facts. She hadn’t confided her suspicions.

“Waldo Bowman,” she said simply. “I’m almost sure he was responsible for the burglary last night.”

Mrs. Daventry was taken aback. “Surely not.”

“He was determined to find out who supplied me with information for London Life.”

“All the same, I can’t believe he would stoop to that, not the Mr. Bowman I know.”

Jo stared at her aunt. “You
know
him?”

“I
met
him, once, last year, when I was visiting Roger and Liza.”

“Roger. Your son. My cousin?”

“Yes, dear. Why do you look so surprised?”

“You never mentioned it to me!”

“Oh, but I did. He was the gentleman who took me in to supper, you know, when Roger promised but forgot all about me.”

Jo remembered the incident, but she’d forgotten the gentleman’s name. It was before Mr. Bowman began to figure prominently in Chloë’s reports.
The nice gentleman with the limp
was how her aunt had described him, and Jo had formed the impression of a kindly old gentleman who had indulged in a mild flirtation with a lonely old lady.

She looked at her aunt. “
That
was Waldo Bowman?”

Mrs. Daventry giggled. “I was the envy of every woman there. Oh, I know he’s a rogue, but he’s not a scoundrel.
He
can’t help it if he has a way with women. And as far as I know, that’s the only vice he has.” There followed a long, languorous sigh. “I can honestly say that the hour I spent in Mr. Bowman’s company was the highlight of my visit. If only I’d been ten years younger—well, maybe twenty years younger.”

Brows knit, Jo stared at her aunt. Aunt Daventry was supposed to be like her—sane, sensible, and levelheaded. That’s why they got on so well. In all the years she’d known her aunt, she’d never known her to giggle or simper. She didn’t know if she could bear it.

“Lord, child, there’s no need to scowl. He made an old woman happy for an hour or two. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” replied Jo in a tone of voice that implied the opposite.

“Mmm.” Mrs. Daventry gazed absently at the passing scenery. Finally, she said, “I will say this, though: There’s a mystery there. What I mean is, Mr. Bowman works in some capacity at the Home Office, but he never speaks of it. No one knows what he does.”

“Aunt, you got that from Chloë’s column, and you know Chloë. She exaggerates to make her subjects sound more interesting than they really are.”

“Did I? I believe you’re right. But there are some things I
do
know about him. He’s the only son in a family of five. Maybe that’s why he appeals to women. He understands us.”

Jo laughed. “With four sisters, I bet he was spoiled past redemption. Poor Mrs. Bowman, with four daughters to marry off.”

“It’s not Mrs. Bowman. It’s Lady Fredericka. She is the daughter of an earl. As for the father, Mr. Bowman, he is very well connected, though, to be sure, he doesn’t have a title. And only the youngest girl, Cecy, is unmarried. She’ll be making her come-out this year.”

Jo was not only amused, she was amazed. “Aunt,” she said, “how do you know so much about him?”

“From Mr. Bowman himself, when he took me in to supper. And before you say something derogatory about him, no, he’s not one of those men who only talks about himself. All he did was answer my questions.”

Jo threw up her hands. “I didn’t say a word.”

Her aunt quickly retorted, “I can read your mind.”

The conversation moved on to other things, but Jo couldn’t get Chloë out of her mind. Had Chloë uncovered some damning secret about Waldo Bowman that he wanted to suppress? It made sense. It would explain Chloë’s cryptic letter as well as the break-in at the
Journal
.

It made sense, but . . . She didn’t want it to make sense. For no good reason, she wanted to give Waldo Bowman the benefit of the doubt, and that annoyed her.

The light was fading when they pulled into the stable yard of the Red Lion in Barnet. The landlord advised them that he had only one room left, and they were lucky to get it. It was always like this, he said, at dusk. There were few travelers who were willing to brave Finchley Common at night, so rooms were scarce at every posthouse.

They didn’t feel lucky when the chambermaid led them upstairs to a dark, shabby little room at the back of the inn. After a short conference, they decided to make do with it. As for dinner, no private parlors were available and no tables to be had in the public dining room. However, the chambermaid said, if they did not mind waiting for an hour or so, and they did not mind eating in their chamber, she would bring them soup, cold meats, and bread.

After washing and tidying themselves, they decided to go for a walk to stretch their cramped limbs. They took Eric’s parcel with them and were agreeably surprised to learn from the landlord that the school was within walking distance.

“Mind, Aunt,” Jo said as they struck out along High Street, “we’re not calling on Eric, we’re simply delivering a parcel for him. Anyway, it’s more than likely that he’ll be in bed.”

“I’m sure you’re right. And I don’t particularly want to see Eric. After all, he’ll hardly have had time to settle in. No. It’s the school that interests me. Did you know that he was there before, but he ran away from it? The vicar’s wife told me. That’s why his grandmother took him in. And now that she can’t look after him, he has to go back to the school.”

Jo gave Mrs. Daventry a keen look. She knew her aunt only too well. She had a soft heart. People were forever taking advantage of her.

She said quietly, “The boy needs discipline. Those are the vicar’s exact words, so let’s not interfere in something that does not concern us.”

As it turned out, they learned nothing about the school. A porter met them at the gate and refused to let them enter the building.

“Only by appointment,” he said, and if they cared to return tomorrow, they could make an appointment to see the headmaster then.

This they could not do, since they would be setting out early the next morning. But at least the parcel would be passed on. There was a maid at the gatehouse who’d brought the porter his supper. She took the parcel from them and promised to give it to Eric.

On the way back to the posthouse, they said very little, absorbed in their own thoughts, but their spirits lifted when the chambermaid brought their dinner. Not only was there an excellent mulligatawny soup, but she’d also managed to procure a steak-and-kidney pudding with new potatoes and vegetables.

Mrs. Daventry went to bed soon after, but Jo was too restless to sleep, so she sat down at the table and reread Chloë’s letters, going so far as to make notes. It didn’t help. Chloë didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

Until the last cryptic message.

She drummed her fingers on the table. She got up and took a few paces around the room. She felt cooped up, but there was nowhere for her to go, not without a chaperon. If she were a man, it would be different. She could come and go as she pleased.

Her paces slowed, then halted. She knew what Chloë would say, that she was the proprietor and publisher of a successful newspaper. She’d done things that other women could only dream about. Then why was she dithering like this? If she wanted to go for a walk to clear her brain, who was there to stop her?

She went to the closet and, after putting on her pelisse, gloves, and bonnet, quietly left the room.

The small town of Barnet, which sat at a crossroads, was bustling with travelers, most of whom were making for London. Every postinghouse and inn seemed to be doing a brisk trade, and no one paid any attention to Jo. She didn’t intend to go far, only to the end of the High Street, where she’d turn and retrace her steps.

The walk helped. Instead of stewing about Chloë and the robbery at the
Journal
, she began to take an interest in the various inns and postinghouses she passed on the way. Lights blazed from every window. Vehicles of every description disgorged their passengers, then passed under the arches that led to the stable block. Wheels rattled over cobblestones; horses whinnied; ostlers and postboys were shouting across each other. It didn’t look as though this thriving metropolis ever went to bed.

At one point she was caught up in a knot of people, some trying to enter the Green Man and others trying to leave it. Like a small boat buffeted by waves, she was tossed this way and that until one of the hotel’s guests steadied her with one arm clamped around her shoulders. Breathless and laughing, she looked up at her rescuer. Her smile died and she pushed out of his arms.

“You!” she declared, making a profanity of the word.

Waldo Bowman tipped his hat to her. Her gaze moved beyond him. Two young
women
—they were wearing powder and paint, so she knew they could not be ladies—were each hanging on the arm of a tall, redheaded gentleman, and all of them were regarding her keenly.

Ladies or not, they were dressed in the height of fashion, in the kind of outfits Chloë might have worn, luxurious velvet pelisses and high poke bonnets with an abundance of satin ribbons. Jo was horribly aware that her own traveling ensemble was a dull gray coat, long past its prime. It was serviceable, and that was the best that could be said about it.

Why must she always look like a dowd when she came face-to-face with Waldo Bowman?

“Mrs. Chesney,” Waldo said. “So you did take the road to Barnet. When I was told you had not registered at the Red Lion, I presumed you had decided to take the road through Oxford. I hardly expected to find you wandering around at this time of night without an escort, though.”

Her eyes narrowed on his face. Those dark brows were slashed together and his lips were set in an uncompromising line. He was finding fault with her again! Then his words registered.

“You went to the Red Lion to look for me?”

“Some time ago. I must have missed you.”

“Why?”

He smiled faintly. “We’re both going to London. I thought that you would be glad of my escort, not to mention the comfort of my carriage. Where is Mrs. Daventry, by the way?”

Her voice was rife with suspicion. “How did you know about my aunt and that we are on our way to London?”

“Your maid told me when I called this morning, after I dropped Henry in Stratford. It seems I just missed you. I see from your expression that you have a few choice words you’d like to say to me. Fine. But not here. Allow me to see you to your hotel.”

He said something to his companions, who turned around and went back into the hotel, then he gestured to a carriage that was drawn up at the edge of the pavement, indicating that she should enter it. As if on command, one of the coachmen descended from the box and opened the door for her. Apparently, Mr. Bowman and his companions had been on the point of resuming their journey when she’d literally bumped into them.

She turned back to him. Whatever she had been about to say died unsaid. There was a stillness about him that warned her to tread carefully here.

It was a relief when someone came between them and she was no longer held in his unsettling stare.

“Shall we go?” he said.

She hesitated, but only for a moment. She didn’t want to make a scene in front of all these people, and her instincts were telling her that Waldo Bowman didn’t care one way or the other whether she made a scene or not. This was one battle he intended to win.

Striving for dignity, she allowed him to lead her to the carriage.

Waldo had hardly settled himself on the banquette when she ripped up at him. “You are insufferable! Arrogant! And without doubt, one of the most ill-bred men I have ever met!”

He replied mildly, “I must correct you on one point. I’m anything but ill-bred. In fact, my pedigree can be traced back to King Harold—you know, the one who lost the Battle of Hastings.”