The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (37 page)

“Pray do not let her chase you away, however—where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“To visit a whorehouse,” he said, leaving her speechless and indignant in the centre of her elegant hall.

 

Alethea read the paragraphs again, more slowly.

“You have brought it all upon yourself,” Letty cried. “Had you done your duty as a wife, none of this would have happened. And you will not tell us where you were, so that the truth may be told and these dreadful rumours put an end to!”

“Are you sure you don't believe this?” Alethea said, brandishing the newspaper in her sister's face. “Do you consider me capable of murder?”

“Alethea, that is quite enough,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam. “Letty has come from Yorkshire, travelling at the utmost speed and in great discomfort—only stopping for one night on the way—to be with you.”

“She might just as well have stayed at home. Who asked her to come to London, expressly to poke her nose into my affairs?”

She had gone too far. Letty's face was red with anger, Cousin Fitzwilliam's rigid with displeasure.

Her temper had got the better of her; try as she might, she couldn't keep back the words. “Now you come running to my side, but what use were you when I travelled all the way to Yorkshire to tell you what kind of a man I had married?”

“You are young and inexperienced, as I told you at the time. It is the duty of a wife to submit to her husband, and—”

“Do you hold the same views?” Alethea said to Mr. Fitzwilliam, who took a step backwards.

“Such vehemence—of course, your sister is right. That is not to say that I don't appreciate that you and Napier were not entirely well-suited; however, a man is master in his own house and he expects his wife to show him respect and obedience.”

As Fanny does to you? Alethea said inwardly, a ray of humour breaking through her anger as she thought how much, how very much, Mr. Fitzwilliam was in Fanny's power.

The moment of amusement passed, and she addressed her cousin with cold civility. “My late husband was a man who enjoyed using the whip. Upon his wife. I do not think that maidenly modesty was at the root of the hatred I felt towards my husband, nor that it was my duty as a wife to submit to such treatment.”

“Napier a flagellant!” cried Mr. Fitzwilliam. “I never heard anything so monstrous!”

“What are you saying?” said Letty. “How can you invent such a thing?”

That was the difference between them. Mr. Fitzwilliam, a kind, humane man, if one rather too fond of propriety, was still a man who had lived in the world and knew that such inclinations existed.

Now he was reddening with anger. “Do you tell me that he treated you, his wife—you are saying—”

“Yes.”

“Alethea,” said Letty, her mouth prim, her expression hostile. “You go too far, no well-bred woman—”

“Which is exactly the point,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam. “No well-bred woman should have to endure such treatment. If a man—there are women of the town who are willing—that is to say—” Speech failed him. “It is a disgrace. Alethea, why did you not confide in Fanny?”

Alethea found she could bear Mr. Fitzwilliam's disapprobation better than his concern. She bit her lip and shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

“Or the Gardiners.”

“Alethea exaggerates, I am sure,” cried Letty.

“I think not,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam, looking more severe than Alethea had ever seen him. “This is not the kind of thing any young wife would invent. I just wish that Alethea had thought to consult an older woman, wiser in the way of the world than her sisters; it is understandable that they would have no knowledge of this particular vice.”

“Camilla would have understood and helped me,” said Alethea, reckless now. “And Georgina knew precisely what I was talking of, only she chose to put her fingers in her ears and pretend she had not heard any of it. Letty isn't altogether to blame, she was taken in by Napier's apparent charm, he could make himself extremely agreeable; that was what misled me, when I agreed to become his wife.”

“I think there is no more to be said upon this subject.”

Letty was clearly prepared to argue, but Mr. Fitzwilliam took no notice of her. “Alethea, I trust that your maid will have put up what you need. We can leave at once.”

“I am grateful for your visit, sir, but I am not returning with you to Aubrey Square.”

“Nonsense,” cried Letty. “It was always so, pigheaded in the extreme, no wish to listen to what older and wiser heads have to say upon any matter.”

“When it comes to pigheadedness—” Alethea broke off; there was no point in entering into an argument with Letty. That was the problem with her oldest sister; you could not argue with her, for she was right and you were in the wrong. “I'm staying here, at Melville Place,” she finished.

Mr. Fitzwilliam said nothing, but held out a folded newspaper which he had brought with him. “I think you should read this.”

“I have done so already.” Rebukes, threats, appeals to her sense, her reason, her better nature, her decorum, were all in vain. She remained adamant. “Indeed, sir, I am as troubled as you are that our name has been dragged into the gutter by the press, but I do not think my presence in Aubrey Square will make a jot of difference. My name will be cleared when the murderer is found; until then, I am in the pillory and it will be better for me to remain here, within doors.”

“Alone, in a London house?” said Letty. “It is not to be thought of.”

“She is not alone,” said a quiet voice at the door. “I am sorry to intrude, Mrs. Napier, but I thought you might be in need of some support.”

“Miss Griffin!” said Mr. Fitzwilliam, in tones of high disapproval. “Are you here? Do you lend your countenance to this mad freak of Alethea's? Pray do not do so, for you will not want to be aiding her in her disobedience to the wishes of her family.”

“It is not in her power to disobey the commands of those in authority over her,” said Letty.

“Oh, be quiet, Letty,” said Alethea. “You are not in authority over me, no, nor Mr. Fitzwilliam. I am a widow, and in the eyes of the law, responsible for myself. I do not choose to go to Aubrey Square, and there is an end of it. Miss Griffin keeps me company; there is nothing in that for the evil tongues of society to cavil at, I believe.”

Ever since she had eavesdropped on Sir Humphrey's conversation with Alethea, Figgins had been turning things over in her mind. Now she whisked herself away from the door as Mrs. Barcombe came storming out, a spot of colour on each cheek. Mr. Fitzwilliam didn't look none too happy, neither; not surprising after those wicked words about Miss Alethea in the newspaper.

Miss Griffin had pointed them out to Figgins not half an hour ago. “Do you know where Alethea was? Were you with her? Do you know the identity of Mr. H?”

“I can only tell you what Miss Alethea will tell you herself, that she didn't run off with any man, and yes, I do know where she was, and it wasn't in London shooting her husband dead.”

“I never for a single moment thought it was. However, I fear that there is some reason for her to be so secretive about this, and that when the truth comes out, as it must, now, to clear her name of these shameful accusations, she is going to be plunged into an even deeper scandal.”

You don't know the half of it, Figgins said to herself.

“None of it need come out if they catch the murderer,” she said.

“Oh, in that case—but I wonder if there is any chance of it. Sir Humphrey clearly didn't suspect Alethea in the least. Small consolation, for the world will always believe the worst.”

“Meg Jenkins,” said Figgins. “Why did Sir Humphrey mention Meg Jenkins?”

Miss Griffin gave her a sharp look. “Did Miss Alethea tell you so?”

Figgins wasn't listening. Figgins had gone.

“Jack,” Figgins cried, bursting into the kitchen, where her brother was polishing a crystal decanter. “Did a Meg Jenkins, turned off from Tyrrwhit House, ever tip up at Ma's, do you know?”

“Not that she spoke of to me.”

“I knew it,” said Figgins. “I knew she'd come upon the town; a tasty morsel like she was didn't have a hope of a respectable job. Jack, I want you to find a whore for me.”

Startled, Jack stared at his sister. “A whore? Don't you go talking like that, what do you want a whore for?”

“Not a whore, one particular whore. I reckon I know who that girl was who was with Mr. Napier the night he died.”

“Then if you do, you keep your trap shut and say not a word about it.”

“What, with the newspapers saying Miss Alethea did it?”

Jack had taken a great liking to Alethea, whom he found a very civil young lady, not one to come the nob, and with a smile and a
please
and a
thank-you
when she wanted something done. And Martha thought the world of her, and Martha was a good judge of a character, almost as good as Ma. “Tell me how you know.”

Figgins sat down at the table and told him all about Meg, and about Napier's nasty habits. He listened, unsurprised; he knew well enough about men who were keen on the whip. It was a vice prevalent in the navy; he could name a dozen officers, some of them very senior men in the service, who were inclined that way, and it would be the same ashore. “If Sir Humphrey's looking for the girl, why trouble yourself about it? He'll find her, all right.”

“He doesn't know where to look. He's just looking for people who might have a grudge. It's me what's put two and two together.”

“And made five, if you ask me. If she did go into the trade, who's to say she had anything to do with Napier?”

“If we find her, we can ask her.”

“Looking for a whore in London is worse than needles in haystacks; there are thousands of them.”

“She was a pretty girl; she'll have been picked up for one of the high-class houses, you may be sure of it.”

Jack got up, removed his apron, and shrugged on his jacket. “There's never a dull moment with you around, sis. Whore-hunting, indeed, I hope Ma doesn't get to hear what you've been up to.”

 

Figgins brought her discoveries to her mistress.

“Meg Jenkins?” Alethea said. “There was a serving girl of that name at Tyrrwhit. How come you to think of her now? She was turned off, I don't know why; one of Napier's whims, I suppose.”

“Ah, there was more to it than that,” Figgins said, and told her of her encounter with the unfortunate Meg. “I told her to go to Ma, but she never did. Anyhow, Jack's made a few enquiries, and a mate of his is chummy with a piece called Polly. On the game, she is, but she says there's a Meg Jenkins who works with her in a whorehouse—a very classy bagnio, one of the King Street places.”

“King Street?” said Alethea, bemused. King Street to her meant Almacks.

“Yes, there's more kinds of dancing done in King Street than the nobs let on.”

Alethea frowned. “Figgins, I'm sorry that any servant should come to such a place, but why do you come to me with this news? It is odd, however, that you should think of her just now, for Sir Humphrey asked me about her.”

“Yes, and I heard him do so, and that's what set me thinking. I reckon the law's looking for her, the reason being that she knows something about the murder.”

Alethea was now all attention. “Indeed, you may be right.” In which case, she thought rapidly, she would much rather she could talk to the girl herself, before any law officer got hold of her. “Figgins, we're going out.”

“Titus! Good God, what does this mean?” Alethea exclaimed.

Titus, of all people, standing calmly on the back stairs of one of the most notorious houses in London, looking at her with a quizzical expression on his face. She had gone quite white, she knew; her face must reveal her dismay and her sense of betrayal.

“What does this mean, indeed?” he said in a low, urgent voice. “What in Christ's name are you doing here, in this of all places?”

“It is no more shameful for me to be here than you.”

This wasn't true. King Street belonged in a sphere adjacent to but quite beyond any respectable woman's circle. Only two kinds of women came into this house: ladies of the town and the servants who waited upon them and cleaned up after them and their clients. For Alethea, such a place was outside her boundaries; a separate sphere that might be touched through the men of her rank who frequented these establishments, but into which she might never stray.

Except that she had. Dressed as a man once more—she and Figgins had raided Napier's wardrobe—she had intruded on forbidden ground, venturing into a place where desire was bought and sold and where the difference between the sexes showed at its most extreme.

Only to find Titus here, Titus of all people! The very last man she would have thought an habitué of bawdy-houses, however fashionable. How wrong her judgement of him had been; was she doomed never to fathom a man's character correctly?

Titus opened a door on his left and, without ceremony, thrust her inside, leaving Figgins unregarded in the shadows on the landing.

“Let go of me this instant,” said Alethea.

“Be quiet, do you want to raise the house?”

“What room is this?” she asked, as she took in the extraordinary opulence of the chamber. Silks and damasks, laces, and even a shawl sparkling with gems, thrown carelessly over a screen, were all around her. There were two enormous gilt mirrors, each with a pair of pouting cupids at the top, and these reflected the light of dozens of candles in the crystal chandelier hanging in the centre of the room and in the various holders placed on what few empty surfaces remained. Her feet sank into the carpet; the overstuffed red velvet chairs and chaise longue seemed to come towards her, huge and distorted. She shut her eyes and found herself swaying.

“Don't you dare faint,” said Titus. “Not here. You are not to faint, do you hear me?”

There was a heavy scent in the air, musky and overpowering, that made Alethea's senses swim—that was until she took a deep breath and found herself sneezing uncontrollably.

“Must you do that? For heaven's sake, have my handkerchief.”

She buried her nose in it. It was clean and fresh and the mere feel of it gave her back some feeling of normality.

“What room is this?” she asked again.

“It is the private chamber of Mrs. Legrange, whose house this is.”

“Whose house—you mean she runs this house? The girls?”

“Oh, so you know what kind of a house it is?”

“Of course I do. I'm not a fool.”

“Forgive me, but of all places to come in that particular disguise, this has to be the most foolhardy. This is no place for you, neither in your widow's weeds, nor in a set of evening clothes that are the most ill fitting I have ever seen.”

Alethea had recovered sufficiently from the effects of the perfume to dispense with the handkerchief, which she handed back to Titus. He folded it mechanically and thrust it into his pocket.

“They are Napier's clothes,” she said.

“They make a poor show, and I suppose that is Figgins out there, lurking, and doubtless listening at the keyhole.”

“Figgins would not do such a thing.”

“Would she not? Well, call her in, and we shall see how we can best get you out of here before you are discovered.”

“No one will discover us, that is why we are in this part of the house. Jack—that is, I understood this is where the girls live, when they are not—not on duty in the other part of the house. And I'm not leaving, I'm here for a purpose.”

“As am I, but you are certainly leaving, and immediately.”

“Anyone may guess what your purpose is, while I'm here—to find out the truth,” she finished in a rush, aware that the look of fury on his face had given way to amusement.

“You think you can guess what my purpose is in coming here?”

“Why do men go to a whorehouse?”

“I'm sorry that you have such a low opinion of my morals.”

“I see how familiar you are with the house; here we are in this dreadful chamber, and you know whose room it is, and what she is.”

“Mrs. Legrange and I had some amorous dealings together many years ago. When I was only a little older than you are now. Strange to relate, although our paths have gone in very different directions, we have remained acquainted—as friends, not as seller and buyer, I do assure you.”

A likely story, Alethea said to herself, but what was it to her if Titus chose to pass the time in the company of such insalubrious persons as this Mrs. Legrange and the girls of the house? “Please let me pass. I wish to do what I came here for, and then I shall leave.”

“What have you come here for? Is it to talk to Marguerite Piercey?”

“No, it is not. I never heard of any Marguerite Piercey in my life.”

He was watching her closely. “Formerly known as Meg Jenkins. Ah, I thought so. Then we have the same end in mind, only I do wonder how you came across her.”

“She was formerly in my husband's employ and was turned off. She came to London to seek work, and Figgins's brother Jack found out that she had ended up here.”

“That's quite right. A common enough story, if a sad one.”

“And I can't imagine what you have to do with her. Or I can, perhaps.”

“You are wrong in your vulgar supposition. I, too, merely want to speak to Meg Jenkins.”

“Why?”

“Because I think she may know who killed Napier, and unless that is made clear, you will be left without a shred of reputation—suspected of being either a murderer or an adulteress.”

“Is that any concern of yours?”

He looked down at her, his eyes unfathomable. “Perhaps not, but I find it is.” He picked up a candlestick and opened the door before stretching out his hand and taking hold of hers. “Let us go together, since you're here and will not heed my advice.”

“Do you expect me to?” she said, trying to keep her voice even, which was difficult when her heart was pounding and she found it hard to breathe. The touch of his hand unnerved her; she wanted to pull her own hand away, but found she could not do so.

“Next floor up,” whispered Figgins as they came out of Mrs. Legrange's room.