The Heiresses (24 page)

When she was finally outside once more, she waited until she had turned a corner to stop, place Haggis McTavish back on the ground, stamp a foot like a petulant child, and utter a cry of sheer frustration. A gentleman passing by paused to look at her. “Oh, what?” Thalia snapped at him and he quickened his step with this, hurrying on his way.

One thing she knew from her visit with Charles—there would be no more money for the time being. Something had to happen before they could move forward in this impossible situation. It could come from either their side or Charles’s, she could see that, but
something
must change. There was, of course, the woman. The woman who had been there, asking for money, just outside of Charles’s study door. The woman she had not been able to catch a glimpse of. Perhaps it was she who held the key to that change … but how to bring this up with Ro and Clio when she had already told them they were on their own now? She could hardly admit to having seen Charles behind their backs. Twice.

Hailing a taxi, Thalia wondered which sister had been to see Charles. As she clambered inside and gave the driver Venetia’s address, she had to admit she simply couldn’t figure out which one it was. Clio seemed the most logical solution, for she needed money the most. Yet, this somehow made the least sense. Clio was the most ridiculously loyal person that Thalia had ever met. Thalia simply didn’t believe she had it in her to do something so deceitful, though she did still wonder about that memorial portrait and why she had hidden it. Then there was Ro, but why would she ask for money? She had her Uncle Henry. There was a third option, of course—Charles could be lying, trying to drive a wedge between the three of them, not knowing one was already firmly in place. It was certainly possible, but Thalia didn’t believe her half brother was that clever, or conniving. Not yet, anyway. She was, though. And if only she had some sort of amazing, cunning plan, she knew she would have that money in an instant. The only problem was, she didn’t. Hopefully one would come to her soon. Perhaps one of Venetia’s special little concoctions might help …

*   *   *

The moment Ro’s eyes had flickered open in bed that morning, she knew what she must do. It had come to her as if in a dream, and she wondered for a moment if all this forcing herself to think of solutions, of plans, of plotting and scheming and truth hunting was, in fact, holding her back from coming up with any sort of decent ideas at all.

Before she had gone to sleep, Ro’s last thought was Genevieve. She was consumed with thinking about Genevieve. Or, to be more precise, about Vincent and Genevieve. Ro knew that, this very morning, Vincent had been invited to call upon Genevieve. Somehow the girl had used her limited intelligence to convince her mother that such a visit might be a good idea. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as silly as she seemed after all? Or at least she was more adept in matters of the heart than Ro herself was.

Ro knew she must act if she wanted to win Vincent. And fast.

And now she knew how.

She must seek out Hestia at once. Not caring that she was still in her nightgown, Ro raced downstairs and, luckily, found her aunt in the library, already having had her breakfast, writing a letter. She wasted no time with her request. “Hestia,” she began, leaning against the doorway, “do you think, perhaps, you could host some sort of soiree? It’s just that I’d so love to meet some of your acquaintances…”

*   *   *

By eleven o’clock that very morning, Ro had sent the maid out to catch the morning post. With her, she took the pile of invitations, asking guests to early evening drinks in two days’ time. The guest list was hastily created, but excellent—Ro had made sure of it. Dukes, earls, viscounts, politicians, professors. Only when Hestia had finished drawing up her list had Ro asked if she could perhaps invite a few friends of her own. Or one friend, as it turned out. Vincent. Hestia had been only too delighted to find that Ro was forming her own acquaintances in the city.

“It will all be very informal, of course,” Hestia said, looking slightly worried as she watched the maid head out. Ro had realized by now, Hestia was probably one of the very few titled females in the city who relished this new world with its lack of formality. She certainly did things differently—she had no lady’s maid, for a start. “All that fussing, primping, and preening. What a waste of time!” The town house ran on a skeleton staff as well. There was a cook, a housemaid, a woman who came in daily, and a man who came in three days per week to see to things (Ro wasn’t sure what). Still, even with so few staff, Ro knew that they must have an easier job than some. For a start, Hestia was rarely home and never seemed to entertain. Not until now, anyway.

“Informal is perfect,” Ro said, placating her aunt. And it was—an informal gathering would provide the perfect opportunity for Vincent to move around the room as he saw fit and to meet many more of her aunt’s guests than he would have if he had been seated beside only two people at dinner.

The invitations duly dispatched, Ro felt a renewed sense of control. Finally, she was getting on with things. The Vincent side of things sorted for the moment, she turned her attention to the problem of the inheritance and gathering more information. This, she would do on her own. Thalia had made that much clear, not that she had any idea where her sister was, or when she would next stop by the town house. Ro rarely knew her sister’s movements these days. Her life seemed to be a whirlwind of parties and impromptu gatherings. It seemed to Ro that Thalia rarely slept more than a few hours a night and she was starting to wonder whether this was because she was drinking too much of Venetia’s “special wine,” or worse. She had heard recently of another society favorite being arrested for using heroin in public and there was another again who was famed for her use of morphine. As for Clio, she would not be any help, either, having gone to visit her mother for the night once again.

What she needed now was more information in order to continue putting the pieces together. Having exhausted the witnesses to their births, perhaps there were items from before their births that could provide further clues? There must be letters, old photographs, mementos, treasured items—many things left behind after Demeter’s death. Where were they now? They could not all have been destroyed, or lost over the years. Hestia had promised a while ago to find the key to the attic storage room, where a few of Demeter’s belongings had been kept, so Ro could look through her mother’s items to her heart’s content, and now Ro set about beseeching her aunt to locate the key. Not wanting to be dissuaded, Ro followed her about the town house until Hestia and the maid, now returned, had remembered where the key might be found. (After hunting in Hestia’s writing table and every single drawer in the drawing and dining rooms, they had finally found it in a small Venetian glass box on Hestia’s dressing table.)

Immediately, Ro headed upstairs, Hestia in her wake. She burst into the storage room with zeal, half expecting items of her mother’s to pour forth as soon as she had opened the door. Of course, they did not. As it turned out, the storage room was large and quite bare. Stacked furniture, covered with dust sheets, filled one corner, a large wardrobe another. Several wooden chests and crates rested along one wall.

“I’m afraid there isn’t too much left.” Hestia looked around the space. “It used to be part of the servants’ quarters, of course. But after Mama and Papa died and I didn’t want, or need, so many servants, I closed up some of the rooms and had a wall removed between two rooms in order to store furniture after I redecorated. I really must get the maid to dust up here more often, it’s quite atrocious. Heaven knows what the other rooms are like. No one has been in them for quite some time. Now, let me see…” She stepped forward carefully into the gloomy room and flicked a light switch. “There’s rather a lack of lighting up here, you’ll find. Papa economized on the servants’ quarters when it came to installing electric light.”

Ro and Hestia picked their way around the room, Hestia pointing out this and that. Ro quickly saw that her aunt was telling the truth—there really were very few of her mother’s possessions left for her to study. As they moved about the attic, Ro became more and more disheartened. She had not been quite so foolish to expect she would find a dressing table with a secret drawer stuffed full of scarlet-ribbon-tied love letters, a hollowed-out book filled with trinkets, or a coat with an important, but until now overlooked, note hastily stuffed into a pocket, but she had hoped for more than this to rummage through, at the very least. As it stood, there were a few items of clothing in the wardrobe that had belonged to Demeter and were either too valuable, or too meaningful for Hestia, to give away—mainly some furs, ball gowns, and dresses that she had been particularly fond of.

“We didn’t keep Demeter’s wedding dress for obvious reasons,” Hestia said, rifling through the clothes. “And her jewels are, of course, held at the bank.”

After she had directed Ro toward two of the trunks, Hestia informed her niece that she had to speak to the cook about the menu for the soiree. She had almost left the room when she turned back. “Do feel free to look through anything you like. I know”—she paused for a moment, looking unsure of herself, which was unlike Hestia—“that I most likely do not have your full trust, but I would like to gain it.”

Next to the wardrobe, Ro froze, unsure of what to say. Ro had not confronted her aunt directly about the memorial portrait, but suspected it had been Hestia who had given it to Clio. (Clio would not confirm this, but where else would it have come from? Though why she had given it only to Clio, Ro could not fathom.) However, before Ro could form any sort of reply, Hestia was gone.

With a sigh, she turned back to the wardrobe and began the business of searching—for anything. Even the smallest clue would do. As she rummaged, her recent thought regarding the memorial portrait reminded her of something else Mrs. Thompson, the midwife, had mentioned on the day they met—Clio’s scar. At least there was one thing they were now sure of—Clio was most definitely one of them. When Mrs. Thompson had mentioned that Clio might still have a scar on her right temple, the first thing Ro had done after Thalia had stormed out of the drawing room with the memorial portrait was to go over and push back the dark curls from the right side of her sister’s face. “Oh!” Clio had lifted a hand to cover her face and it was then that Ro knew what she would find. And there it was—a pale scar of around two inches in length. Clio had pulled her hair back into place almost immediately, obviously aware of what Ro was staring at. But what she didn’t know was why Ro was staring, or why she could have continued to stare all day. It was not because of any deformity, but simply because, to Ro, this small scar represented something else entirely—not only the truth, but that one thing she had always longed for. Now she knew for sure she had two sisters: one full sister and one half sister. She had pulled a confused Clio to her then for a hug, even before she had been able to explain what she had been doing, or Clio could explain about the portrait. But later, when she did, and Clio finally understood and had also explained why she had not told her about the portrait, they had both cried. With relief. Or joy. Or perhaps with a mixture of both.

It took her a good half hour, but Ro rummaged through the pockets in every single garment within the wardrobe’s confines. She ran a hand over the dusty floor of the piece of furniture (and earned a pinprick in her index finger for her trouble). And she even checked inside the four pairs of shoes stored on the top shelf.

Nothing.

Her wardrobe investigation completed, Ro paused for a moment and shivered. It was cold in the attic. Automatically, she reached forward into the wardrobe for a coat, then stopped. She knew it was silly—they were only clothes, after all, but it felt wrong somehow to don a coat belonging to a dead person. A person she had never known, even if that person was her mother, or grandmother. Another shiver. Would Hestia mind? She didn’t think so.

With a small shrug, she moved her hand to the left, where several coats resided. The first was a metallic lamé opera coat—fairly unsuitable for sorting through items of furniture and trunks. The second was a dark green Victorian-style walking coat, which must have belonged to her grandmother. It was absolutely tiny, as was the next coat, a very plain light gray linen coat, and it took Ro several minutes to realize it was a motor coat—worn to protect the owner’s dress while driving. As she smoothed her hand over the item, she wondered why it had been kept. It must have been special in some way—perhaps it was bought when her grandparents purchased one of the very first motorcars. The next coat was a beautiful deep-silvery-gray chiffon and satin evening coat and Ro knew immediately that it would fit her, just by looking at it. She removed it from the wardrobe and slipped it on. It fit perfectly, almost as if it were made for her. It closed with a small loop of fabric, just under her bust, the rest flowing freely, and while it was decorated simply, with slightly deeper gray passementerie and small lace medallions, Ro knew by the cut that it was of the highest quality. She guessed that it must have been her mother’s, as the others were far smaller and most likely her grandmother’s. Almost instinctually, she raised one sleeve to her face and sniffed. The fabric had no particular scent other than that which pervaded the dusty attic. Ro knew it was ridiculous, but she had hoped, just for a moment, that something of her mother might remain.

If only her mother could send some sort of sign from above to help her now. Not that Ro believed in that sort of thing, but there was no denying it would be helpful at this point.

Ro closed her eyes and willed herself to miraculously devise some sort of brilliant strategy that would see Charles begging to hand over their inheritance. She knew this was unlikely, considering the only decent idea she had managed to come up with lately had been while she was asleep, but really, there must be something they had overlooked, or other paths they could take. There was Clio’s father, for a start. Ro had badgered Hestia on this point yet again, but Hestia claimed ignorance. Once more, she had said that Demeter had hidden matters of this nature from her, not wanting to implicate her sister in her situation.