Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
She looked down at her gloved hands. “No. My parents moved around, but they wanted me to have a settled life. I was looked after by relatives, mostly by my grandmother and Aunt Daventry. So, you see, I had a perfectly normal, happy childhood.”
He shifted slightly to study her profile. “Do I detect a note of bravado?”
Those alert gray eyes saw too much for her comfort. She shrugged. “I may have thought, when I was a child, that my parents had abandoned me, but as I grew older I realized it was for the best.”
The line of carriages ahead of them was thinning, and for the next little while he concentrated on his driving. Before long, however, they were again obstructed by a row of carriages.
Jo’s eye was caught by one that had drawn up at the side of the sward. There was only one occupant—a dramatic dark-haired beauty with an alluring smile, dressed all in violet to match her wide-set violet eyes. Though her carriage was hemmed in by a number of gentlemen, some on foot, some on horseback, that brazen smile was trained on Waldo, but the look she blazed Jo was like a blast from a blacksmith’s furnace. Waldo acknowledged the lady by tipping his hat as they drove by, but he did not stop to chat.
Jo slanted him one of her rapier glances. “Who,” she said, “is that?”
“Mrs. Caroline Walters,” he replied easily.
She did not pursue the matter. There was no need. Even Stratford possessed its share of ladies of questionable virtue. But none as beautiful as the lady in the violet gown.
She sniffed, averted her head, and affected an interest in the passing scenery.
When Waldo dropped Jo at her front door, he returned to the subject of his mother and sisters.
“I could bring them tomorrow,” he suggested.
That was too soon for comfort. “No, make it the day after.” When he sighed, she went on quickly, “I want to spend time with Eric. He sees very little of me. Today it’s Hyde Park. Tomorrow night we go to the theater. I can’t expect my aunt to entertain Eric while I’m out enjoying myself.”
“Then the day after tomorrow it is,” he said.
A thought occurring to her, she said, “What have you told your family about Eric?”
“Very little. I didn’t see the need.”
“You’ll have to tell them sometime that you’re his guardian—unless, of course, you mean to leave him with me.”
He gave her one of his clear-eyed gazes. “Let’s find out what has happened to Chloë first, shall we, then we’ll talk about Eric.”
The vision of the violet-eyed beauty still fresh in her mind, she said coolly, “I can see why you want to send him away to school. There’s no place for a child in your irregular mode of living. He’d be much happier with me.”
All the humor drained out of his face. As cool as she, he replied, “You’re quoting Chloë at me again. Have a care, Jo. One day you’ll go too far and I’ll live up to my wicked reputation. Good day to you.”
A flick of the reins sent his gig bowling along the drive.
She stamped her foot in frustration, then marched into the house. She’d spoken out of pique because, fetching as she thought she was in her borrowed finery, one of Waldo’s flames had put her in the shade. It was irrational for her to feel jealous. There could never be anything between Waldo and herself. What he wanted he got from women like Mrs. Walters, and what she wanted was back in Stratford.
After removing her pelisse and bonnet, she went straight to the morning room, to the closet where Chloë stored odds and ends, including back copies of the
Journal
. She found them under a stack of periodicals. Nearly everything that Jo knew about Waldo was in those newspapers.
She carried them to the table and, beginning with the latest edition, scanned each page. Though she’d meant to look only for Mrs. Walter’s name, her eye was caught by the names of people she had met since coming up to town, or those she hoped to meet. Lord and Lady Brinsley, Chloë wrote, had retired to their country estate but planned to be in town for their annual ball. Their son and heir, Viscount Morden, had been seen at the theater with a most eligible heiress. Those in the know expected a happy announcement to be published in the
Gazette
before the Season was over. Chloë even mentioned herself. Lady Webberley, Chloë said, tongue in cheek, was the darling of society, and no party or function could be considered a success if she did not attend it.
Jo had read all this before, but most of it had gone over her head because she had not known the people involved. Now that she did know them, she found herself wondering how much was true and how much was invented.
She remembered putting that very question to Chloë, who had responded with a laugh that she might exaggerate a little but she never told outright lies. And some of what she wrote turned out to be self-fulfilling prophecies, such as the
on-dit
that no party could be considered a success if Lady Webberley did not attend it. Now she was invited everywhere.
In her mind’s eye, Jo could see Chloë’s dark eyes dancing and her generous mouth turned up in a smile. “Without exaggeration,” she remembered Chloë saying, “I can claim to be a matchmaker. You’d be surprised, Jo, that sometimes something I’ve written has persuaded a cautious swain to offer for the lady of his choice.”
They’d both had a good laugh about that.
It hadn’t worked with Waldo. Jo soon found the reference, and others that she’d forgotten about. He wasn’t nearly as handsome or the dandy Chloë made him out to be. As expected, his name was linked with a number of ladies, and not all of them suitable to bring home to his mama. Mrs. Walters wasn’t mentioned by name, but there were many references to the lady in violet, and Jo made the connection.
The more she read, the more surprised she was that Waldo had shown such restraint when he cornered her in the
Journal
’s offices. If she had been in his shoes, she would have given herself a good shaking. No man wanted the intimate details of his private life aired in public. All the same, his wicked reputation was well documented. If even half of it was true, he was still a rake.
She read on. It wasn’t all salacious. His war record was impeccable. His family was very respectable. His mother was the daughter of an earl and had married well, though the gentleman was untitled. Their palatial home, Palliser Park, was in Kensington, a ten-minute drive beyond the western boundary of Hyde Park. In their time, the Bowmans had raised five children—four daughters and one son—of whom only the youngest daughter still remained at home. Naturally, the family’s hopes were all pinned on Waldo, for if he did not marry and beget heirs, the house and estates would pass out of the family to the nearest male relative.
Poor Waldo. The weight of all his family’s hopes rested on him. It must be a terrible burden. She wondered what his family would make of her—the Shady Lady whom he was squiring around town. If Chloë were here, she would be gleefully reporting all the minute details of the mysterious lady who had captured Waldo’s interest. And Jo’s readers would lap it all up like a cat with cream.
The thought brought her up short. This week’s edition of the
Journal
was already out, and, of course, there was no column from Lady Tellall. What if she, Jo Chesney, were to fill in for Chloë? She wasn’t thinking so much of amusing readers so much as how she could use the
Journal
to find out what had happened to Chloë.
With no clear idea of what she was doing, she sat down at the escritoire, found pen and paper, and began to write. A moment later, she stopped. Her nib was dull. She found the pen cutter in a drawer, found a fresh nib, which she proceeded to sharpen to a fine point, then started over. As far as possible, she copied Chloë’s style. She wrote about Waldo and his Shady Lady; she mentioned Viscount Morden and Lady Margaret Kintyre. She wrote about the Brinsleys’ house party and what she’d learned of it from Lady Langston. She mentioned Chloë and hinted slyly that someone fitting her description was seen on the ferry bound for Calais and possibly Paris.
Once she started, she could not seem to stop. She wrote about the people she’d met at the theater, the opera, in the park, and if she didn’t know anything particular about them, she described what they were wearing and put words in their mouths—all very innocent, nothing that would embarrass them. At the end of an hour, she had more than enough for Chloë’s column. Out of so much verbiage, only one thing counted: the few lines she had written about Chloë. Maybe it would jog someone’s memory. Maybe someone would remember seeing Chloë, not on the ferry to Calais, but somewhere else. And maybe that someone would write to her.
That thought prompted her to conclude with:
Lady Tellall loves to hear from her readers. Write to her at the Journal.
She wasn’t too hopeful of the outcome. On the other hand, she had nothing to lose. After dinner, she’d polish her prose and make any necessary additions or deletions, then she’d send it by express to Mac Nevin in Stratford.
In his rooms at the Albany, Waldo was enjoying his last cheroot before going to bed. He’d been trying to read Walter Scott’s latest novel, but he kept getting distracted by thoughts of Jo.
She was the daughter of Sir Vivian Moore and his actress wife. He knew all about Sir Vivian. The man was a legend in his own time, a baronet’s son who had left his wealth and privilege behind when he ran off to London as a young man to join a troupe of actors. Eventually, he wrote plays, brilliant comedies that had taken London by storm. In their heyday, he and his equally famous wife had blazed a tempestuous trail through the leading salons of Europe.
It was incredible to think that Jo was their daughter.
One thing was certain—she didn’t want to be like her parents. In her own words, she was a stay-at-home. That’s what she’d never had growing up, a stable home to call her own. A stable home, a stable man, and a stable life—those were the things Jo had wanted, and she’d found them with John Chesney.
So much was becoming clear to him now—the drab clothes to detract from her femininity; the conventional mask of respectability; her distaste for men of the world, men such as himself. She’d marked him down as a replica of her father, or near enough as made no difference. Part of him was flattered. Sir Vivian was a brilliant man. There was much to admire in him. Another part of him resented it. There was also much in Sir Vivian to deplore. He’d been notorious for his wenching. Lady Moore hadn’t seemed to mind. She’d kept herself amused with a string of lovers.
It was all gossip, of course, and he knew how unreliable gossip could be. But there was no getting around the fact that the Moores had led colorful, unconventional lives.
He drew on his cheroot and watched the spiral of smoke as he slowly exhaled. She’d chosen the life she wanted with Chesney and it seemed to have satisfied her. In her own words, however, when John died, things changed.
That was an understatement.
After a moment’s reflection, his lips twitched. He wasn’t joking when he’d told her that keeping her out of trouble had become his main object. Jo Chesney was a force to be reckoned with, and if she hadn’t been, he wouldn’t be using all the means at his disposal to find her friend, Eric would still be incarcerated in Harding’s school, and he wouldn’t have applied for guardianship of a boy he did not know. That he was enjoying the experience was beside the point.
What on earth had got into him?
It was Jo. She might be a force to be reckoned with, but she had a way of looking at him that made him want to take all her burdens upon himself. It also made him wonder what would happen if he were to tap into that well of passion that lay just beneath the surface.
C
hapter
15
L
ady Fredericka Bowman considered herself an affectionate if not indulgent mother who took her family’s best interests to heart. She did not meddle in her grown children’s affairs, so she believed, unless the occasion demanded it. This was one of those occasions. Waldo had arranged to introduce her to Mrs. Chesney the following afternoon, but that did not suit her ladyship. For one thing, there might be other callers present, leaving little time to spend alone with Mrs. Chesney, and for another, she wanted to form her own opinion of the woman who had earned the soubriquet Shady Lady, without Waldo hovering over her and intimidating her with his flinty eye.
Consequently, when Waldo, all unsuspecting, sat down to a hearty breakfast in his rooms at the Albany, Lady Fredericka marshaled her two lovely daughters and they set off in their coach for town. They were hardly out of the gates of Palliser Park when Cecilia, the younger girl, asked her mother if it was true that Mrs. Chesney was an adventuress.
“Who told you that?” demanded her ladyship sharply.
“Miriam Woolcot, at Mrs. Towne’s musicale last night. And she got it from her sister, Ruth.”
“Ruth Woolcot . . .” began her ladyship wrathfully, and faltered. She shrugged helplessly. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”
The elder daughter, Maude, made a small sound of impatience. She was a year younger than Waldo and had left her husband and children in the country—much to their relief—so that she could help her mother launch the youngest girl in society. There was a strong family resemblance among these ladies, but in other respects they were very different. Maude considered Cecy a mischievous halfling, neither woman nor girl. Cecy thought her sister was too staid by far and would have preferred Liza, another married sister, to chaperon her during her first Season, but this her father would not allow. Liza was giddy, he said, and would exert no control over her equally giddy sister. As for Lady Fredericka, she was the soul of kindness until she was provoked. Then, no one was left in any doubt that she was the daughter of an earl.
Lady Fredericka observed her elder daughter’s expression and frowned. “What?” she demanded.
Maude said, “Do you really believe, Mama, that Waldo would introduce an adventuress to his mother and sisters? You’re worrying for nothing, and this ill-thought-out visit will only annoy Waldo.”
Lady Fredericka spoke with all the dignity of her rank, both as a mother and as an earl’s daughter. “I am only doing my duty. And, of course, I don’t think Waldo believes that Mrs. Chesney is an adventuress. Men are blind when they want to be.”
Maude shook her head. “You cannot believe he is in love with her.”
“Is that so far-fetched?”
“With Waldo, frankly, yes. You know he is fickle.”
“A fine opinion you have of your brother!”
A silence followed this reproof. When it lengthened, and it seemed to Cecy that the fascinating subject of Mrs. Chesney was closed, she observed helpfully, “Ruth also said that Waldo has deserted all his usual flirts, including Mrs. Walters, and everyone thinks it’s because of Mrs. Chesney.”
Her ladyship was so diverted by this piece of information that she forgot to chastise Cecy for her prurient interest in things a young girl should know nothing about. “Deserted Mrs. Walters, has he? Well, I’m very glad to hear it. I never could like that woman. There’s something cold about her. I don’t think she’s capable of love.”
After a moment, Maude said, “What do you make of this business with Chloë Webberley? Is there cause for alarm, or could it be a misunderstanding? You must admit, Chloë is erratic at the best of times.”
“I don’t know Lady Webberley all that well,” responded her ladyship thoughtfully, “so I can’t say. What I do know is that Waldo is taking her disappearance very seriously. He has reported her as missing to the authorities, but they don’t know where to begin to look for her. That’s why he has offered to help Mrs. Chesney find her friend.” She paused, then added eloquently, “Or so he says. That’s what I mean to find out.”
A look of alarm crossed Maude’s face. “Mother,” she said, “be careful what you say. If you embarrass Mrs. Chesney, Waldo will be very angry.”
Lady Fredericka was momentarily taken aback. “I? Embarrass Mrs. Chesney? I assure you, Maude, I shall be the soul of tact.”
Maude said nothing, but she was wishing that Waldo was with them to check their mother’s wayward tongue.
Jo was in the garden, teaching Eric how to play cricket, when three elegant ladies suddenly appeared on the terrace along with Mrs. Daventry.
“Jo, dear, we have visitors,” cooed her aunt, managing a tremulous smile.
Jo was startled. Ladies did not pay calls at this unearthly hour, nor did they barge into a lady’s private domain uninvited. The drawing room was where ladies were entertained. She was perfectly sure her aunt would not have permitted them to see her like this unless they’d practically forced their way in. She wasn’t dressed to receive visitors. She was dressed to field the balls Eric was batting all over the turf. Her cheeks were flushed from running, her hair was out of its pins, and the hem of her plain gray dimity was mired in mud.
As they drew nearer, something clicked inside her brain, and though she’d never met them, she knew who they were and why they’d come. Lady Fredericka was out in front—above-average height, dark-haired, with elegant bones that put Jo in mind of a Thoroughbred racehorse. Her daughters were a younger version of their mother. The elder, Mrs. Daviot, looked distinctly ill-at-ease, and Jo liked her the better for it. The younger girl looked as demure as a Dresden shepherdess, except that her dimples were winking.
Mrs. Daventry flashed Jo an anguished look before coming forward to make the introductions. There were curtsies all round, then it was Eric’s turn. “My ward,” Jo said, stretching the truth a little. She wasn’t sure what Waldo had told his mother about the boy.
Lady Fredericka said, “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Chesney. The fault is mine. I gave my coachman the wrong directions, so instead of taking us to my milliner, who has a shop just around the corner close to Vauxhall Gardens, he brought us here. It seemed a shame to waste the opportunity for a cozy tête-à-tête, just you and Mrs. Daventry and we three. I hope we haven’t called at an inopportune moment?”
There was nothing Jo could do but accept Lady Fredericka’s explanation. Besides, she couldn’t afford to antagonize the woman who, she hoped, would sponsor her in society. So she swallowed her chagrin, made a suitable response, and invited them to join her in the drawing room.
“That was graciously done,” remarked Lady Fredericka artlessly.
She had blue, blue eyes that were bright with intelligence—and possibly curiosity. Though her skin was smooth, there were laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. She had the look of a woman who enjoyed a joke. So did Jo, but not when the joke was on her.
Jo led the way, with Eric holding on to her hand. He hadn’t said a word, but he rarely did with strangers present. She spoke to him quietly, observing conversationally that his batting was getting so good that she could hardly keep up with him.
Still no response.
Sighing, she said, “Why don’t you go to the kitchen and ask Cook to make you some hot chocolate?”
His little face brightened. “A cup or a demitasse?”
“You choose.”
He started forward, remembered his manners, and turned back to face Jo. “Thank you, Aunt Jo,” he said with feeling, and he walked away as fast as his little legs could carry him.
The ladies hovered, observing Eric as he pushed through the door to the servants’ quarters. Mrs. Daviot was right at Jo’s elbow. Remembering that Waldo’s sister had sons of her own, Jo said, “It won’t do him any harm, will it? The hot chocolate, I mean.”
Maude smiled. “Not in moderation. But even if he gorges himself on chocolate, he’ll only make himself sick, and that will be a lesson to him. I speak from experience, you see.”
When the laughter died away, Jo walked her visitors to the drawing-room door, then excused herself to fetch her Paisley shawl from her chamber. The moment the door closed, she whisked herself around and went tearing up the stairs. When she looked in the looking glass, she made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a moan. Oh, what must they think of her! She looked like a frump! First impressions were so important! It wasn’t that she had disgraced herself. Waldo’s mother had deliberately tried to catch her off guard, and she had succeeded.
Just wait till she saw Waldo! He should have warned her that something like this might happen. A man should know his own mother and sisters. They were due to go to the theater this evening. She’d ring such a peal over him that he wouldn’t hear for a week.
Five minutes later, she was ready to descend the stairs. She’d washed her hands and face, changed her gown and shoes, and combed her hair. The shawl was draped loosely around her shoulders.
She breathed deeply as she approached the drawing room. She knew what they were about. They were looking her over to see if she would make a suitable wife for the son and heir. She would soon put them right about that.
Jo was quite mistaken in her belief that she had made a bad first impression. In fact, the opposite was true. Only Cecy was disappointed. She had hoped that Mrs. Chesney would turn out to be a hussy. That would have given her a certain cachet with her friends. The Shady Lady was turning out to be not so shady after all.
On the way home, Lady Fredericka and Maude were discussing their impressions of Jo. “I was struck dumb when I first saw her,” declared her ladyship. “I thought she must be one of the maids. Did you see the mud on her gown and boots?”
“What I saw,” said Mrs. Daviot, eyes flashing, “was a woman who does not stand on her dignity but who can enter into a boy’s games when I’m sure there were other things she would rather be doing.”
She had liked Jo Chesney on sight, and her regard had only increased during the visit. It was obvious to her that Mrs. Chesney was a conscientious if somewhat anxious guardian who wasn’t ashamed to ask for help in the task of raising her ward. There was affection there too. As a devoted mother, Mrs. Daviot could only approve.
“I think,” she said, “it is to her credit that she has taken on the burden of raising a young boy. Eric is very fortunate.”
“Well, of course he is,” replied her ladyship impatiently. “That is just my point. I was so afraid she would turn out to be a fashion plate. It’s a relief to know she is a good-hearted, sensible young woman with more on her mind than the social whirl. Waldo could do a lot worse.”
“Mama.” Maude enunciated each word carefully, “Mrs. Chesney made her sentiments as clear as crystal. Nothing will induce her to marry again. No one can take the place of her first husband. She didn’t come up to town to be with Waldo but to find her friend Lady Webberley. I’m convinced that that is all there is to their friendship.”
“On her part, perhaps, but I’m not so sure about Waldo’s.”
“Why not?” asked Cecy, her interest reviving.
After a moment’s reflection, her ladyship said, “I don’t really know, except to say that Waldo answers all my questions with such wide-eyed innocence that my suspicions are aroused.”
“Mother,” Maude said, “you are making too much of it. There’s nothing to be suspicious about.”
Lady Fredericka dismissed her daughter’s words with a gesture of one hand. “And now that I have met her, I see where her attraction lies. She is devoted to her aunt, to her ward, to her friend, and even to her late husband. I’ve always admired loyalty.”
“So you like her, Mama?” said Cecy.
“Very much indeed. And I particularly liked the way she greeted us when we surprised her in her garden. It showed great presence of mind. Mind you, I could wish that she was a few years younger and had never married, and that her father was not Sir Vivian Moore. But then she wouldn’t be the woman Waldo admires.”
Cecy pounced on this. “What’s wrong with Sir Vivian?”
Her ladyship replied seamlessly, “Nothing, except that he and Lady Moore live so far away.”
Feeling a trifle warm, Maude stripped off her kid gloves, then fixed her mother with a hard stare. “Remember Miss Beauchamp, Mama? You got the wrong idea about her too. And before that it was Miss Reade. Need I go on? Whenever you push a female at Waldo, he invariably cuts the acquaintance.”
Her ladyship bore the rebuke with smiling complacency. “And so I hoped he would. Waldo married to Sally Beauchamp? Or Henrietta Reade? I could not bear it!”
There was a moment of profound silence as her daughters digested her words, then they all began to laugh.
Sometime after breakfast, Waldo met up with Harper and Ruggles in one of the coffeehouses in St. James’s, as previously arranged. He hadn’t wanted to meet them at the Horse Guards, where Special Branch was located, because Special Branch wasn’t involved yet. Ruggles was helping him out as a favor, and Harper was on an extended leave. He could do as he pleased.
After ordering coffee and Bath buns, they settled down to exchange notes.
“You go first, Harper,” said Waldo.
Harper looked askance at the snuffbox Ruggles offered him and shook his head. He considered snuff-taking a prissy affectation. Real men, in his opinion, smoked pipes.
“So far nothing,” he said. “I’ve been to Bow Street and used my connections there to have them check with every constable and magistrate’s office here and around Oxfordshire. There’s no shortage of corpses, but not one of them fits the description of Lady Webberley. That don’t mean much. She could have had an accident and be recovering in some hospice or other. How would we ever find out? There just aren’t enough officers to police the city, never mind the home counties. That’s what we needs, a national police force like they has in France.”
Waldo nodded, sharing Harper’s view. Most of the policing in Britain was done by the militia and local constables. The Bow Street Office with its Runners was a step in the right direction, but they were few in number. And Special Branch, for the most part, confined itself to matters of national security.