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Mrs. Williams tottered to a chair and slumped there. “I never thought . . .” She covered her face with her hands. It was a perfect attitude of despair, and she was an actress. All the same, Lisburne believed it. He believed her love for and fear of losing her child. Anybody who’d lost a loved one would believe.
“Bianca will be safe,” he said. “I promise. The first step is to get you both out of here and to a place where nobody can trouble you.”
It isn’t easy to move a household in the dead of night or find a place to move them to on short notice.
But Mrs. Williams hadn’t much of a household, thanks to her frequent visits to the pawnbrokers. Nearly all of her and her daughter’s belongings fit in a large carpetbag. While Leonie helped them fill it, Lisburne went down to the landlady and paid the rent as well as something extra for her to send away any other visitors.
As to where to move them, that was obvious enough.
Leonie took them to Clevedon House.
She was well aware that Halliday, the Duke of Clevedon’s house steward, was by now used to comings and goings at odd hours. Most usually it was Sophy coming and going, but Leonie’s appearing before dawn wouldn’t disturb his or anybody else’s equilibrium. Her arriving with Lisburne, a strange young woman, and a child didn’t leave Halliday at a loss. This wasn’t the first time the duke’s mansion in Charing Cross had provided refuge for pretty women in difficulties, and Halliday did not seem desirous of its being the last.
Equally important, being fully in the duke’s confidence, he was aware that a search was on for a missing person. No one had to tell the house steward that the fair-haired woman in black, carrying a sleeping child, was this person. In short order, the housekeeper was escorting the strangers to the guest wing.
Meanwhile, His Grace, who’d returned a short time earlier from his own less successful investigations, was promptly apprised of the visitors. He summoned Leonie and Lisburne to his study.
Clevedon didn’t ask annoying questions about how Lisburne happened to be at hand at the odd hour when Fenwick arrived at Maison Noirot with his momentous news. He didn’t try to throttle Lisburne, either. But every now and again the duke sent an unfriendly look in the marquess’s direction. Lisburne met these with the pretty but stupid look.
“Leonie, you’d better stay the night,” Clevedon said, after she’d summarized recent events. “Jeffreys can open the shop. It’s not as though you’ll be swamped with customers. You need to get some rest, and Marcelline will be anxious if she doesn’t speak to you. I know she’s been worried.” Another thunderous look at Lisburne. “And I’m sure Lisburne will wish to return home and put his cousin’s mind at ease as soon as may be.”
Sometimes, when Clevedon became excessively ducal, as he was now, Leonie would entertain fantasies of choking him or hitting him in the head with one of the marble busts cluttering up the place. Since she couldn’t injure her sister’s husband—for one thing, he was too big and his head was too hard and thick—she would react by becoming obtuse and contrary. No Noirot took well to being ordered about.
But this night—morning—she hadn’t the wherewithal to argue with him. She’d sat in the hackney coach, watching Mrs. Williams lull her daughter back to sleep, and found herself brooding about what she’d do if she learned she was carrying Lisburne’s child.
She knew he wouldn’t turn his back on his offspring, as Theaker or Meffat had done. Since he had an honorable streak as well as a protective one, it wasn’t farfetched to suppose he’d offer marriage.
She didn’t want to be married to appease somebody’s honor or sense of responsibility. She didn’t want to be a married case of unrequited love.
Yet it would be the right thing to do for the child.
But the shop. The arguments she could make for Marcelline and Sophy’s giving up the shop would apply to her as well.
It hurt, physically, to think of abandoning it. The shop was her link to Cousin Emma. She’d made them into a family and taught them how to have a real life, not one based on fraud and falseness. Every stitch was a stitch she’d taught them. Every design was based on principles she’d taught them. Everything was inspired by her, and by her great love—of the three girls she’d taken under her wing and of her work.
How could Leonie give that up? It would be like giving up some part of her heart.
She caught herself as her eyes filled. Juno, what was wrong with her? She didn’t have time for weeping and grieving. She had important matters to put in order. Her trouble was, she was tired. Here at Clevedon House she’d be pampered. And she could confide in her sister. And after a good night’s sleep and vast amounts of pampering, she’d sort it out.
Only a ninny would waste mind and time worrying about being pregnant until she was certain this was the case. Meanwhile, she had a problem to solve and a plan whose details needed working out. A clear head was wanted.
And so, for once, she disregarded Clevedon’s acting like an overprotective brother. She only smiled and yawned and thanked him and said good night, leaving the men to do whatever it was men felt they had to do in these situations.
Lisburne House library
A short time later
Not mine?” Swanton said. “You’re sure?”
“The child was conceived and born in England,” Lisburne said. “I don’t know whether it was Theaker or Meffat who sired her, but it had to be one of them. I don’t see their making any special effort to help friends out of difficulties of this sort. Their style is more in the nature of pointing fingers and laughing at fools who let themselves get caught.”
Lisburne had found Swanton pacing the library. He hadn’t been able to sleep, he said. A poem was forming in his mind, but when he tried to write it down, it slipped away.
“I feel sorry for Mrs. Williams and her daughter, then,” Swanton said. “I like to think I’d be a good father. I should hope so. I had a good example.”
“This is hardly your only opportunity to be a father,” Lisburne said.
“I know that. I only meant . . .” Swanton sighed. “Actually, I’m not sure what I meant. My mind won’t settle. That is to say, it wouldn’t. But now that I know I’m not responsible, I expect I’ll do better. Though I still don’t know what’s to be done.”
“Miss Noirot has a plot of some kind simmering in her busy brain,” Lisburne said. “So have I, and I was looking forward to fighting with her about it. But Clevedon chased me away and sent her to bed. And now, with your leave, I’ll take myself to bed. It’s been a tiring night.”
As tired as he was, he didn’t expect to sleep. He had too much in his mind. Hours of lovemaking with Leonie, and the strange happiness. And the confusion. He was too young to be easily tired or fuddled, yet this night swirled in his mind, images chasing one another. The little girl, asleep in her mother’s lap as they traveled to Clevedon House . . . a child . . .
What if Leonie bore him a child? Answers tangled in his mind, going round and round, until fatigue swamped him, and he slept.
He awoke shortly after noon, which was when Polcaire presented him with a note in precise and dizzyingly feminine handwriting.
Lisburne read the message again and again. This was easy enough to do, since it was a work of most businesslike brevity: Would his lordship be so good as to come to Clevedon House at half-past two o’clock sharp in reference to matters previously discussed.
She’d signed it L.N.
That was all, a handful of no-nonsense words and her initials. Yet he studied it as though it had been some ancient text. He studied it the way Swanton had studied the Spectacle the other day. Looking for . . . what?
More, something more.
If only he had an inkling of what more, exactly, he sought.
The Regent’s Park Zoological Gardens
Afternoon of Friday 24 July
No, no, Clara, you mustn’
t vex yourself,” Lady Gladys said. “Can’t you see she’s exactly like the poem?”
“Lady Alda Morris is no poem,” Lady Clara said. “What she’s like is a horrid novel.”
“No, no, she’s like Mrs. Abdy’s poem. Only listen.”
The two women stood in the shade of a thick stand of shrubbery. They were waiting for the rest of their group, who’d lagged behind to speak to a zookeeper.
Lady Gladys threw a mischievous look in the direction of the laggards, then fluttered her eyelashes and adopted a simpering smile and recited:
How charming she looks—her dark curls
Really float with a natural air.
And the beads might be taken for pearls
That are twined in that beautiful hair:
Then what tints her fair features o’erspread—
That she uses white paint some pretend;
But believe me, she only wears red,—
She’s my very particular friend!
Then her voice how divine it appears
While caroling “Rise gentle m-moo—”
“Moo?” Lady Clara said, stifling a giggle.
“If you could see the face you’re making,” Lady Gladys said. “Oh, you’re too bad.”
“I? How am I to help myself? You’ve caught her mannerisms exactly. Who knew what a clever mimic you were? It makes me furious to think how long you hid your light under a bushel.”
“A bushel? At this size? I should have said it wanted a hay barn, my dear.”
“Oh, my goodness, you took the words right out of her mouth.”
Shrieks of laughter.
