Page 86 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

He would address Catmull, Catmull’s mother, and Lady Darly in the morning. Charles was certain that between the three of them lay the answer to this mystery.

He’d just finished tying his neckcloth when a knock sounded at the door of his hotel room. He opened it, still in his shirtsleeves.

A hotel footman stood on the threshold. “A message for you, Lieutenant Heywood. It was just delivered to the front desk.” He extended a cream laid envelope.

Charles took it, turning it over in his hand. The envelope was sealed with red wax, imprinted with a strangely familiar family crest. The handwriting was familiar too. It spelled out Charles’s name on the back in a spidery script.

“By whom?” he asked.

“A man from Viscount Darly’s residence, sir. Shall I await your reply?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Charles thanked the footman and, tipping him a few coins for his trouble, closed the door. He tore open the envelope.

My dear Charles,

I comprehend you are at last come to London. It is a good thing, for I have long been meaning to speak with you on a matter that has troubled me greatly. Do me the courtesy of joining me for dinner this evening in Eaton Place. My husband and children are away and I am quite on my own. I shall expect you at half eight.

Fondly,

Abigail, Lady Darly

Charles lowered the letter. He realized two things simultaneously: why he’d recognized that crest and where he’d seen that handwriting.

A surge of quiet fury went through him.

The theatre would have to wait.

* * *

“He’s not here,” Kate murmured in disappointment as she gazed out over the railing of the box Sir Lawrence had engaged for them.

Christine sat next to her in a plush high-backed chair, wafting her pink feather fan. It was a chill night out of doors, but inside, the gaslight and the crowds had conspired to make the air exceedingly warm. “Surely you can’t tell. It’s such a crush this evening.”

The Adelphi was a popular theatre, known primarily for the burlettas, ballets, and pantomimes it produced during the winter and spring season. Lords, ladies, and the gentry were often in attendance, along with a wide swath of less elevated society. The pit and gallery seats below were jam-packed this evening, everyone having turned out for the dramatization of Mr. Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.

Sir Lawrence had gone to fetch them a glass of lemonade at the interval, leaving Kate and Christine briefly on their own. They’d both dispensed with their lacy wraps, revealing the low necklines of their fashionable bronze silk and rose-pink satin evening gowns.

“Of course I can tell,” Kate said, still peering over the rail. “Were he here, he’d be sitting in the Earl of Gordon’s box.”

It was a box that was presently empty.

“Not necessarily,” Christine said. “Lieutenant Heywood seems an unpretentious sort. Perhaps he’s taken a seat below?”

Kate doubted it. Charles may be unpretentious, but he wasn’t an idiot. The people in the pit and gallery were packed together like tinned sardines. Surely no one would subject themselves to the crush if they had a more comfortable alternative.

“What’s this about Heywood?” Sir Lawrence reentered the box, carrying their beverages in his hands. He was garbed in black and white evening dress, his graying hair arranged with a liberal application of pomade. Lemonade sloshed over the rim of the glass he offered to Christine.

Christine took it, delicately wiping the rim with her handkerchief. “Lady Katherine and I hoped we might see Lieutenant Heywood here this evening. He’s recently arrived in London.”

Sir Lawrence handed Kate her glass. “Quite so. Saw him this afternoon at my club. A serious fellow, and not in town for long.” He resumed his seat next to Christine. “I daresay he’s got better things to do this evening than attend the theater.”

Kate stiffened. “Does he.”

“And there’s naught to bring him here, is there?” Sir Lawrence continued. “Nothing save a capital ghost story.”

Christine gave Kate a bracing look. “Well, he doesn’t know what he’s missing, does he? I declare, this is the best dramatization I’ve ever seen. The ghosts are extraordinarily lifelike. And what a jolly scene it was at Mr. Fezziwig’s warehouse.”

Kate sat back in her chair, her lemonade held, untasted, in her silk-gloved hand. Who could think of the pleasure of Mr. Dickens’s tale at a time like this?