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“It’s about Mr Wentworth, of course, and what I’ve discovered.”
“Oh.” Phoebe felt a stab of fear. She’d seen a snippet in the paper Hugh had been reading regarding Mr Wentworth’s stated declaration to find Lady Cavanaugh and bring the husband-killer to justice. Hugh had thought she’d stabbed herself with her embroidery needle the way she’d gasped involuntarily.
Phoebe knew her safest course was anonymity. With no friends among the servants or even the local community where she’d lived for five years with Ulrick, the truth would never prevail. No, she would be safest here with Hugh.
“You see, I’ve learned where his wife is.”
“But Hugh told you to give it up. As did I.” Phoebe stopped walking, put her hand to her chest, then forced herself to continue her measured footsteps. “There’s nothing to be gained from all this, Ada. Just leave it be.”
Ada ignored her. “She’s a regular at Mrs Plumb’s Salon in Soho.”
Phoebe stopped and looked at her. The name meant nothing.
“It’s a salon where I’ve learned ladies and gentlemen meet for music and dancing, though it’s not for respectable people like me or Aunt Siddons who I’m living with now.” Ada looked appealingly at Phoebe. “That’s why I’m asking you to go.”
Phoebe shook her head. “I can’t, Ada.”
Ada put her head on one side. “Not even for me?”
“Not for you, not for my mistress, and I’ll tell you why not? Because your brother wants nothing more to do with the man,” Phoebe said with some energy. In fact, Hugh had not mentioned Wentworth’s name in two weeks, but Phoebe needed to make it as clear as she could that Ada must not meddle in matters pertaining to Wentworth. It was too dangerous.
Ada raised her veil and sent Phoebe a level stare. “Mr Wentworth’s wife is a dancer at Madame Plumb’s. Is it fair to her that she remain in ignorance of the fact her husband has inherited a dukedom?”
“No, it probably is not,” Phoebe said with forced restraint.
“And is it so difficult to wear a
veil, visit a house filled with other people wearing veils, and simply mention to the unfortunate woman the fact that her errant husband is now a duke?”
Phoebe made no answer, and Ada stamped her foot. “Then I’ll go. Yes, I’ll go, and Hugh will be terribly angry with me, but I’ll tell him I had no choice because you refused.”
Phoebe nibbled the end of her pen, then tested the nib, then stared at the blank sheet in front of her. She’d had writing implements brought to her in order to scratch a note to Hugh informing him of what she was doing. Ada had suggested Phoebe say nothing about her visit to Mrs Plumb’s, but Phoebe had been adamant she was not going to keep secrets.
Now she was in two minds. Hugh had been away three days, and she wished heartily she might have discussed the matter with him, but Ada’s pleas had prevailed, and now that Phoebe had had time to digest the possible ramifications of speaking to him as opposed to not speaking to him, she was highly undecided.
If news got back to him that she’d gone to Mrs Plumb’s Salon, he might think her underhanded and seeking diversion, and she’d hate that.
On the other hand, Ada had said she’d ascertained that Thursday was the one day of the week the mysterious Mrs Wentworth made her appearance at Mrs Plumb’s and today was Thursday, while Hugh would not be home for another three days.
No, she really had to tell him. She dipped her pen into the ink and began, “My dearest Hugh, I hope you will not be angry with me but….”
Then she scratched it out. That was not a good start. If she were his wife, he’d have every cause to be angry with her for not seeking his permission. Sadly, that was a wife’s lot, but she was not his wife, and one of the few advantages was that as Ulrick’s widow and Hugh’s kept woman, she was mistress of her own decisions. This would have to be a practice draft, she decided, making another attempt with: “Dear Hugh, though I do not wish to displease you, I have decided….”
With a sigh of frustration, she crumpled the paper and tossed it into the grate. A letter wasn’t necessary. She’d make a clandestine visit, in disguise, to Mrs Plumb’s and Hugh would be none the wiser. Then she’d report her findings to Ada and they could decide how to proceed. All she was going to do was go to Mrs. Plumb’s house—whoever Mrs Plumb was—which was in a respectable area, and speak to Wentworth’s wife. No doubt Mrs Wentworth would be as eager as any of them to find a way to make Mr Wentworth accountable for his actions. Obviously he’d abandoned her. It was quite possible he’d forced her to live on a paltry allowance for years, simply to get her out of the way while he lived the life he chose. No doubt she was an innkeeper’s daughter or someone of lowly rank whom Wentworth had either been forced to marry through honor, or with whom he’d rashly eloped as a very young man.
Whatever the case, clearly he deeply regretted this marriage, but fact was that his wife was entitled to share in the spoils resulting from his elevation in status.
Pulling on her gloves and tying the ribbons of her bonnet, Phoebe went down the stairs and into the darkened street. She’d told her maid she was going out and not to wait up for her. Hugh had taken the carriage, so Phoebe hailed a hackney, and pulling down her veil when she was inside, prepared for an evening that, even if she felt somewhat guilty about, promised to be a good deal more interesting than spending another evening at home, alone.
Despite persuading herself she was doing no wrong, her heart beat rapidly as she paid the hackney then watched it disappear around the corner, leaving her standing on the pavement by the iron railing of a somewhat ordinary four-square house. The blinds were drawn, but she could see the glow of lamplight behind as she was forced to step aside for two ladies elegantly attired but veiled, and then two gentlemen in evening dress. If this was the right address, it looked benign and ordinary.
A little maid greeted her at the door with far more confidence than the usual menial given the girl’s tender years. “Welcome, ma’am, if ye’d like ter follow me to the refreshments’ room. Ye’ve not bin here afore.”
Phoebe did so and soon found herself in an elegantly furnished room with a table heaped with jellies, blancmanges, thinly sliced ham, tarts and plover’s eggs, around which milled more than a dozen ladies and gentlemen. The sound of a fine alto sung by a woman with a deep, clear voice issued from beyond, and Phoebe wondered why Ada had said her aunt would not deign to step over the threshold. It all looked perfectly respectable to her.
Nevertheless, she felt dreadfully exposed being on her own though her veiling gave her confidence. Some ladies had pushed theirs back, but Phoebe noticed others wore masques or were entirely shrouded.
“Good evening, are you looking for someone?” The fact that the question was asked by a kindly looking matron was comforting, especially when the woman introduced herself as Mrs Plumb.
