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“It’s from Lady Treloar’s gallery.” She spoke as if I knew her.
“Where is her gallery?”
“My apologies, I forgot you haven’t lived in London long. It’s on Regent Street. Everyone knows it. She has a good eye.”
“And she’s a lady?”
She nodded. “The widow of Lord Treloar. He left her with nothing, the poor thing, but she has done very well for herself. The gallery is a triumph.”
While ladies working in trade was frowned upon, some women had managed to rise above the stigma and carve out good reputations for themselves. I knew of a fashion designer who’d divorced her philandering husband and opened her first shop to stave off poverty, and a publisher who’d inherited her father’s company and refused to hand over the reins to a man. Owning an art gallery was a respectable business for a lady.
“Perhaps you saw her at the Bunburys’ ball last night,” Mrs. Newcombe said. “My age, striking features.”
An art expert who’d been left with nothing after her husband died and was also at the ball. Now I was even more intrigued by Lady Treloar. It would be worth paying her a visit tomorrow.
I couldn’t wait to tell Harry.
Harmony informedme the following morning over breakfast that Mr. Hobart wished to see me before I left the hotel. “He didn’t say what it was about, but he looked worried. Maybe he heard about the kiss.”
I stabbed a sausage with my fork. “I doubt that would worry him.”
I spent the next little while passing on all the gossip I’d learned the previous night. We agreed that most of it wasn’t relevant to the case, although Harmony did point out that Lady Quorne could have been an art thief before she met her husband. “I’m serious,” she said when I laughed. “We know nothing about her.”
We parted ways outside my room after breakfast, and I went in search of Mr. Hobart. I found him farewelling guests in the foyer after they checked out. Goliath and the other porters pushed trolleys laden with luggage across the tiles and through the front door, held open by Frank. Peter greeted me as he passed, a clipboard in one hand and pencil in the other. All looked in order. Mr. Hobart seemed to be his usual cheerful self.
His smile vanished upon seeing me, however. I stood at the post desk and read the newspapers until he was free.
“I’m worried about Mr. Bainbridge,” he said when he joined me.
My first reaction was one of relief. Nobody had died or been injured. But Mr. Hobart wouldn’t be worried about Floyd under ordinary circumstances. Something must be wrong.
“The night porter told me this morning that Mr. Bainbridge has been coming home just before dawn several times in the last few weeks, and not in a very good state.”
“Floyd often comes home late, and he’s often drunk. I’ve seen it myself.”
“Yes, but Philip says it’s different lately. Mr. Bainbridge is usually cheerful. Drunk, but happy. But these last few weeks, he seemed troubled. And early this morning…” He glanced around to check that we weren’t overheard. “Early this morning, he came in crying.”
That certainly didn’t sound like Floyd. “Is Philip certain? Floyd’s eyes may have been watering from the cold air.”
“It was a relatively mild night.” He watched me closely. “I’m sorry to burden you with this, Miss Fox, but I didn’t know who else to turn to. Lady Bainbridge is too fragile to help her son if he’s in difficulty, and I didn’t want to inform Sir Ronald yet. His reaction might make it worse.”
I could well imagine my uncle growing angry with Floyd for his late nights and gambling. Knowing him, he might bully Floyd and tell him that a real man never cries. A response like that from his father could push Floyd away when he needed help the most.
“You were right to tell me, Mr. Hobart. Thank you.”
His body heaved with his sigh. “If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
I clasped his forearm and offered him the kindest smile I could muster. “I won’t speak to Floyd yet. I’ll let him sleep a while and talk to him this afternoon.”
“I think that’s wise.”
Floyd occupied my mind all the way to Harry’s office. So much so that I forgot my intention never to enter without knocking first, and I barged right in. He looked up from the desk where he sat, pen in hand.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You look troubled.”
“It’s nothing. Just Floyd being Floyd.”
He nodded knowingly. “Late nights, coming home drunk and smelling like he’d gone for a swim in the Thames?”
