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Cora screwed her nose up at her little sister. “Don’t be silly. If he took advantage of them, they wouldn’t be crying with sorrow. They’d be rejoicing over his death.”
Mrs. Mannering nodded. “Those girls at the funeral were clearly silly innocents. The girls I’m referring to were thoroughly ruined by him. So much so that they haven’t reappeared in society since their downfall.”
Mary frowned. “I don’t understand. What happened to them? Why can’t they attend balls and the like?”
Everyone looked to her older sister. Cora sighed and turned to Mary. “He got them…in the family way.”
Mary’s frown deepened. “How? They weren’t married.”
“Cora will explain later,” Flossy said impatiently. To Mrs. Mannering, she said, “How do you know that was the reason for their disappearance from society?”
“I can’t be certain. It’s all merely gossip, but now that he’s gone, it’s surprising how many people want to talk about his wicked ways. I’ve considered all the facts, the timing, and I think most of the gossip is true.”
“Anyone we know?” Felicity asked with a gleam in her eye.
“Not personally. Don’t look so bloodthirsty,” Mrs. Mannering chided. “It’s awful what he did to them. Particularly if one believes the rumor that one of the ruined girls was so distressed that she took her own life.”
The news doused everyone’s enthusiasm and put an end to the giggles and gossip.
Mrs. Mannering rose. “Let it be a lesson to you all. Even handsome paragons like Vernon Rigg-Lyon can have a sinister side. You must always be on your guard, and never meet with a gentleman in private, no matter how much you want to.”
She walked off and rejoined the older women, just as the gentlemen returned to the drawing room smelling of cigar smoke and port.
I spent the rest of the night wondering if Mrs. Mannering’s reason for imparting gossip was to frighten the young ladies enough that they’d discourage the advances of over-eager gentlemen. Perhaps she’d even made up the stories about Rigg-Lyon’s string of ruined girls for the purpose of warning them against his kind.
Even as the thought occurred to me, I knew in the pit of my stomach she told the truth about the girl who’d taken her own life. I suspected I knew who, although I fervently hoped I was wrong.
There was only one way to find out.
When it came time to say goodnight, I took Mrs. Mannering’s hand and separated her from the others. “The girl you spoke of earlier…was it Major Leavey’s daughter?”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Are you sure she took her own life? She didn’t die of illness?”
“I’m as sure as anyone can be when the source of information is third-hand rumor.” She glanced past me, then drew me even further away from the others. “No one knows whether she killed herself because he didn’t love her or because she fell pregnant to him. I’m not sure it really matters. Either way, she discovered he was horrid.”
“Are you sure Vernon Rigg-Lyon was the gentleman involved?”
“That I am certain about. Apparently she confided in her best friend in the weeks leading up to her death.” She sighed. “The poor girl, to feel as though the only way out was to take her own life, and the man responsible gets away without so much as a smear on his character.”
Not quite. He’d been murdered. Was he killed because he ruined Major Leavey’s daughter’s reputation, driving her to her death?
I couldn’t be entirely certain if the major was the murderer, but I did know one thing now—he’d written the threatening note to Hardwick, because he assumed Hardwick knew what Rigg-Lyon had done. In his mind, Hardwick was complicit in his daughter’s downfall.
He was probably right.
Chapter15
Aglance into the hotel foyer when I reached the base of the stairs the following morning showed that little had improved from the day before. My uncle and Mr. Hobart were trying to placate frustrated guests who needed transportation, but it seemed to be doing little good. I overheard one gentleman say this wouldn’t happen at the Savoy. After Uncle Ronald had a quiet word, the guest seemed to calm down a little. I wondered if he’d been offered a discount on his next stay.
When the front door opened, I was surprised to see Peter was the one opening it. Frank and the other doorman were nowhere in sight, and the porters were too busy moving luggage.
If I went that way, I was in danger of being enlisted to help, so I avoided the foyer altogether by slipping out of the hotel via the staff entrance that led to the lane. I sidestepped a lettuce that had fallen off a delivery cart and been left for the stray cats to nibble and made my way to Piccadilly where I dodged traffic to cross to the other side.
It was a warm day with dark clouds on the horizon, hinting at an afternoon thunderstorm. It was the sort of day where my hair would turn wild if not tightly arranged, and my skin would feel sticky in a few hours. Having failed to look out of the window before leaving my suite, I’d not taken a fan or umbrella with me, and the parasol was pointless, given the sun was hiding behind a bank of clouds.
I slotted it into Harry’s umbrella stand when I arrived at his office. “I know who wrote the note to Hardwick, and why.”
