Masquerading The Marquess

Chapter 8

Finn entered the study around ten o’clock. James had spent a long, restless night. Since dawn he had unsuccessfully attempted to assemble the bits and pieces he and Calliope had uncovered. The trail remained cold.

"My lord, I haven’t found that Curdle fellow yet. Jaws are clamped tight."

"Some good news to start the day. Just what I needed."

Finn gave him an admonishing look. He was one of the few allowed the privilege. "Now, my lord. Things have progressed slowly before. Just need to give people the proper incentive and a little rope to hang themselves."

"I prefer sooner rather than later. Anything else to report, Finn?"

"Well, I do have some information on the other matter you asked me to look into."

James’s interest perked. "The caricaturist? What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much yet. Only that Robert Cruikshank takes the drawings to Ackermann’s and then collects the fees."

"Cruikshank? I just saw him yesterday. He’s a caricaturist in his own right."

"I figured you’d want me to dig into his background so I went ahead. His staff is discreet so I didn’t get any ready information from them. But I did learn that he has a predictable routine from which he varies only slightly. On the surface, nothing appears amiss. He enjoys the tables, but not overly so. He frequents the Adelphi Theatre and is often seen in the company of Miss Deirdre Daly."

"Very interesting."

Finn nodded. "Do you want me to keep closer tabs on him? I figured the Curdle job had greater priority, so I haven’t done so yet."

"Your instincts were correct, as usual. Stay on Curdle."

Finn nodded. "By the way, were you aware that Robert Cruikshank is also a distant relative of Mr. Chalmers? His great-grandmother was the first cousin of Mr. Chalmers`s great-grandmother. A loose connection, but one nonetheless."

James smiled sardonically. "That it is. I think I’ll pay the illustrious Mr. Cruikshank a visit."

Finn provided directions to Robert Cruikshank’s residence.

The illustrator seemed to be quite visible lately. Perhaps an early morning meeting would shed some light. And give James the advantage.

An hour later James presented his card to a wiry old butler.

Cruikshank appeared shortly and guided James to his study. "My lord, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

His expression looked anything but pleased. James decided to skip the pleasantries and get right to the point. "What do you know about Thomas Landes?"

"Landes is a young caricaturist who is gaining popularity. " His response was uttered in a matter-of-fact voice.

"I’d like to speak with him. Where can I find him?"

"Why ask me? You should try Ackermann’s." Robert Cruikshank looked unruffled. "Or perhaps you should take out an ad?"

"I’d rather you tell me his location and save me the unnecessary time and effort."

"Although I would love to be of assistance, my lord, it is not within my power to do so."

"It was confirmed by a reliable source that you supply all of the sketches to Ackermann’s. So I find it remarkable that you don’t know where or how to contact Landes. Perhaps you are he?"

Cruikshank perused him for a moment and then smiled. "Perhaps."

"I will find out sooner or later, Cruikshank. It’s only a matter of time. I would be more inclined to be generous if my energy and resources were saved."

Cruikshank looked relaxed, but James noticed he was gripping the chair arms.

The man was nervous. And he had deliberately allowed suspicion to rest on himself. James vetoed the notion that Cruikshank was Landes. He had to be protecting someone close to him. His brother? No, George was fanatical about signing his work. Besides, if rumors were true, Robert wouldn’t go to any great lengths for him.

"It would make matters easier if the man were to contact me. He would be better off doing so soon, before I send an outlay of runners to find him," James said.

"I’ll keep that in mind, should I happen to cross paths with Mr. Landes."

"Excellent."

"Good day, my lord."

James let himself out of the townhouse.

He would have one of his footmen follow Cruikshank. The trail would lead to Landes, Stephen or both.

James escorted Calliope to the carriage promptly at one in the afternoon and climbed in after her. He signaled to the two men standing in the doorway of the townhouse and they returned the gesture.

A wave of satisfaction swept through him. The wheels were in motion and the plan was set in action. The carriage began rolling steadily toward its destination.

He glanced across the seat. Calliope’s eyes were guarded, her movements anxious.

"It’s been confirmed that nearly every member on our list will be at Pettigrew’s this weekend. It should prove to be an interesting time. The Pettigrews are infamous for their extravagance."

She clasped her hands and nodded.

"We will arrive and rest before dinner. After dinner there will likely be entertainment. Tomorrow will be filled with lawn games and parlor activities. The festivities will provide an excellent opportunity to converse with the women and listen to any new gossip concerning the men."

She nodded again, continuing to peer out the window. They passed out of the city and James inhaled the fresh country smell. The sky was a bit bluer and the air practically caressed his lungs. He missed his Yorkshire estate and country life.

"There will be a dance tomorrow night, and Sunday after brunch we will leave," he said.

Discussing the weekend activities seemed to be making her knuckles whiter, so he switched topics.

"What do they call the shade of your gown? Mint? Celadon? Pistachio?"

She looked at him in surprise. "Uh, just mint, I suppose."

He nodded. "I think you would do well to wear a darker shade to enhance your coloring. Emerald, maybe."

Her brows drew together. "I don’t recall asking your opinion. I believe this color is perfectly suitable."

He waved a hand in a negligent fashion. "You really should take my advice in these matters. I have more experience, I can assure you."

A spark lit in her eyes and she crossed her arms. "How have the scores of women been able to stand you, my lord?"

He shot her a lazy look and leaned back in his seat. "Just ask one, my dear."

Her lips compressed and she turned to gaze at the flowering countryside. Her hands were no longer clenched.

A number of carriages arrived at the Pettigrews’ estate within minutes of each other.

"Angelford, my dear! So wonderful to see you," cooed Penelope Flanders as she sashayed across the slate tiles on the front portico. "The weekend will be so much more enjoyable with you in attendance."

James forced a smile and took her offered hand. "Lady Flanders, you look lovely as usual. Is your husband with you this weekend?"

She preened. "He will be arriving tomorrow evening. He has important business to attend and insisted I come ahead and enjoy myself."

James felt Calliope’s eyes sear a hole in his back.

"Well, then we shall see you tonight," he could not resist answering.

Penelope glanced at Calliope and dismissed her. “Delightful," she said, eyeing him with relish before strolling into the house.

James smiled at Calliope and tucked her hand under his arm, doubting she would willingly do so.

"Angelford, my dear. My husband’s away and I’m ripe for the plucking," Calliope mimicked.

"A woman of your worldly nature, Miss Minton. You sound amazingly like an outraged virgin."

Interestingly enough, sometimes she acted like one too.

Calliope was spared a response as Lord Pettigrew descended the stairs to warmly welcome them.

"Angelford, good of you to come. Esmerelda, my dear, it’s always a pleasure to see you." He raised her hand to his lips and held it a second longer than was proper.

She smiled becomingly and a flash of irritation swept through James.

"The roads are deplorable this time of the year. You must be tired from your ride. Please make yourselves comfortable and let the servants know if there is anything you require. Dinner will be served at eight. I look forward to seeing you there."

Pettigrew exemplified the word leer.

He motioned for a servant to assist them to their rooms. James had been to the estate before, but he observed the look of wonder pass over Calliope’s face as they entered.

The estate was impressive. It had been in the Pettigrew family for seven generations and the family collection of antiques was notable. The Pettigrews had not experienced the downturn in finances that many wealthy English families had faced during one generation or another.

James’s family had been so blessed until his father’s downfall. It had been up to James to repair the broken finances. But he had always known he would succeed. Always been sure he wouldn’t be forced to sell any of the family heirlooms. So he continued to take the display of wealth as second nature. He had never chosen to look at it any other way.

But Calliope’s posture caused him to pause. As she gazed around at the trappings of wealth, her first expression was one of awe, quickly replaced by anger.

She caught him looking at her and an indifferent mask fell into place, but too late.

The servants guided them to rooms across from one another in the west corridor of the second floor. He excused himself, leaving her to rest while he entered his room. It was a large room with Oriental silks and dark mahogany furniture. He had a similarly styled room in his main country estate. He wondered what Calliope would say about his forty-room Yorkshire manor. He felt fairly certain she would not be pleased.

Calliope glanced at the clock. The hour had passed quickly. She pressed her cheek into the pillow and gazed at the fancy mantelpiece. It was entirely covered in gilt. Small angels were trapped in the corners and held there with the heavy gold. The frills in one room alone would feed a small village.

What was she doing here?

Trying to find Stephen. Interrogating people. Searching rooms. Keeping a firm distance from Angelford.

Not necessarily in that order.

She shoved her face more firmly in the pillow and groaned. Flipping back the covers, she rolled until her legs fell off the bed and her feet touched the cold floor. She pushed herself upright and tiptoed to the settee.

Calliope put her feet up on the settee and pulled her day dress over the top. Betsy would be in soon to help her prepare for the evening. Funny how one became used to the assistance. Calliope grimaced.

Betsy tapped on the door and entered. "What a lovely house, miss. The country is so different from the city."

Betsy’s eyes glowed. Was poor Herbert, the footman, already being replaced?

"Anything interesting belowstairs, Betsy?"

"Indeed, miss," she said as she entered the closet and withdrew a red evening gown. "I have heard the most unusual things about the Pettigrews and their parties. Supposedly this is not one of their more wild weekends. Tame entertainments are planned."

Calliope hid her grin at Betsy’s disappointment. "Why do you suppose that is?"

"Servants don’t know, miss. They say Lord Pettigrew’s been awfully preoccupied with some government hubbub lately and has been curtailing boisterous types of entertainment. They say Lady Pettigrew is bored." Betsy shook her head and helped her into the gown. "Never a good thing, a bored noble."

"This is Lady Pettigrew’s birthday weekend and they haven’t planned anything above mild?"

Betsy nodded sadly and her disappointment reflected Calliope’s own. She had been expecting at least some caricature material from this trip. Lord Pettigrew had been promising especially lurid activities for weeks. Not that she would participate, but she had planned to actively observe and document.

What had made the Pettigrews change their plans?

Betsy went to work on her hair. "Don’t worry too much, miss. The maids are hoping for some extra activity, in any case. Seeing as there are still quite a few of the notorious in attendance, we should be able to have an exciting weekend."

Calliope looked at Betsy’s eyes in the mirror. Poor Herbert.

Betsy chartered while she worked and finally stuck the last pin in her hair. "Too bad you don’t go with your own hair, miss. It’s much nicer. "

"This is my hair, Betsy. "

Betsy sighed. "Yes, miss."

Betsy, as gossip-hungry as she was, wouldn’t say anything. She wanted the position more than anything. It was too big a step up for her. Moreover, Calliope genuinely liked Betsy and she thought the feeling was mutual.

However, Calliope wished she could dispense with the wig as well. It itched. She surveyed herself critically. The brown wig had been styled artfully so ringlets fell around her face and the ample expanse of skin that her Turkey red gown afforded. The gown’s gold satin trim and accompanying long lace scarf accented the beautiful color and style.

This was one of her more daring gowns. Although the gown she was saving for tomorrow was definitely Madame Giselle’s masterpiece. But this one would do?-nicely, since the purpose of wearing the dress was to keep all eyes away from her face as she took measure of the house.

There was a knock and James entered her room. Betsy hiked her skirts and ducked through the open doorway.

Calliope cocked an eyebrow at his impertinence but swished forward to greet him. His eyes swept her and his expression left her satisfied the gown would do its trick.

"Forget what I said earlier in the coach about your taste in clothes."

Her stomach did a little flip. She placed her hand on his outstretched arm, and they exited the room. The gold picture frames winked in the candlelight as they walked down the hall and descended the stairs. `

"Just be your charming self and remember not to venture away from me. We will only observe tonight, agreed?"

She nodded and they reached the dining room, where other guests were milling about waiting for dinner.

"My dear Esmerelda."

Calliope turned to see Lord Pettigrew ambling forward, hindered by his large girth.

She pasted a smile on her face and extended her hand to the earl. "My lord, you are looking very dapper this evening."

He beamed. "Saw this style at the races last week, and with all our success that day I took it as an omen and thought I might try it."

"Well, it suits you," she flattered. "Will you keep your horse running?"

" Thunder Peak is an excellent piece, but I believe I will put him to stud this year. He should make me a nice profit." He gave her a meaningful glance. "Suitable enough even for extravagant purchases."

She gave him an inviting smile but bristled at the implication. She offered a noncommittal, "Mmm, yes."

James escorted her to the table as dinner was announced. She found herself seated between James and Mr. Ronald Ternberry. Lord Roth was seated across the table.

Ternberry’s expression was pinched as he surveyed the table. "There are to be charades later. How trite."

Although Ternberry was on their list, Calliope couldn’t picture him doing anything as remotely exciting as committing a crime.

Roth seemed to delight in Ternberry’s boorishness. "Ronnie, there is to be a musicale too. I hope you regale us with your spring larklike voice."

Calliope smothered a smile. Roth was a rogue. "Oh, yes, Mr. Ternberry, I look forward to hearing you sing."

Roth smiled at her approvingly and turned back to monitor "Ronnie’s" reaction.

Ternberry sniffed delicately as if he were appeasing mere mortals with his magnificence.

"Well, I do have a passing voice, my dear, although I don’t often perform for others. I may do you the honor after dinner."

"Afterwards we can do charades. I really hope I get to choose my own." Roth dropped the statement innocently and took a drink of his wine.

Ternberry’s brows drew together. It was obvious he was unsure what Roth’s statement implied. Calliope sipped from her wine goblet, hoping to conceal her mirth.

"Won’t it be fun?" Roth shot her a wicked glance and Calliope gave in and laughed. James was conversing with a lady on his left, but turned at the sound. The first course was served and the servants moved between them. Light chatter flowed around the table during the next courses. Dessert was served and the conversation at their end of the table shifted to politics.

"Making a tidy profit these days. Yes, I do say," Ternberry said.

Roth eyed him sharply. "Feels good to keep those Corn Laws intact, doesn’t it?"

"Yes, yes, it does. A good landowner must make an ample income."

"Of course, Mr. Ternberry. A good coat must be purchased no matter the price of grain." Calliope sugar-coated the words, trying to keep her voice neutral.

"Yes, right. Good sense you have, Esmerelda."

"So Ternberry, you don’t mind that your workers are unable to afford the cost of the grain they themselves reap?"

Calliope glanced at James in surprise. She hadn’t known he was listening.

"Part of being a landowner, Angelford. You know that. We have rights."

"We have votes, you mean," James said.

"Since only large landowners can vote." Roth casually threw in the statement.

James fiddled idly with his knife. "There are rumors of reform bills in the works. Something about having a minimum yearly income, something under fifty pounds, to gain voting privileges."

Ternberry recoiled. "Rubbish! Common riffraff deciding the fate of our nation?"

"Isn’t it their nation also?" James said.

Ternberry sniffed. "Second-class citizens. What to propose next, women being allowed to vote?"

James put his hand over Calliope’s, loosening her grip on the cutlery.

"I do think there are many ladies in England who might be more sympathetic and a good deal better equipped at decision making than the members of the current House," Roth said.

Ternberry turned an ugly shade of purple. "Criticizing the government borders on treason, Roth."

Roth popped an apple slice into his mouth and surveyed the guests. "Let’s see them come and arrest me."

Calliope was concerned Ternberry might explode on the spot, but after his insulting remarks she wasn’t feeling congenial toward him and made no attempt to smooth things over.

"Speaking of which, I was wondering, how did you find your last inspection of Newgate?" James asked Roth.

James and Roth began an animated discussion of prison conditions, none of which was proper for dining room conversation. But the entire table was talking and no one was paying them much attention. Ternberry stewed in his seat.

Calliope reined in her surprise. She had expected Ternberry to be a staunch Tory. But Roth and James had turned her thoughts upside down. They were talking as if they were Whigs or Reformers.

She hadn’t been aware of either of them dabbling in the political sphere, so she couldn’t be sure where their hats lay. She had just assumed they were conformists. Weren’t all nobles conformists? Even those who professed otherwise?

Lord and Lady Pettigrew rose. "We are going to hold an informal musicale. It is Lady Pettigrew’s wish that everyone participate."

Some good-natured grumbling followed the statement, and a few of the gentlemen griped about cigars, but men and women allowed themselves to be pressed into service as the group adjourned to the conservatory.

A couple of women with passable voices sang. A lord with a deep bass was delightful. And then Ternberry rose for his turn. He had a decent tenor but he liked to hit a higher note than was particularly suited to his voice. It caused a wince from Calliope every time and she shared a grin with Roth. He had obviously known what to expect.

"Esmerelda, please favor us with a.selection," Pettigrew boomed.

She could decline, but listening to the others had brought forth the familiar itch.

"I’d be delighted to accompany you, Esmerelda," Roth announced, stunning more than `

one person in attendance.

Roth sat at the pianoforte. "What’s it to be?"

"Do you know, 'A Bluebird’s Love’?"

Roth looked at her strangely for a moment and then nodded. Calliope was actually surprised he knew the piece. It was an obscure song, but it had been her mother’s favorite.

He plunked the opening bars and she began. Calliope had a strong mezzo-soprano voice, and she immersed herself in the song and forgot about the audience. She was transported back in time and place to when she was a very young girl singing in the little music room with her mother. She remembered her mother twirling and smiling and her father playing the pianoforte.

It had been a long time since she had inserted her father into a happy memory.

Roth played the last bar, drawing Calliope back to reality.

There was a brief silence and Calliope wondered if she had committed a faux pas. Monstrous applause drowned her imaginings. Roth winked at her and they returned to their seats.

"I say, that was well done!"

"Wonderful! "

Everyone was smiling except Lady Flanders, who was scowling; and Angelford, who wore an unreadable expression. Numerous selections followed until the last volunteer’s spindly voice hit the final note.

The guests moved to their chosen destinations. Charades were taking place in the drawing room; cards and dice were set up in the gaming rooms. James was busy talking to Roth and Calliope took the opportunity to excuse herself. She headed toward the ladies’ retiring room.

She reached an intersection in the hallway and started to turn left when she heard loud voices. Cautiously she peered around the corner and observed Ternberry and Pettigrew exiting a room halfway down the corridor. They were engaged in a heated argument.

"That is not how one handles these matters."

"l have more experience in these situations. Give me the document and I'll-"

A servant rushed to Pettigrew, interrupting Ternberry, and gave him a slip of paper. Pettigrew glanced at the missive and Calliope heard him swear. He motioned for Ternberry to follow. They were heading straight toward her. She slipped into an alcove, hoping they wouldn’t glance her way.

"Ternberry, rejoin the guests. This cannot wait. We will continue the discussion when I return."

Their footsteps faded and she peered down the empty corridor.

It was too good an opportunity to miss.

She strolled toward the room the men had vacated. She heard no footfalls, but forced herself to tread slowly. If she were questioned about her presence, she could claim ignorance.

She cast a quick glance behind, but she was still alone. She touched the door handle and heard a click as the door swung open.

The room was dim; the only light streamed from a small oil lamp on the desk. An unlit fireplace was in the corner, a full-length Oriental screen to its side. The screen seemed totally out of place in the otherwise English decor.

Calliope closed the door and moved toward the desk. Papers were scattered about its surface, as if a frustrated hand had smeared them. Glancing at the mantel clock, she sifted through the pile. She would allow herself five minutes. Staying in the room any longer would be foolish.

She paused and scanned the paper under her left hand. It looked like a contract from the Foreign Office. She flipped the page over, looking for the nature of the agreement.

The door handle clicked. She dropped the paper and dove behind the screen.

For an interminable moment there was total silence in the room. The hairs on the back of her neck were the only sign that a person advanced. Her breath held as she felt the presence stop on the other side of the Oriental cover.

A hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm. Harsh features and a menacing hand chopping toward her face were the only things her mind registered.

The raised hand stopped mere centimeters from her neck and she heard a muttered curse.

"What are you doing here?" Calliope hissed, staring into the familiar dark features and trying to regain her equilibrium.

James gave her a sharp look and motioned for silence as he shoved her back, squishing them both behind the delicate panels. He pushed her to the ground and crouched next to her.

She heard the door open, then a clumsy, hesitant footfall cross the floor.

Rustling papers, muffled curses and the intense beating of her heart were the only sounds in the room. She chanced a look upward at James. He was absolutely still, his eyes trained on the side of the screen.

There was a click of the door, then a solid thunk, as if someone’s head met the edge of the desk. Calliope winced for the other intruder and was rewarded with a waist-tightening squeeze from James. Did he think she couldn’t keep quiet?

A fourth person entered the room and Calliope resisted the urge to peek around the screen. This was becoming absurd. Besides, there were no more available hiding places.

"Where did I put that?" The low growl indicated Pettigrew was the fourth person. Papers were shuffled and he doused the light and then he strode back out.

A bump and curse indicated the other prowler had extricated himself from the desk. The person fumbled around, knocking papers and something made of glass to the floor. The tinkling sound reverberated through the room. The intruder must have been looking for the lamp and found it.

He beat a hasty retreat, not bothering to clean his mess in the darkened room. The door closed softly.

Calliope released her breath and stared up at James in the shadows. His fingers slid up and down her arm rhythmically. He was trying to soothe her. It was making her arms tingle.

"What are you-"

The hand tightened on her arm and he swung her toward him. She was locked to his chest. Her recently restored breathing sped up again.

"What the devil were you thinking? I thought I told you we were just going to observe tonight."

She raised an eyebrow, and wondered where she found the spirit. "Yes, you did, which doesn’t explain your skulking about."

"We’ll discuss this later. Let’s see if we can clean up and then get out of here. There’s entirely too much traffic in this room."

James grabbed her hand and pulled her around the screen. He somehow managed to locate a candle and light it. The lamp had indeed been the casualty of the other intruder.

James swore. "We can’t do anything about the lamp. Let’s go."

Calliope glanced at the desktop, but the agreement and other papers were gone. James extinguished the candle, and led her into the deserted hallway and up the stairs.