“No. We can certainly do better than the army. Or the navy, God help us. Sailors tend to be somewhat…un. Couth,” she said, leaning toward Minnie and pursing her wrinkled lips in a whisper.
“God help us,” Minnie repeated in a pious tone, though her fist was knotted in the folds of the tablecloth. You utter weasel! she thought toward her absent father. Establish a social life for me, eh?
Despite her astonished annoyance, though, she had to admit to being somewhat impressed. Five thousand pounds?
If he actually meant it…the cynical part of her mind put in. But he likely did. It would be just like him. He’d see it as killing two birds with one stone: getting her access to likely sources of salable information and simultaneously marrying her off to one of them, with Lady Buford as his unwitting accomplice.
And he had, to be fair, told her that he wanted an Englishman for her. She just hadn’t thought he’d meant now. Really, she had to admire her father’s twisted genius; who but a marriage procuress would know more—and have less hesitation in revealing what she knew—about the intimate familial and financial details of wealthy men?
Taking a deep breath, she let go of the fistful of tablecloth and did her best to look interested, in a demure sort of way.
“We’ll avoid the navy, then,” she said. “Do you think…I hope I am not immodest in suggesting it, but after all, five thousand pounds…What about minor—very minor,” she added hastily, “members of the peerage?”
Lady Buford blinked but not as though taken aback; merely reordering her mental index, Minnie thought.
“Well, there are impoverished knights and baronets by the score,” she said. “And if you are set on a title…But really, my dear, I wouldn’t recommend that avenue unless you will have independent means of your own. Your portion would be instantly swallowed in sustaining some crumbling manor and you yourself would molder inside it, never getting to London or having a new dress from one year’s end to the next.”
“To be sure. I, um, do possess a, er…small competence, shall we say?”
“Indeed.” Lady Buford’s wispy brows rose in interest. “How small?”
“A thousand a year,” Minnie said, wildly exaggerating the income from her small private ventures, which totaled less than a tenth of that sum. Still, it hardly mattered, as she wasn’t actually marrying any of these theoretical impoverished baronets; she only needed to enter the social circles they—they and their more interesting brethren—inhabited.
“Hmm.” Lady Buford assumed an inward look and drank tea. After a few moments’ contemplation, she set down the cup with decision.
“You speak good French, your father says?”
“Mais oui.”
Lady Buford looked at her sharply, but Minnie kept a straight face.
“Well, then. We’ll begin with Lady Jonas’s Thursday salon. It’s literary and intellectual, but she usually has a good mix of available gentlemen, including European—though your father did specify an Englishman….Well, we’ll see. Then perhaps a play on Saturday evening….We’ll have a box; it’s important that you be seen—have you something appropriate to wear?”
“I don’t know,” Minnie said honestly. “I’ve never been to a play; what is appropriate?”
Half an hour, two pots of China tea, and a dozen tea cakes (with cream) later, she made her way out into the street, a scribbled list of engagements in her hand and her head spinning with tippets, panniers, mantuas, swags, fans—she had a nice fan, luckily—and other items necessary to the pursuit and bagging of a wealthy and influential husband.
“A gun would be simpler,” she muttered, thrusting the list into her pocket. “And certainly less expensive.”
“What kind of gun?” said Mick O’Higgins with interest, appearing out of a nearby doorway.
“Never mind,” she said. “We’re going to a milliner’s.”
“Oh, a milliner’s, is it?” He bowed and offered her his arm. “Nay bother, then. Sure, the bird’ll be dead before they put it on your hat.”
A week later…
HER APPOINTMENT BOOK was a pleasure to look at, a glory to hold. Made in Florence, the leather cover was the color of rich chocolate, with a pressed gilt design of looping vines and a glorious, explosive-looking flower in the center. Her father had informed her that the Chinese called it “Chu” and that it was a symbol of happiness. He’d given her the book for her seventeenth birthday.
He’d given her another one, too, before she left Paris: a rough-cut notebook such as an artist might use for sketching notes—and sketches were just what decorated its pages, made by her own hand. And coded into the sketches were the appointments made for those clients whose names were never spoken aloud.
The first few pages were decoys; the first aide-memoire was on the fifth page (the appointment being for the fifth of the month): a sketch of trees overhanging a path, with the legend Vauxhall Gardens underneath. There were footprints on the path, leading the way into the shadows—three of them clearly marked, and half of another. Half-three in Vauxhall Gardens, on the third of June. On the facing page, a sketch of a wrapped parcel, like a birthday present. To be received…
That was for tomorrow. She set the sketchbook aside and picked up the chuppointment book, where the less-private clients were listed—those merely wanting to buy or sell books. Eight ticked off since her arrival in London; she’d been very efficient.
She rubbed a thumb gently over the exuberant bloom on the cover. She’d never seen a real chu flower. Perhaps she might come across a botanist in London who would have such a plant; she’d love to know what they smelled like.
At the back of the appointment book, between the creamy blank pages and the soft leather cover, was the letter. She had written and rewritten it several times. Wanting to be sure, but knowing there could be no surety in this.
In the morning, she’d give it to one of the O’Higginses. She’d known them long enough now to be sure they’d carry out her errands without question—well, without a lot of questions. She sent a good many notes and letters in the course of business; there was no reason why this one should seem at all odd.
Mrs. Simpson, Parson’s Green, Peterborough Road
Her fingers were damp; she put the letter back before the ink of the direction should smear and closed the book upon it.
From the Chu Diary
Monday, June 1
11:00—Mr. H. R. Wallace, to view Philologus Hebraeus (Johannes Leusden). Offer also Histoire de la Guerre des Juifs Contre les Romains (Joseph Flavius) and De Sacrificiis Libri Duo Quorum Altero Explicantur Omnia Judæorum, Nonnulla Gentium Profanarum Sacrificia (William Owtram)
1:00—Misses Emma and Pauline Jones, to discuss catalog of late father’s library. In Swansea(!) How blood helly will I get those shipped?
2:00—fitting at Myers, peach silk suit
4:00—Lady Buford, tea here, then Mrs. Montague’s salon
8:00—Drury Lane Theatre, Mahomet the Imposter
Tuesday, June 2
9:00—bath
10:00—hairdresser
1:00—Lady Buford, for Viscountess Baldo’s luncheon
5:00—the Hon. Horace Walpole, to view Italian titles (arrange tea)
Wednesday, June 3
10:00—boating on Thames with Sir George Vance, Kt., luncheon
3:30—Deer Park
7:00—Mrs. Annabelle Wrigley’s rout
Note: Sir George young but boring; told L. Buford to cross him off. Met a promising gentleman named Hanksleigh at rout, knowledgeable about finance; seeing him for tea next week.
Note: Vauxhall Gardens charming (visit again next week)
Thursday, June 4
9:00—bath
10:00—body groomer (ouch)
11:00—hairdresser
1:00—measurements, Madame Alexander’s, eau-de-nil ball gown
3:00—promenade in Hyde Park with Sir Robert Abdy, Bt.
8:00—supper party, Lady Wilford
Note: Lady Wil
ford’s party well supplied. Two engagements for next week, and a promising conversation with the Marquess of Tewksbury about hocus-pocus in House of Lords.
Note: Also met Duke of Beaufort at supper, chatted briefly over asparagus mayonnaise. Asked me to ride with him in Rotten Row next Tuesday. Declined on grounds that I have no horse, only to have him offer me one. Accepted. How hard can it be?
Friday, June 5
11:00—Baron Edgerly, to view French titles, elephant folio atlas
1:30—Visit Mr. Smethurst, bookseller in Piccadilly, worm list of clients out of him if poss.
4:30—Lady Buford, tea with Mrs. Randolph and her two daughters
Note: supper alone, thank God. Don’t want to hear one more word spoken. Randolph girls complete emmerdeuses.
Note: reply from Mrs. Simpson. Monday, two o’clock.
Saturday, June 6
Beginning to attract clients desiring information rather than books. Father’s work. Two this week. Said no to one, yes to Sir Roger Barrymore (request re character of man seeking to wed his daughter; met said man last week and could have told Sir Roger he’s a wrong ’un on the spot, but will give him news next week to justify bill).
Sunday, June 7
Morning service, St. George’s, Hanover Square, with Mr. Jaken (Exchange)—fond of organ music
4:00—tea, Lady Buford, review of progress
7:00—Evensong, St. Clement’s, Mr. Hopworth, banker
6
UNEXPECTED INTRODUCTIONS
Monday, June 8
MINERVA RUBBED HER HANDS nervously on her petticoat to dry them, then poked for the dozenth time at her hair, though knowing it to be pinned up as securely as hair could be pinned; the skin of her face felt stretched, her eyebrows ludicrously arched. She glanced into the glass quickly—for the dozenth time—to assure herself that this was in fact not the case.
Would Mrs. Simpson come? She’d dithered about her mother all the way to London and for the two weeks since her arrival—and she hated dithering above all things. Make up one’s mind and be done with it!
So she had, but for once, decision had not removed doubt. Maybe she should have gone to her mother’s residence, appeared on the doorstep without warning. That had been her first impulse, and it was still strong. She’d finally decided instead to send a note—phrased with the utmost simplicity and the barest of facts—requesting the pleasure of Mrs. Simpson’s company in her rooms in Great Ryder Street at two o’clock on Monday, the eighth of June.
She’d thought of sending a note asking permission to call upon Mrs. Simpson; that might have seemed more polite. But she feared the receipt of a rejection—or, still worse, silence—and so had issued an invitation instead. If her mother didn’t come this afternoon, the doorstep option was still open. And by God, she would do it…
The note crackled in her pocket, and she pulled it out—again—unfolding it to read the message, written in a firm round hand—presumably Mrs. Simpson’s—without salutation or signature, promise or rebuke.
Do you think this is wise? it said.
“Well, obviously not,” she said aloud, cross, and shoved it back into her pocket. “What does that matter?”
The knock on the door nearly stopped her heart. She was here! She was early—it lacked a quarter hour of two o’clock—but perhaps Mrs. Simpson had been as eager as herself for the meeting, despite the cool reserve of the note.
The maid—Eliza, a solid middle-aged woman in a high state of starch, who had been engaged with the rooms—glanced at her and, at her nod, went down the hall to answer the door. Minnie glanced in the looking glass again (God, I look quite wild), smoothed her embroidered overskirt, and assumed an aloof-but-cordial expression.
“Colonel Quarry, ma’am,” said the maid, coming in and stepping aside to admit the visitor.
“Who?” said Minnie blankly. The tall gentleman who had appeared in the doorway had paused to look her over with interest; she lifted her chin and returned his regard.
He was wearing his scarlet uniform—infantry—and was quite handsome in a blunt sort of way. Dark and dashing—and well aware of it, she thought, concealing an inward smile. She knew how to handle this sort and allowed the smile to blossom.
“Your servant, ma’am,” he said, with an answering flash of good teeth. He made her a very graceful leg, straightened, and said, “How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” she said, adding two years without hesitation. “And you, sir?”
He blinked. “Twenty-one. Why?”
“I have an interest in numerology,” she said, straight-faced. “Are you acquainted with the science?”
“Er…no.” He was still eyeing her with interest, but the interest was of a different type now.
“What is your date of birth, sir?” she asked, sidling behind the small gilt desk and taking up a quill. “If you please?” she added politely.
“The twenty-third of April,” he said, lips twitching slightly.
“So,” she said, scratching briskly, “that is two plus three, which is five, plus four—April being the fourth month, of course,” she informed him kindly. “Which makes nine, and then we add the digits of your year of birth, which makes…one plus seven plus two plus three? Yes, just so…totaling twenty-two. We then add both twos together and end with four.”
“Apparently so,” he agreed, coming round the desk to look over her shoulder at the paper, where she had written a large four, circling it. He emitted a noticeable amount of heat, standing so close. “What does this signify?”
She relaxed slightly against the tightness of her stays. Now she had him. Once they got curious, you could get them to tell you anything.
“Oh, the four is the most masculine of numbers,” she assured him—quite truthfully. “It designates an individual of marked strength and stability. Dependable, and exceedingly trustworthy.”
He’d put his shoulders back half an inch.
“You’re very punctual,” she said, giving him a sidelong look from beneath her lashes. “Healthy…strong…you notice details and are very good in controlling complex affairs. And you’re loyal—very loyal to those you care for.” She gave him a small but admiring smile to go with this.
Fours were capable and persistent but not swift thinkers, and, once again, she was surprised at just how often the numbers turned out to be right.
“Indeed,” he said, and cleared his throat, looking mildly embarrassed but undeniably pleased.
At this point, she heard the subdued ticking of the longcase clock behind her and a bolt of apprehension shot through her. She needed to get rid of him, and promptly.
“But I doubt that a desire to learn the science of numerology accounts for the pleasure of your visit, sir.”
“Well.” He looked her up and down in an effort at assessment, but she could have told him it was far too late for that. “Well…to be blunt, madam, I wish to employ you. In a matter of…some discretion.”
That gave her another small jolt. So he knew who—or rather what—she was. Still, that wasn’t really unusual. It was, after all, a business in which all connections were by word of mouth. And she was certainly known by now to at least three gentlemen in London who might move in the circles to which Colonel Quarry had access.
No point in beating round the bush or being coy; she was interested in him but more interested in his leaving. She gave him a small bow and looked inquiring. He nodded back and took a deep breath. Some discretion, indeed…
“The situation is this, madam: I have a good friend whose wife recently died in childbed.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Minnie said quite honestly. “How very tragic.”
“Yes, it was.” Quarry’s face showed what he was thinking, and the trouble was clear in his eyes. “The more so, perhaps, in that my friend’s wife had been…well…having an affair with a friend of his for some months prior.”
“Oh, dear,” Minnie murmured. “And—forgive me—was the child…?”
“My
friend doesn’t know.” Quarry grimaced but relaxed a little, indicating that the most difficult part of his business had been communicated. “Bad enough, you might say…”
“Oh, I would.”
“But the further difficulty—well, without going into the reasons why, we…I…would like to engage you to find proof of that affair.”
That confused her.
“Your friend—he isn’t sure that she was having an affair?”
“No, he’s positive,” Quarry assured her. “There were letters. But—well, I can’t really explain why this is necessary, but he requires proof of the affair for a…a…legal reason, and he will not countenance the idea of letting anyone read his wife’s letters, no matter that she is beyond the reach of public censure nor that the consequences to himself if the affair is not proved may be disastrous.”
“I see.” She eyed him with interest. Was there really a friend, or was this perhaps his own situation, thinly disguised? She thought not; he was clearly grieved and troubled but not flushed—not ashamed or angry in the least. And he hadn’t the look of a married man. At all.
As though her invisible thought had struck him on the cheek like a flying moth, he looked sharply at her, meeting her eyes directly. No, not a married man. And not so grieved or troubled that a spark didn’t show clearly in those deep-brown eyes. She looked modestly down for a moment, then up, resuming her businesslike manner.
“Well, then. Have you specific suggestions as to how the inquiry might proceed?”
He shrugged, a little embarrassed.