“They eloped?” Honoria was as intrigued by the story as Penelope.
“Indeed.” Helena continued, “They were married in Italy with his family about them, and by all the accounts that filtered back through the years, Margaret and her Giovanni were ecstatically happy.”
Louise nodded. “I clearly remember some of those who returned from their travels being quite put out that, far from reaping any retribution for denying her family’s wishes and deliberately flinging her cap over the windmill, Meg gained only untrammeled happiness.”
Lady Osbaldestone snorted. “Nonsense! It was true love, first to last, as anyone with a grain of sense could have seen. Meg was true to her heart and received her just rewards.”
Everyone looked satisfied.
Penelope focused on Helena; she thought she understood the dowager’s point in referring to the earlier scandal, but… “How do you see this old scandal impinging on the current situation?”
Helena met her eyes and seemed, as always, to see into her soul, then smiled faintly. “I suspect, my dear, that although she married Humphrey several years later, Livia is highly—indeed, one might say excruciatingly—aware of that scandal from the past. Livia did not marry for love. Her older children did not marry for love. And I’m sure she intends the two yet unwed to marry to benefit the family as well. However, one suspects that with her younger children, she is facing…perhaps we might call it the true Carisbrook character. A nicer, gentler nature that, perhaps, predisposes them to wish for love in their marriages.”
Lady Osbaldestone put in, “Just because Humphrey married for the family’s sake rather than his own doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have preferred to follow his own inclinations. But he was the title holder, so he did the expected thing and married Livia. However, his two youngest children are under no such pressure to marry to please the family.”
“And now”—Helena sat back and spread her hands—“into this likely tussle of wills between mother and children over their right to marry as they please—for love—Cara is flung by Fate. Humphrey, I am sure, would have welcomed Cara with open arms—she is the only child of his beloved sister of whom he was sincerely fond. And so there is Cara, ensconced within the bosom of the family, a living, breathing reminder that marrying for love does not necessarily end badly.”
“One relevant point.” Honoria shifted on the sofa, drawing Penelope’s attention. “Describe Cara.”
Penelope thought, then said, “Glossy black hair in big, loose ringlets, large grass-green eyes, complexion pale but olive tinged, rose-red lips, and her features are what one might call alive. Vibrant and vivacious. Although in the circumstances, she’s been understandably rather grave since we met her, I would say that normally, she smiles and laughs a lot.”
“So she’s attractive?” Felicity clarified.
“Exceedingly,” Penelope confirmed. “She has a nicely rounded figure a little shorter than average, and on top of all that, she has the sort of confidence that catches gentlemen’s eyes.”
“And there,” Honoria said, “is another strong motive for Lady Carisbrook to grasp any straw to get her niece-by-marriage out of her house. I’ve met Julia Carisbrook, and from your description, her cousin Cara will totally eclipse her.”
Penelope nodded. “I got the impression Julia wasn’t at all averse to being eclipsed.”
“If her personality is as we surmise and her mother is constantly pushing her into the limelight, then,” Patience said, “that’s hardly surprising. Julia might well see Cara as a savior of sorts—or at least something of a social shield.”
“Indeed.” Lady Osbaldestone caught Penelope’s gaze. “So now you know of several compelling reasons—familial, maternal, and indeed, personal—behind Livia Carisbrook’s behavior toward her husband’s niece.”
Penelope inclined her head. “Thank you—all of you.” She glanced around at the other ladies. “You’ve given me lots to think about and a much better insight into the family’s inner tensions—which, I suspect, will be key to finding out what has happened to the emeralds.”
She glanced at the clock, grimaced, picked up her reticule, and rose. “And now, I really must run—I have a directors’ meeting at the Foundling House to attend.”
“One thing.” Imperiously, Honoria held up a finger. “In appreciation of our help, next time you join us, you must promise to bring Miss Cara Di Abaccio with you.” Smiling, Honoria glanced at the others, then looked back at Penelope. “I believe I speak for us all in saying that we are now keen to make her acquaintance.”
Penelope laughed, waved, and departed.
As she hurried out of the front door and down the steps to where her carriage waited, she reflected that no matter what poisonous rumors Lady Carisbrook thought to spread about Cara, with the likes of the ladies she’d just left in the St. Ives House parlor at Cara’s back, Cara would be able to hold her head high in any company and simply ignore her ladyship’s malicious slanders.
“As if they’re beneath her.” Penelope grinned at the irony. She accepted James’s help, climbed into the carriage, sat, and turned her mind to the matters awaiting her at the Foundling House.
It was far later in the morning than Stokes had expected when he walked into the showroom of Rundell, Bridge, and Company. His hackney had got caught in a snarl of carriages in Fleet Street, and it had taken over an hour to get free; as there had been two badly damaged carriages involved, that he was an officer of Scotland Yard hadn’t helped—he’d been recognized by the local constables, and they’d begged for his assistance.
He’d hoped to be early enough to avoid having to drag Bridge, the head jeweler, from his wealthy, usually aristocratic customers; instead, he had to hang back—pretending an interest in watch chains and doing his best to appear inconspicuous—until Bridge, unfailingly charming and attentive, escorted Lord Dundas and his lady from the shop.
Immediately he’d closed the door on his lordship, Bridge—John Gawler Bridge, who had become the head jeweler of the renowned firm on the original John Bridge’s death five years before—turned and fixed Stokes with a direct and faintly impatient look. “How can I assist you, Inspector?”
Stokes had had occasion to consult Bridge before, and as Bridge knew of Stokes’s association with several families who numbered among his most valuable clients, Bridge usually accommodated Stokes and his inquiries without fuss.
Bridge walked back to the other side of the long counter. He signaled to his assistant that the young man’s help was not required, then turned to face Stokes as he halted on the counter’s other side.
Stokes met Bridge’s gaze. “Does this firm act as family jewelers to the Carisbrooks? Viscount Carisbrook of Carisbrook Hall.”
Bridge nodded. “Yes.” He plainly had no inkling of anything being amiss regarding the Carisbrooks’ jewels.
“In that case”—Stokes pulled Cara’s sketch from his pocket, unfolded it, and set it on the counter—“I need to know if you’ve ever seen these pieces.”
Bridge studied the sketch for several minutes, then in an even tone, said, “Unless I miss my guess, these are the famous Carisbrook emeralds.”
“They are.”
“In answer to your question, no—we’ve never handled them.”
Stokes frowned and caught Bridge’s eyes as he raised his head. “Never?”
Bridge held Stokes’s gaze, then lightly grimaced. “No—at least, not in my time. Trust me, I would remember them. Prior to that, it’s possible the firm might have handled them, but all the workers from that time—those who might have worked with or even simply seen such jewels—are gone. Most have passed on.” He studied Stokes’s frown, then added, “And yes, now you’ve brought it to my attention, I do find it curious. We are the Carisbrook family jewelers, and we’ve actively dealt with Lord Carisbrook and her ladyship over recent years, yet the emeralds have never been in our hands, not even to be cleaned.”
Stokes studied Bridge’s brown eyes. Although the man’s e
xpression and tone of voice gave nothing away, Stokes felt fairly certain Bridge was drawing the same conclusions he was. Stokes grunted. He looked down at Cara’s sketch, then prodded it with one finger. “If we wanted to trace the jeweler who last cleaned these, how might we go about it?”
When Stokes looked up, Bridge was frowning. “Why not just ask Lord Carisbrook? Or her ladyship?”
“We will, but regardless of what they say, is there any way we might learn the answer ourselves?”
Bridge sighed and looked again at the sketch. “These are very old pieces. If they’re being actively worn—say once or twice a month—”
“They are.”
“—then we would recommend that the piece be brought in for cleaning and for the claw settings to be checked at least once a year.” Bridge looked up. “A piece like this would absolutely scream to be cleaned if left untended for, say, three years. It would barely be wearable if left that long.”
“Who could do the cleaning?”
“With a piece like this, with this degree of ornate working, only a reputable jeweler—someone with the right training and equipment—could do it properly.”
Stokes drummed his fingers on the counter. “What if the set’s been stolen?”
“If it has, I can assure you no reputable jeweler would touch it.” Bridge nodded at the sketch. “It’s too well known. Anyone in the trade—and that includes the less reputable side—would immediately recognize it.” Bridge paused, then asked, “Has it been stolen?”
Stokes grunted and picked up the sketch. “Let’s just say that it isn’t where it’s supposed to be.” He folded the sketch and tucked it back into his pocket. “If it was stolen and you wanted to find it, where would you ask?”
“Is this a recent theft?”
“A day or so.”
“In that case, Inspector, I would ask in the underworld. A set such as this is effectively worthless to the legitimate trade. A large part of its value lies in the whole set remaining as is—and therefore highly identifiable—and even if broken down, those emeralds would be a problem. They’re cut in a very old style, and therefore, given their size, they’ll remain distinctive.” After a second’s pause, Bridge added, “The more I think about it, the more certain I feel that the only way to look for your missing emeralds will be via your contacts in the underworld.”
Stokes grimaced, then met Bridge’s eyes and tipped him a salute. “That’s what I feared, but it’s useful to have your confirmation.”
Bridge snorted and waved him off.
Stokes paused on the pavement outside the shop. Montague’s hypothesis that the stones were fake and Lord Carisbrook knew of it was starting to gain weight. But… “If Gawler Bridge has never seen them, just how long ago were the stones switched?”
If the stones had been replaced by excellent fakes decades ago, how would anyone know? They assumed Lord Carisbrook would know of such a change, but had no proof of it.
And if the stolen emeralds were fake, then presumably not even those in the underworld would be interested in them.
Stokes straightened. “But if we accept that the emeralds have been stolen, then they’ve almost certainly been taken to some jeweler somewhere.” Somewhere in the underworld.
Stokes stepped to the edge of the pavement and raised his arm.
A hackney swerved through the traffic and pulled up at the curb.
Stokes called up to the jarvey, “Chapel Court in the City.”
He climbed in, sat, and consulted his fob watch. He had time to stop by Montague’s office and send a message to Neville Roscoe. London’s gambling king could undoubtedly point them to the best trail to follow—or at the very least, to the most useful jewelry fence to shake for information.
The bell over the door of Madame Renee’s salon tinkled as Griselda, with Megan’s hand firmly clasped in hers, led the way inside. Violet, carrying a swaddled and thankfully sleeping Martin in her arms, followed. They’d timed their appearance in the Bruton Street shop for two o’clock in the afternoon—a time when, during the Season, the ladies of the ton could be relied on to be at their lunchtime events.
Sure enough, the shop was deserted, but within seconds, a young girl came hurrying out from behind the heavy velvet curtain that shielded the rear of the shop. She took in Griselda’s and Violet’s clothes, and the children, and a faint frown formed on her face. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
Griselda smiled. “Please tell Madame Renee that the laces she’s using are still second-rate.”
The girl blinked, then looked horrified, but before she could speak, a woman with dark hair popped her head through the curtains. She stared at Griselda for a heartbeat, then her face lit. “Griselda!” Renee emerged—small, dark, and sprightly, exactly as Griselda remembered her. “Well, I never.”
Beaming, Renee swept across the room, spread her arms, and did her best to envelop Griselda, who was significantly larger, in a ferocious hug. “It’s been far too long, my dear, but I’m delighted to see you.” After releasing Griselda, Renee looked down at Megan, who was clutching Griselda’s hand. “And who’s this?” Renee looked at Griselda’s face, then back at Megan. “Oh my goodness! She’s yours.”
“Megan,” Griselda proudly said. “You’d heard I’d married, hadn’t you?”
“Yes, I had. To a handsome policeman, no less.” Renee tipped her head. “Although I haven’t seen him, I’d say she has the best of both of you. What a poppet!”
Renee crouched so she was on a level with Megan, hunted in her pocket, and drew out a mass of tangled ribbons. “Would you like to play with these?”
Megan smiled shyly, then looked up at Griselda. At Griselda’s nod, Megan reached out and took the loose ball of ribbons.
As, absorbed, Megan turned the ribbon ball in her hands, Renee rose and smiled at Violet. “And who else have you brought me?”
Griselda introduced Violet. Renee—who was known to adore children but had never had any of her own—cooed delightedly over Martin.
Then Renee glanced at Griselda. “Bruton Street is a fair way from St. John’s Wood. I take it there’s a reason behind your visit?”
Griselda nodded. “Not that I wasn’t thrilled to have a chance to call on you—I’ve watched your continued success from afar—but yes, there is a matter on which we’d like to pick your brains.”
Renee turned to her assistant. “Mary, you’d better keep watch out here. Lady Hemmings isn’t due until three o’clock, and I doubt anyone else will drop by, but still—better there’s someone here.”
The girl bobbed. “Yes, ma’am.”
Renee held back the velvet curtain, then followed Griselda, Violet, and the children into what proved to be a luxuriously appointed fitting room. “This way.” She stepped past and opened a door set so neatly into the side wall beside the curtain that it was well-nigh undetectable. “Welcome to my office.”
The room beyond was small, neat, and airy, with magazines and catalogs stacked on shelves and in pigeonholes behind a simple desk. “Our workshop is upstairs.” Renee waved them to two chairs set before the desk and moved to sit in the chair behind it. “But I assume the information you’re after doesn’t involve satins, laces, and beads.”
“No, indeed.” Griselda settled Megan on the floor beside her chair; the little girl was still fascinated by the tangled ribbons. Griselda straightened and met Renee’s eyes. “We need to know…well, anything you care to tell us of Lady Carisbrook and the Carisbrooks in general.”
Renee made an impolite sound. “Lady Carisbrook—she of the foul temper, overbearing ways, and complete disregard for the feelings of anyone even one rung below her social rank?”
Griselda grinned and tipped her head. “That’s the one.”
“Well, obviously, she’s no favorite of mine, so yes, I’ll tell you whatever I can.” Renee arched her brows. “What, exactly, do you want to know?”
When Renee glanced her way, Violet said, “A question has arisen over whether, at some point i
n the recent past—ever since you’ve been modiste to her ladyship—you’ve had reason to suspect that the family might have been hard-pressed to pay your bills.”
“I know what it’s like to have ton clients,” Griselda put in. Her lips quirked. “And I have to admit that since I married a police inspector, I’ve never had to chase one for payment, but everyone in our lines of trade has experienced instances when a customer is late paying, or says they’ve lost the bill, or…”
Renee nodded. “Such is our life.” She paused, then said, “There was a time, several years back, when Lady Carisbrook was puffing off her two elder daughters at the same time—in fact, that period ran for nearly three years. The older one had already had her first and second Seasons, but hadn’t taken, so her ladyship had both girls on her hands, and she and both daughters were frantically giving or attending party after ball after rout. It was utterly ridiculous the number of gowns the three of them went through in those years, year after year, but I daresay, in the end, the family considered the expense worthwhile—she got both girls married off well enough.”
“When was this?” Violet juggled Martin and reached into her reticule and drew out her notebook.
Renee frowned. “It must have been at least five…possibly as many as seven years ago. I’ll check my books in a minute, but the reason I remember it so clearly—well, quite aside from the ludicrous number of gowns—is that unlike the situation with most of my ladies, Lady Carisbrook doesn’t pay her bills herself. I’ve always sent my bills directly to Lord Carisbrook, and it was he who came to see me when—I assume—her ladyship outran the constable.”
Griselda blinked. “His lordship spoke to you about his wife’s bills?”
“Yes, I know—not the usual way of things. But Lord Carisbrook was such a nice, kind gentleman, I felt quite sorry for him being married to her ladyship, and when he explained that his funds were somewhat stretched—given all the entertaining her ladyship was doing on top of all the gowns, bonnets, and such—and suggested a system of steady but smaller payments over time, I was happy enough to agree.” Renee shrugged. “I own this building now, and given the number of ladies I supply, I could afford to be understanding. And regardless of her trying nature, Lady Carisbrook and her daughters have been a steady source of profit for me for the last decade, so it made sense to work with Lord Carisbrook if it meant his wife continued to come back.”