Too Hot to Handel Page 15

  Lucy did not pretend to misunderstand her. “And why should I, my Lady High-and-Mighty?” she retorted, lifting her pointed chin.

  “Because it doesn’t belong to you!”

  “No, but he was going to give it to me.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Julia, although she felt a little unwell at the very idea. “Why should he?”

  “He used to give me things from time to time for helping him with his investigations, didn’t he? Like when you was accused of killing your husband. He give me this here bonnet.” She patted the drooping plumes of the horrendous headwear with proprietary pride.

  “He—he chose that?” asked Lady Fieldhurst, making a mental note never to let her husband select her millinery.

  “No, but he give me the money to buy it for myself, which is the same thing, ain’t it?”

  “I see,” said Julia with unconcealed relief. Actually, she considered it to be not at all the same thing, but she was too concerned with the more pressing matter at hand to argue the point.

  “You never thought he’d bought ’em for you!” exclaimed Lucy with a sneer. “He hasn’t the money to buy the sort of things you’d expect from a gentleman friend, so it stands to reason he bought ’em for me.”

  “He didn’t buy them.”

  Lucy’s eyes grew round. “He stole ’em?”

  “Of course not!” Julia answered a bit too emphatically.

  “Whose are they, then?”

  Julia sighed. “In fact, they belong to the Russian Princess Olga Fyodorovna.”

  “Ha!” scoffed Lucy. “As if a princess would hold any truck with fake diamonds!”

  “But Lucy, they aren’t fake! They are very much real, and worth more than I shall ever see in my lifetime! The Bow Street force was charged with the task of ensuring their safety, and it will look very bad for Mr. Pickett—indeed, for the entire Bow Street force—if they are lost. So you see why you must return them,” she concluded in a more coaxing tone. After all, she reminded herself, it was she, and not Lucy, who was Mrs. John Pickett. At the very least, she could afford to be kind.

  Alas, her good intentions were short-lived.

  “But returning them is just what I can’t do,” Lucy insisted. “I—I don’t have ’em anymore.”

  “You don’t have them? Why not, pray?”

  “I spouted ’em,” Lucy confessed miserably.

  “ ‘Spouted’?” echoed Julia in some confusion, being unfamiliar with the term.

  “I sold ’em to a pawnshop.”

  “You sold them to a pawnshop?” Julia shrieked, then glanced guiltily toward Pickett’s bedroom door and lowered her voice. “You sold them to a pawnshop? Lucy, how could you?”

  “I had no place to wear ’em, and the other girls would’ve stolen ’em, anyway,” Lucy said defensively. “Anyway, I needed the money worse than I needed gew-gaws, so I spouted ’em. How was I to know they were real?”

  “You sold them to a pawnshop,” Julia said dazedly, struggling to absorb the enormity of this fresh disaster.

  Lucy dug in the pocket of her tattered gown and withdrew a handful of coins. “I got two bob and six for ’em,” she said hopefully.

  “Two shillings and sixpence.” Julia collapsed onto the solitary chair and dropped her head into her hands, the picture of despair. “Lucy, you must buy them back at once!”

  “But I’ve already spent part of the money, haven’t I? A girl’s got to pay her rent, you know.”

  “Very well, then, I shall make up the difference,” declared Julia. She reached once again for her reticule, thankful that she’d had the foresight to fill it with coins in preparation for the appearance of her advertisement in the newspaper. “The pawnbroker will no doubt demand more than the two and six he gave you, so I shall double it; that should allow you to buy back the diamonds, and him to make a tidy profit as well. On no account, however, are you to so much as hint that they might be worth more than that!”

  “All right, all right,” Lucy grumbled. “D’you think I’ve never bartered before? More than you have, I’ll be bound!”

  Lady Fieldhurst could not deny it. After Lucy had set out for the pawnshop, Julia turned back to the fire, where the water had by this time come to a boil. She made herself a cup of tea and took it to Pickett’s bedroom, where she sat down in the chair beside the bed and picked up the book where she had left off.

  “ ‘Chapter 3: A migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are generally found at last to be of our own procuring. The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortunes might be malicious or premature . . .’ ”

  If only they were, thought Julia. If only they were.

  Pickett heard the soothing feminine voice long before he was able to identify it. When he realized it was none other than her ladyship speaking, he made the colossal effort to open his eyes. Sure enough, she sat beside his bed with a book in her hand. She was wearing a peach-colored dress he’d never seen before, and he was struck anew by her beauty, evident even in funereal black of mourning but all the more so in the elegant and expensive gowns she’d been born to wear. She was as far above him as the stars in the heavens; he’d known it all along, even as he’d fallen ever more deeply in love with her.

  She turned the page, and the leaf broke free from its well-worn binding and fluttered to the floor. She paused in her reading and bent to pick it up, and although Pickett could not see the floor from his vantage point on the bed, he could picture in his mind’s eye the frayed rag rug and the bare wooden boards beneath, their varnish nothing more than a distant memory. He had always thought himself fortunate in his lodgings, having two whole rooms to himself while no more than a stone’s throw away, whole families crowded together in a single room. Now, however, seeing her ladyship here only served to remind him how mean his flat—no, his life— must appear in her eyes. Never had he been more conscious of the gulf that separated them.

  She didn’t belong here, he thought, watching as she took a sip from a chipped teacup before resuming her reading. Her lips were slightly pursed, and he found himself staring at her mouth. Had he really kissed those lips, or had he merely dreamed it? No, it had been real, he was sure of it. She’d even kissed him back. It was more, so much more, than he had any right to expect. He could die content, and she could go back to Mayfair, back to her own kind. He would be all right on his own, with his landlady—what was her name?—to look in on him from time to time. He opened his mouth to tell her so, but something entirely different came out.

  “Don’t go.”

  She looked up at the sound of his voice, the vicar and his family’s troubles forgotten.

  “Good morning, John,” she said, although the hour was well past noon. “So you’ve decided to wake up at last, have you?”

  She laid the book aside and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, then placed the back of her hand against his flushed cheek. It was still much too warm.

  “The doctor left something to bring your fever down,” she said, remembering the water she’d just heated for tea. It should still be hot enough to steep the willow bark in, if she could persuade him to drink it. “If I make it up for you, do you think you could drink some?”

  He nodded, and winced at the pain in his head. “I’ll try.”

  She rose to fetch another teacup from the other room.

  “Don’t go,” Pickett said again, catching at the skirt of her gown like a child fearful of being left alone.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and detached his hand from her skirt so that she might clasp it in both of her own. “I’m not going far, only into the next room. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  Forgetting for the moment her determination to keep the bedroom warm, she left the door open so that he might watch as she took a cup down from its hook and filled it with hot water from the kettle. She returned to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her, and added the doctor’s dried willow bark mixture to the water in the cup. She allowed it to steep fo
r several minutes, during which she kept up a generally one-sided conversation of cheerful trivialities in an effort to keep Pickett awake.

  “Here we are,” she declared at last, having deemed the tea ready.

  He raised himself up on one elbow, and she lifted the cup to his lips.

  “Yes, I daresay it tastes quite dreadful,” she said when he grimaced, “but the doctor says it might bring the fever down.”

  He could not manage more than a few sips before collapsing back against the pillow, exhausted from the effort. She wasn’t sure he had ingested enough of the concoction to do any good, but she dared not press him further. She had set the cup aside and was going to suggest that she read some more when he spoke again.

  “What day is it?”

  What day? She had no idea. Time had ceased to exist since the night of the fire. Mr. Colquhoun had been here on Sunday, and sent her home to rest. Had that been yesterday, or the day before?

  “Tuesday, the twenty-eighth of February,” she said with less than perfect accuracy, for in fact it was still Monday, the twenty-seventh. “Spring will be here before we know it,” she added brightly.

  “The annulment,” Pickett said. “Has it—?”

  “Pray do not vex yourself over the annulment,” she beseeched him, running loving fingers through his tousled curls.

  “Are you still my wife?”

  “Yes, love, I’m still your wife,” she assured him, blinking back tears.

  “Good,” he said with a sigh, and drifted back off to sleep.

  Julia was thankful that he was still asleep when Lucy returned some time later, for she did not want him distressed by the loss of the diamonds. Still less did she want the task of explaining their presence in his possession in the first place. After all, how did one explain the unexplainable?

  “Lucy! Thank heaven you’re back,” she exclaimed softly, lest he hear and awaken again. “Did you get them?”

  “No, your ladyship,” she confessed miserably. “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not? Would the pawnbroker not sell them to you? Is he demanding more money?”

  “Worse,” she said, wringing her hands in their fingerless gloves. “He’s already sold them.”

  “What?” Even in her worst imaginings, Julia had not considered that the diamonds might be already beyond their reach.

  “It’s true, my lady. Somebody else has already bought them. I tried to get Mr. Baumgarten to tell me who—I figured you’d want to know—but he clamped his trap shut, and wouldn’t open it again for no amount of money, even though I offered him the five bob you give me. I didn’t think you’d mind,” she added apologetically.

  “No, Lucy, you did exactly right. But oh heavens, we are in the suds! If those diamonds should be discovered, if they should be traced back to the pawnshop and thence to Mr. Pickett’s possession—”

  “Pshaw!” Lucy dismissed this possibility out of hand. “How could they be?”

  “They could certainly be traced back to you, and unless you have exalted associations of which I am unaware, the only connection between you and the Princess Olga Fyodorovna is Mr. Pickett.”

  “Oh,” said Lucy, abashed. “What would happen, then, if they were traced back to him?”

  Julia shook her head, wishing she had a better understanding of how the law operated. “I don’t know. I suppose at the very least he could be charged with the theft and imprisoned. At worst—” She recalled what he had said that night about how the theft of the jewels, purely a theoretical speculation at that point, might spark an international incident. Just how far would the British government go to assuage any seeming offense to a much-needed ally? Surely justice would be swift and harsh, under such circumstances. “At worst,” she said, her voice breaking on the words, “he could hang.”

  CHAPTER 14

  IN WHICH LADY FIELDHURST QUITS DRURY LANE FOR MORE RARIFIED CIRCLES

  What should one wear to a meeting with a Russian princess, Julia wondered as she surveyed the gowns hanging in the clothespress. She had left Mr. Pickett in his magistrate’s care, and was preparing for her visit to the Princess Olga, the visit for which she had argued so vehemently.

  Now that the hour was upon her, however, she realized there were difficulties she had not anticipated, the first of these being the question of what to wear. Every one of her gowns (with the exception of the blue one, which had died a gruesome death) was at least a year out of date, since she’d been in mourning for the past ten months. Still, she was less concerned with fashion than she was with protocol; it would not do to appear at Grillon’s Hotel in an ordinary carriage dress or promenade gown. No, formality was the thing, and the most formal gown she owned, aside from her wedding dress, was the one she had worn for her presentation at court shortly after her marriage to the Viscount Fieldhurst. It was not here; for a moment she almost regretted dismissing Smithers, who would have known at once where to look for it.

  After searching from room to room, she finally located it in the third-best bedroom. She dragged it out of the clothes-press and spread it over the bed to examine it. It was almost seven years old, much older than even the most ancient gown hanging in her own room. Fortunately for her, the royal court was resistant to change, particularly where fashion was concerned. At court, the styles of the last century still prevailed: knee breeches instead of pantaloons for the gentlemen and, worse, wide hoops for the ladies which, when combined with the high waist dictated by current tastes, had made her look as if she were emerging from the top of a birdcage.

  If she were to leave off the hoop, she decided, the gown itself was not half bad. The bodice was made of white satin, with short puffed sleeves and a tiny ruff standing up at the back of the neck that grew narrower over the shoulders until it disappeared entirely into each side of the scooped neckline. The skirts, alas, were cut wider than current fashion dictated (a matter of necessity, if they were to accommodate the despised hoop) but the overskirt of light blue velvet was edged with wide gold braid and swept into a most imposing train. Of its more intimidating qualities, Julia had reason to know: As the newly married Viscountess Fieldhurst, she had spent hours practicing in front of a mirror in order to master the art of backing away from the royal presence without tripping over the voluminous velvet folds.

  Yes, her presentation gown would do. She lifted it in her arms like a particularly unwieldy child, and carried it to her bedroom. It would be impossible for her to put it on unassisted, much less dress her hair in a style worthy of the occasion, so she rang for a housemaid to play the rôle recently vacated by Smithers.

  “Thank you, your ladyship, I’d be that pleased to help,” enthused the nineteen-year-old Betsy, combining gratification at her unexpected rise in the world with a young woman’s inborn love of all matters pertaining to personal adornment. “Such a beautiful dress,” she added, stroking the velvet overskirt with reverent fingers.

  “Beautiful, yes—and heavy and uncomfortable, but the only thing I own that is even remotely suitable for the occasion,” Julia said drily, unbuttoning the front of her peach-colored kerseymere and pulling it over her head.

  With Betsy’s assistance, Julia put on the formal presentation gown and soon stood before the looking glass, waiting patiently as her temporary lady’s maid fastened up the back. She was pleased to note that it still fit as well as it had done seven years ago, and pushed aside the realization that this circumstance was largely due to the fact that she had been unable to conceive a child.

  “Which of your jewels will you wear with it, your ladyship?”

  This was another difficulty Lady Fieldhurst had not anticipated. The diamonds and sapphires she had worn with the gown at her presentation had not belonged to her, but to the Viscount Fieldhurst and, upon his death, had passed to George to bestow upon his wife. In fact, this was true of most of her jewels, and all of the best pieces. She did have a fine set of opals that had once belonged to her mother, which that lady had passed along to her daughter when her own health ha
d failed, forcing her to withdraw from Society. Still, Julia feared the Russian court would be unimpressed with opals, no matter how fine.

  Julia sighed. What she lacked in quality, she must attempt to compensate for with quantity.

  “Fetch me my jewel case, Betsy,” she said.

  When the maid complied, Julia had the girl bedeck her with almost every piece she owned. After Betsy had finished, Julia surveyed her reflection in the glass, and thought she resembled nothing so much as a walking advertisement for Rundell and Bridge; still, from what she recalled of the bejeweled Russian ladies seated in the royal box at Drury Lane, she doubted they would see this excessive ornamentation as a disadvantage.

  She then sat down at her dressing table so that Betsy might dress her hair, which the girl did by piling Julia’s golden locks atop her head and coaxing tiny finger-curls to fall about her ears. In fact, so adept was she at this skill that Julia suspected Betsy’s leisure hours were frequently occupied in performing similar operations upon her own head.

  “What will you wear in your hair, your ladyship?” asked Betsy, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Feathers, perhaps, or would you prefer flowers?”

  Julia was prepared for this question, it having been uppermost in her mind while Betsy arranged her coiffure. Feathers, she felt, were too suggestive of court presentation, given the fact that no fewer than seven ostrich plumes were de rigueur for that occasion. Flowers, on the other hand, were surely better suited for a schoolroom miss than for a widow of seven-and-twenty.

  There was another option, however, one to which she had never sought recourse and, if she were to be perfectly honest, to which she had thought she never would. A jeweled coronet resided in the floor of the jewel case, beneath a false bottom. In fact, it was a part of the Fieldhurst collection, but when Julia had tried to give it to the woman who should now possess it by right, George’s unassuming wife had laughed at the very suggestion, assuring her predecessor that she would have nowhere to wear such an extravagant piece and begging her to keep it against the day when George’s son and heir would take a wife. Julia had had nowhere to wear it, either, which was why it had languished, forgotten, in the bottom of her jewel case. Mrs. John Pickett would have even less occasion for such a display of opulence, but she would wear it now, while she had the chance, and in the worthiest of causes.