Page 36 of Never a Duke
“Her Grace of Rothhaven and Lady Rosalind Kinwood,” the butler intoned, “as my lord can doubtless see.”
“Don’t pout, Rodgers,” Constance said. “I was afraid they’d come to blows waiting for us. A tray with all the trimmings, please, and His Grace of Rothhaven should have a tray as well. You’ll find him in the blue parlor pretending to read the newspapers. Stephen, don’t stand there like a looby, greet your guest.”
“Yes, Stephen,” Ned said. “Greet your guest.”
“We are acquainted,” Lady Rosalind replied, dipping a curtsy. “Lord Stephen, a pleasure to see you. Mr. Wentworth, good day.”
She wore a dark blue afternoon dress with lavender and green embroidery across the bodice. Not the colors a young girl would choose, and on her, they were luscious.
“Lady Rosalind.” Ned bowed, and Stephen did likewise. “Thank you for joining us. You are looking well.”
The butler withdrew, and Constance closed the door. “If her ladyship and I are to also make an appearance at the shops, we cannot waste time on pleasantries. Ned, have you learned anything more?”
Once upon a time, Constance had been the most retiring of the Wentworths, apparently content with her sketchbooks and cats. Her dark-haired looks had been unremarkable by design, though she was certainly dressed in the first stare of fashion lately. She’d married Rothhaven, and among the wedding gifts she had apparently found a duchess’s ability to take charge of any situation.
“Your Grace,” Lady Rosalind said, “I am not expected home until late this afternoon. We have time for pleasantries. Lord Stephen, thank you for hosting this call. I believe I met your lady wife last autumn at some at-home or card party. Her assistance will be greatly appreciated.”
Before marrying Lord Stephen, Abigail Abbott had been a professional inquiry agent. Hence Ned’s decision to enlist her aid.
The group assembled itself such that Rosalind was in a wing chair and Ned on the end of the sofa closest to her. Constance took a second wing chair and Stephen the opposite end of the sofa. The tea tray arrived on a wheeled barge, and Constance asked Lady Rosalind to do the honors.
“I have a sketch of Calliope Henderson,” Rosalind said, when all had been served. “The likeness is imperfect, because she never sat for me, but it’s close enough.” She fished a page from her reticule and passed it to Ned.
“Pretty,” Ned said. “Young, apparently without family in London, like the others.” He handed the sketch to Constance.
“Neddy, fetch me a pencil. I’ve seen this woman. She was with an older widow. The girl was casting longing glances at a shop clerk while her employer sorted through various pairs of black gloves.”
Ned procured Constance a sharpened pencil from the escritoire by the window. Constance made a few additions to the sketch and held it up.
“That is her to the life,” Lady Rosalind said. “What talent you have, Your Grace.”
“Since marrying His Grace, I have had much opportunity to refine the skills I was born with. What else do these women have in common, other than youth, looks, and a post in service to a London household?”
The conversation traveled a circular path Ned had worn flat in his own ponderings. Abigail joined them, which occasioned Stephen shifting to take the center of the sofa to sit between Ned and Abigail.
Maybe I am not the only fellow reduced to schoolboy behaviors.Abigail was a statuesque brunette with a brisk air and an inexplicable fondness for her husband. She alone of all Wentworths was allowed to demonstrate protectiveness toward Stephen, an accomplishment Ned still marveled at.
Ned liked Abigail. He liked that she wasn’t cowed by the trappings of polite society and liked very much that she put Stephen in his place regularly.
“What these women have in common,” Abigail said some minutes later, “is that they all knew Lady Rosalind, however indirectly. They all dwelled in a certain proximity to one another. They all were taken when on foot not far from their dwellings.”
Well, hell.“You are right,” Ned said, “meaning whoever is doing this has an opportunity to observe the comings and goings of senior servants from well-to-do households in a certain neighborhood.”
“And,” Lady Rosalind murmured, “they’ve been doing so for some time. Half days come but once a week, which is when two of the women were at liberty to tend to errands. Your Grace, do you recall which shop you were in when you saw Calliope with Mrs. Abercrombie?”
Constance named a glovemaker’s within an easy walk of Rosalind’s house.
“Somebody should chat up the handsome clerk,” Lord Stephen said. “He might have crossed paths with all three women as well.”
“I can do that,” Abigail said. “I would enjoy doing it, in fact.”
“What of the pubs?” Ned asked. “If I want to know what goes on in London, I ask the alewives and tavern maids. I was planning on making inquiries along the docks, and I would have started with the pubs.”
“Not dressed like that, you won’t,” Abigail said. “And not alone. You will take Stephen, and you will exercise the greatest of care.”
“I work better alone,” Ned said. “Meaning no disrespect, but Stephen’s limp makes him too memorable.”
“Ye of little faith,” Stephen said. “My limp is barely noticeable these days. I’m better at disguises than you are. I’ll squint and leer and swear, and nobody will have the least notion—”
