Page 28 of Murder in Matrimony
“I hope I do. This case has boggled me from start to finish. What I want to know is why Mr. Cross was murdered and by whom. Not allthis.” She indicated their surroundings.
“Mr. Cross was allthis,” said Simon. “This was his work.”
Amelia didn’t think she could feel any lower, but she did. Mr. Cross was his work, and his work was the East End. She knew that better than anyone, yet Simon had been the one to say it aloud. Every string she pulled unraveled another spool of thread she’d rather let alone. She had Miss Rothschild’s death to investigate as well as Mr. Cross’s. Now there was the damage done to Mrs. Hines.
Amelia took another drink.
“Chin up, Amelia.” Simon swigged his ale. “You’ll get this sorted out in that pretty head of yours. You always do.”
She slid him a doubtful look, and he tweaked her cheek.
A broad-backed man with stubby fingers began to finger the keys of a broken pianoforte, the ale in his glass quivering as he steadily progressed. Despite the piano being out of tune, the sound was tinny and bright, and several patrons cheered him on.
When he got the notes to his liking, he cleared his throat and began to sing, “Come to the garden, Maud. For the black bat night has flown. Come to the garden, Maud. I am here at the gate alone. I am here at the gate alone.” The song was not targeted at the imaginary Maud from Tennyson’s poem but a real woman to his left, at whom he was lovingly batting his eyelashes. Whoever she was seemed to enjoy the attention and moved closer to the instrument with every refrain. Her actions garnered several whoops from the crowd, and she curtsiedpolitely before joining him on the bench. When he was finished, she praised the performance with a kiss on his cheek, and he pretended to swoon. Then they both took turns at the pianoforte, their hands flying across the keys in a raucous polka.
A few chairs slid backward, and Amelia was surprised to find hers sliding back also. Behind her stood Simon, his hand proffered as if he was in a fine Mayfair ballroom. But when they began to dance, they acted as they never had in Mayfair. Perhaps it was the disguises, or perhaps it was the pub, or perhaps it was their own neglected desires. Whatever it was, no one would have recognized the couple by the swing of their hips or the laughter on their lips or the way their bodies met, warm and perspiring at the end of the song. Simon held her that way for a long moment, her chest heaving from the exercise and her mind buzzing from the ale or the turns or both. Then he kissed her, not the soft warm caresses she was used to. But a hot, short kiss that left her wondering who this pirate was—and how she had ever lived this long without him.
TWELVE
Dear Lady Agony,
A new bonnet with false gemstones is gaining popularity. At first, I thought it surprising and a bit garish, but now I’m not so sure. It might be pretty. What is your opinion on the hat?
Devotedly,
Shiny and New
Dear Shiny and New,
Personally, I have no use for a hat with false gemstones. I agree with the adage “Beauty unadorned is adorned the most.” Simplicity can do no wrong; false gemstones, however, can do a good deal. My advice is to keep your distance from the new bonnet.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
The next day, Amelia jotted off a note to Isaac Jakeman, inquiring about Milly Hines. Then she dove into readers’ letters. She sorted them into piles: relationship advice, household advice, health advice, and social advice. Some days she wore many hats—and wrote about many hats—but topics of regularity were getting easier to respond to. For instance, the more times she told women to forget obsessing about men, the easier it became. Other topics, like household chores, remained a mystery to her. She understood their necessity, yes. She, like most people, did not enjoy living in disarray. But the extent of questions on how and how often baffled her. As long as the house looked reasonably presentable, what did it matter? More important to her were the people inside the household. If they were as well taken care of as the chores,lives would be happier indeed—but perhaps letters to her less frequent.
When Jones told her Lord Drake was waiting in the drawing room, she was surprised to find it was already late morning. She had been answering letters for hours. She stretched as she stood from her desk, noticing her hands were dotted with ink. She wiped them off the best she could and then went up the flight of stairs, where Lord Drake stood at the window of her drawing room with some sort of magazine tucked under his arm.
Lord Drake turned around, and she noted he was dressed impeccably, as always. He wore a bright yellow waistcoat that showed off the cut of his well-tailored frock coat and cream-colored cravat. But his brown eyes were lined with concern, and his infamous dimple was nowhere to be seen. “Lord Drake.”
“I apologize for the odd hour, Lady Amesbury. Thank you for agreeing to see me.” His tone was tense, and he swallowed nervously. “I need to talk to you.”
“Of course. Please, sit down.”
Lord Drake sat on the chintz chair across from her, looking very unlike the notorious rake he was known to be. Amelia knew his reputation primarily kept the hungry mamas at bay, for his real interest was for a man in Cornwall. Lord Drake’s father was ill, and Lord Drake was the sole heir to a prestigious dukedom that was centuries old, not to mention a residence in Cornwall that was famed for its size and history. However, Amelia knew how costly the entailment was and the lengths to which Lord Drake had gone to keep his dying father comfortable in their home. He had resorted to stealing jewelry from the wealthy in Mayfair with the idea of dismantling and selling it. She had found out his identity mere weeks ago when he had taken—and returned—the famed Amesbury diamond. Since then, they’d become fast friends.
“My crime has been discovered.” Lord Drake spread the magazine onto his lap, pointing to a column in the left-hand corner. “This person says my identity is known with some certainty by a Lady Agony, and she must reveal my name immediately.” He shook his head. “Do you know this Lady Agony? I must admit I’m out of touch with London gossip.”
This was the difficult part of her job, lying to people she cared about.Not lying, she rationalized.Just not telling the entire truth. Of course Lord Drake was out of touch with London gossip. He’d spent most of his time in Cornwall with his ill father. It wouldn’t take him long, however, to make the connection if he stayed in Mayfair. She knew his identity; Lady Agony knew his identity. With consideration, he might surmise they were one in the same person. “I do know of Lady Agony, yes. I follow her letters.”
“And does she know who I am?” asked Lord Drake.
“She purports to.” Amelia pointed to the paper on his lap. “May I?”
“Certainly.”
She scanned the column, then flipped to the freshly printed front cover of an admired woman’s domestic magazine. It was wildly popular for its editor, who was the gold standard of advice on domestic details, which is why Amelia was stunned to see a response to A Concerned Citizen in the column. Amelia would think the author was too busy with household hints to respond to crime. However, the authoress seemed quite invested and even agreed with A Concerned Citizen. Certainly, if a thief’s name is known, it should be given to the Metropolitan Police. Any law-abiding citizen would agree, which suggested Lady Agony herself was not law abiding.Insulting!The authoress demanded Lady Agony reveal the name immediately. Anything else was an obstruction of the law.
