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“Do stop fidgeting, Amelia!”
Amelia Clare, Viscountess of Carlyle, obediently stilled and forced herself to reach for her tea cup. “I am sorry, Julia! But I am not accustomed to clandestine meetings like this.”
“This is not a clandestine meeting,” Mrs. Julia Mortimer reminded her, taking a sip from her own tea cup. “We are meeting the marchioness for tea in this perfectly respectable tea room; there is nothing suspicious about that. And no one will see anything suspicious in it unless you keep peering over your shoulder and jumping at every noise as though you are here to burgle the place!”
Lady Carlyle bristled a little; she did not like to take orders from a mere Mrs., and a widow at that. But her neighbor had offered to help arrange this meeting, so the viscountess was forced to obey her. “This is all so irregular!” she complained. “Are you certain your friend will be able to help me?”
“She is the most brilliant person I have ever met,” was Mrs. Mortimer’s serious reply. “I told you how she helped me when my brother-in-law was stealing from my jointure, did I not? I assure you, she is the finest—and most discreet—investigator in London.”
“Such a strange thing, though,” sighed Lady Carlyle. “A woman working as an investigator. And not just any woman—a marchioness! With two children, no less! Surely she has responsibilities enough, entertaining and looking after domestic affairs. It seems a most deplorable sort of disdain for decorum.”
“She has found a way to balance her investigating with those obligations she deems important,” said Mrs. Mortimer patiently. “As I told you, she is very clever.”
“But why work?” demanded the viscountess. “Surely she has no need of it, with the Basilwether fortune at her disposal.” Indeed, it was indecent. The Carlyle fortune wasn’t nearly as large as Lady Carlyle would have liked, but she certainly wasn’t going to besmirch her name by seeking gainful employment. She had a sense of what was proper.
“She feels strongly about using her talents to help those who have been victims of crimes. She charges her poorer clients little or nothing, and those fees that are paid to her by her wealthy clients go toward her charitable endeavors. I told you how she built a school in Lambeth last year, didn’t I?”
Lady Carlyle, however, was in no mood to take note of the Marchioness of Basilwether’s generosity. “Still, I look forward to meeting her, and not only for her help; it is always good to have a connection to the upper ranks of the nobility. A marchioness! Imagine what a coup it would be for my dinner party next month, if I could have a marquess and his wife in attendance.”
“You’ll find the lady sets little store by—”
But Lady Carlyle had seized upon her own mention of the marquess, and was following her thoughts down that path. “How strange that Lord Basilwether should allow her to work!” she exclaimed. “But then my husband says he is most unusual. Always supporting legislation that helps the lower classes, even at the expense of his own class. It seems incomprehensible to me! Has he no sense of self-preservation?”
“I think it quite admirable—”
“And Carlyle says that he is the strangest sort of man: not particularly masculine, and far more interested in flowers than befits a man of his station. He should leave all that to his gardeners, not putter about in the gardens like a common servant. No wonder he can keep no control over his wife. He must be one of those spineless, cowed sorts of husbands, and his wife rides roughshod over him. What a pity he should be such a notable figure in the House of Lords. No doubt he would be happier to spend all his time arranging flowers instead, and leave governing the country to those better suited to it.”
“He does love his plants,” agreed a voice behind them, and the two ladies turned to see a beautifully dressed woman watching them with one eyebrow lifted. She was perhaps thirty years old, with brown hair and eyes—slightly built, but carrying a confidence about her that made her look much taller than she was. “But he’d hate to give up the House of Lords, knowing that he can do a great deal of good there.”
Mrs. Mortimer rose to her feet. “My lady,” she said, with a deferential little bow of her head.
Lady Carlyle’s face drained of color. “Have—have you been standing there long?”
The marchioness’s eyes twinkled: an expression that seemed to bode ill for the viscountess. “Long enough. I move very quietly: a useful skill in my line of work.”
“My lady, permit me to name Amelia Clare, Viscountess of Carlyle, my neighbor on Montagu Square,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who—inexplicably—seemed to be fighting back a smile of her own. “Lady Carlyle, allow me to introduce Enola Linfield, Marchioness of Basilwether.”
Lady Carlyle scrambled to her feet and executed a nervous little nod.
The marchioness’s lips curved into a smile that was anything but welcoming. “Charmed,” she said flatly. She ran her gaze thoughtfully over Lady Carlyle. “Missing rubies, is it?”
The viscountess’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “How did you know—”
The marchioness went on. “I’m afraid I have come to think this meeting may have been ill-advised; I have limited time available to me, and I want to choose cases I find . . . worthy.”
Lady Carlyle opened her mouth to protest that she was a viscountess, and well worth her notice, but the marchioness did not give her a chance. “I think gossip shows rather ill-breeding, don’t you?”
The viscountess’s mouth shut with an audible click.
Mrs. Mortimer looked a little shame-faced, and Lady Basilwether turned to her, her smile suddenly warm and sincere. “I don’t blame you, of course, dear Julia, for setting up this meeting; you were simply trying to be a good neighbor. You are still joining us for dinner on Friday, are you not?”
And that was nearly too much for Lady Carlyle to take. Mrs. Julia Mortimer, widow of an absolute nobody, was on a first name basis with the marchioness? Was dining with the marchioness?
“Of course,” smiled Mrs. Mortimer, and the sound of her voice broke the spell of surprise over the viscountess.
She stood and put on her most sincere face. “I do apologize for what I said,” she said warmly. “I spoke a little hastily; I was simply surprised. I think it most admirable that you possess the fortitude and intelligence—”
Lady Basilweather turned a polite smile on Lady Carlyle. “Oh, that’s not what I’m upset about,” she said airily. “I don’t mind at all what people say about me.” And then her smile dropped and she leaned a little closer, her voice suddenly low and firm. “But no one insults my husband in my presence.”
That warning delivered, the marchioness stepped forward to press a kiss to Mrs. Mortimer’s cheek. “Until Friday, Julia.” Then she turned back to Lady Carlyle with a polite smile. “If you are prepared to write a letter of apology to Basilwether, I will receive you at my home tomorrow at ten in the morning to further discuss your case. I already have several leads in mind that I think worth pursuing. If it is not a sincere apology, however, do not bother showing up.”
And she swept airily away. Lady Carlyle watched her go with wide eyes, barely noticing when a delicate-featured gentleman with dark hair stood from a nearby table and followed her from the tea room.
She turned her stare on Mrs. Mortimer, who looked amused. “I think you’d best starting writing that apology letter.”
Lady Carlyle dropped back into her chair with a most unladylike thump.
. . . . . .
Enola Linfield caught sight of her husband’s laughing face as he climbed into the coach after her, and laughed as well. “I’m sorry to have exposed you to being insulted,” she said, “but I do appreciate your willingness to make this detour on our way home.”
The Marquess of Basilwether only laughed harder. “Absolutely worth it to see the look on that woman’s face,” he informed her as he tapped on the roof and the coach rumbled into motion. “She scarcely knew what hit her. Anyway, you needn’t be so angry on my account; she said nothing of me that hasn’t been said before.”
Enola’s brow furrowed. “No one,” she repeated firmly, “insults you in my presence.”
“You call me ridiculous all the time,” he reminded her.
She rolled her eyes. “As a term of endearment,” she said, “and it’s not as though you don’t call me stubborn as a donkey all the time.”
“As a term of endearment,” he echoed her, and they grinned at each other.
“You know,” he said, sliding a little closer to her on the seat. “I think your coming to my defense like that deserves a reward. A token of appreciation, for being my knight in shining armor.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Do you have anything in mind?”
He grinned and pulled the curtain over the coach window, and wrapped his arms around her.
Her answering smile was bright and loving. “Ridiculous boy,” she said fondly in the moment before he kissed her.
. . . . . .
fin