‘Ah, now,’ said Fishwick with evident satisfaction, ‘that’s because I haven’t told you all!’
‘There’s a time and a place for being infuriatingly slow, Jack, and this is neither of them. Spit it out!’
‘The reason they were all so fired up about the business,sir, was that one of the footmen claims he saw the young abigail a night or so ago, very late, in a place where a decent female had no business to be. In the Garden, in fact, near the piazza, dressed up to the nines and going into a house that’s far from being honest – well, I expect you catch my drift.’
Dominic was frowning as he absorbed the impact of this news. This investigation was taking them to some strange and unexpected places – unwelcome ones, too. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that a respectable working girl might tire of a life of domestic drudgery and decide to exchange it for the dubious advantages of selling herself, which was what a stay in Covent Garden and all the rest of it seemed to imply. No doubt such a thing had happened before. But even if this were so, did it not make it unlikely that Miss Nightingale could in fact be with her? For what possible reason? ‘I do understand you, not being a complete greenhorn. I suppose it would be idle to enquire if the young man is sure of what he saw?’
‘I think he is, sir, and I’ll tell you for why. It seems this fellow had taken a powerful liking to young Jenny, her being a spruce wench and well set up. He’d been laying siege to her virtue with a great deal of persistence, she not wanting anything to do with him and making it very clear, and him not letting up in spite of it. It caused a bit of a ruckus below stairs, because the women of the household thought that was why she’d left so good a place with no notice – to avoid his constant pestering. And they, and all the decent servants there, which is most of them, have been blaming him for it and making his life a misery with their reproaches. The lad’s a worthless one, a regular thatch-gallows, as you can imagine, but he don’t care for being put in the wrong. So he came back to them all indignant about what he’d seen. Seemingly he was happy to have them think the worse of him for being out on the town and ripe for a spree, if it meant he could damage Jenny’s reputation and paint her as a strumpet. To his mind, if she’s one who prays with her knees upwards, as the saying goes, why wouldn’t she lay herself out forhiminstead of pretending to be so virtuous? You know the sort of man, I expect – he has such a powerful sense of his own worth, he can’t by any means stomach being set down by a lass.’
Pargeter was looking rigidly disapproving, as well he might, but Dominic said thoughtfully, ‘I’m sure such creatures exist in every walk of life. He sounds a complete scoundrel. But if he’s obsessed with the poor girl, I suppose he would know her when he saw her, assuming he was relatively sober at the time.’
‘I’ll go bail he was. He does seem certain it was her, and by his own account he tried to follow her into the house, too, which to my mind makes it more likely he was telling the truth rather than spinning a Banbury tale afterwards about some half-glimpsed face in a crowd.’
‘So he remembers the precise building she entered, or he thought she entered?’
‘He does, and I could say I managed to get it out of him, but I’d be telling an untruth, for he was eager to tell me, and everyone who’d listen, that it was a big place on the corner of Henrietta Street, hard by the market. A flash bawdy house, for certain, in that location, and he grumbled because he said there was a bully-back keeping the door, some old bruiser who would by no means let him in, him plainly being a servant and not a fine buck of the first head such as the place caters to. I’ve been to run my peepers over the place in daylight, early this morning, but there was not a sign of life, and no wonder. You know such kens – they’re asleep when respectable folk are about their business, and only come to life when darkness falls.’
‘I admit nothing,’ Dominic said with a brief grin, ‘other than the fact that you have done well, and it must bear further investigation. Even though it seems unlikely, on the face of it, that Miss Nightingale should choose to hide herself away in such a place and with such a person – a lady’s maid who, to all appearances, has fallen into prostitution. I fear it must be a bizarre coincidence, and nothing more.’
‘You won’t tell her sister of it, sir, surely? It must cause her the most severe anxiety of mind!’ burst out the young valet. He seemed quite as overset by the news and its implications as he expected Miss Margaret Nightingale to be.
‘I think I must, Pargeter. My part in this whole sorry business is only to help – I can’t be concealing things from her just because they have an unseemly aspect. Clearly, though, if anyone is to go there and seek further news, it must be me, not her.Thatwould be quite wrong, not to mention improper, and I cannot by any means permit it.’
10
Without delay, Dominic sent a note to Miss Nightingale; it was discreet in its wording, but made it quite clear that he had news to share, and proposed that he call on her and take her driving later in the day. His messenger, one of his footmen, waited for a reply, which was a prompt acceptance.
It was another fine, bright afternoon, with a breeze that sent fluffy white clouds scudding fast across the blue sky, and in other circumstances Dominic might have agreed with Dr Johnson that there could be no greater enjoyment in life than to go for a drive in the sunshine with an attractive female companion at his side. But this was not to be an expedition of pleasure.
His high-perch phaeton had barely slowed outside Meg’s father’s house when she came hurrying down the steps to meet him, rather than dawdling gracefully out like an affected young lady of fashion. She was wearing a dark green pelisse laced with gold, and a velvet Circassian cap in the same shade sat on her bright curls; unlike a more traditional poke bonnet, it did not obscure her face in the slightest, and offered him an excellent view of her expression, which showed mingled eagerness and anxious curiosity. Once again he was struck by how the same lineaments could be so much more expressive in one woman than in another, supposedly identical.
Fishwick jumped down from the seat and handed her up into it, taking his place in the precarious tiger’s perch at the rear. Dominic set his bays in motion, and was occupied for a moment in negotiating a snarl in the traffic caused by an overloaded furniture wagon, clumsily driven, that was partially blocking the exit from the square. He was a notable whip and a member of the Four Horse Club, but he was not so puffed up in his skill that he would disregard the need to concentrate at tricky moments. He had no desire to overset his precious cargo, or experience an upset himself; life was complicated enough already.
‘Miss Margaret,’ he said at last, the obstacle behind them and the way momentarily clear, ‘I have brought my groom Jack Fishwick with me rather than my tiger today because any success we’ve had in our enquiries – and I must warn you that it is by no means clear yet that itissuccess – is entirely due to his diligence on your behalf.’
Miss Nightingale turned in her seat to thank Jack warmly, and he responded gruffly – clearly highly gratified – that there was no need for that at all, miss, for he was happy to help. Dominic went on, ‘Jack and my valet, Pargeter, have been looking into that list of servants Mrs Treadwell gave me, and he has discovered something – perhaps merely a strange coincidence of timing, perhaps something more than that.’ He went on to tell her the tale of the vanishing lady’s maid and her unwelcome suitor; he did not mince his words when he came to describe the nature of the house in which the young woman appeared to have taken refuge. ‘And so you see,’ he finished, ‘although it may be a clue, and there’s no denying it’s the only one we have at present, we have no reason at all to believe that your sister is sheltering in that place too, nor even that the former abigail knows anything of her whereabouts.’
‘Jenny Wood,’ said Meg musingly. ‘Of course I have never met her, but I remember Maria writing of her in her letters. Life in my father’s house, you know, was so very tedious before Maria made her come-out that she described everything and everyone to me, as a way of passing the time and making us feel closer in our day-to-day existence though we could not be together; I did the same when I wrote to her. And all I know of Jenny is that she was a most respectable young woman – intelligent, and skilled at performing her duties, and quiet. I think Maria was quite fond of her. She would not be at all likely, from what my sister said, to run off in such a manner, and to such a place. Her experience with the horrible footman sounds most disagreeable, but I would have hoped she had other alternatives, rather than…’
Dominic said, ‘One would think so. She could have complained to her mistress, or, if she did not want to do that, perhaps because she feared this young man’s anger and revenge, she might have sought another position. I agree that it is iniquitous that she should have to so uproot herself, when she had done nothing wrong, but the choice that she appears to have made still seems odd to me. I wonder if she has a home and family she could turn to for help, or if she is alone in the world?’
‘I have no idea; I will ask Hannah. We do not know all the circumstances, of course,’ Meg responded. ‘It’s possible poor Jenny tried to find another place, and for some reason could not do so, or not quickly enough for her liking. Has it occurred to you that this unpleasant young man may not be telling the whole truth – that he might have assaulted her, or otherwise made her life in that house unendurable, so that she felt obliged to leave immediately and simply had nowhere else to go?’
‘You’re right.’ They were in the park now, and Dominic paused to set Jack Fishwick down, telling him they’d be back to pick him up in the same place in a half-hour or so. His mouth was a grim line as he set the horses moving once more. ‘We don’t know, and still we have no reason to believe that she has been in communication with your sister. But clearly we – I – need to investigate further, by visiting the place.’
‘Of course we do,’ Meg said, entirely ignoring the careful distinction he had drawn. ‘And as soon as possible. Shall we go tonight? I think we should.’
* * *
Dominic hadn’t been surprised when it became clear that Miss Nightingale wished to accompany him to Covent Garden. He’d expected her concern for her sister and her active, lively personality to demand immediate action, and also to demand that she should be a part of that action, as the one most nearly concerned in the matter. But the idea was clearly utterly ineligible, even preposterous, and he had anticipated no difficulty in persuading her of that fact.
He thought she had come to trust him after her early suspicion, and he’d imagined that every instinct instilled into a gently bred young lady over the years of her upbringing would, in the end, compel her to agree that he was right. She must eventually approve his intention of going alone to such a shocking place and telling her about the matter afterwards, however awkward that conversation might prove to be. He was known throughout the haut ton as a man of great address, and one equal to dealing with equanimity with any situation life might throw in his way. Such a person could surely quite easily convince a sheltered country girl of eighteen that no, she could not join her sister’s fiancé on a night-time visit to a known brothel in Covent Garden – not that the time of day mattered one jot, nor the location of the house of ill repute – to enquire after one of its disreputable inhabitants.
He had been wrong. Painfully wrong. He had plainly overestimated his own powers of persuasion, or entirely misunderstood the nature of Miss Nightingale’s education under the direction of her bluestocking mother, or perhaps both. She was entirely immoveable. ‘Of course I’m coming with you,’ she said serenely.
Dominic was lost for words for a moment. When his wits returned to him, he waxed eloquent, and embarked on what he felt, even as he was giving it, to be an elegantly expressed and perfectly reasoned little speech – not that it should be in the least necessary – explaining, forcefully, but without any improper dwelling on sordid details, why it was quite impossible that Miss Nightingale should go with him to Henrietta Street, that evening or any other evening. Considering he was still controlling his high-couraged team of bays and steering his fashionably precarious high-perch phaeton through the throng of similar vehicles as he spoke, he must consider it to be an impressive effort. He didn’t know what more he could have said, nor how better he could have said it. But it was all utterly futile.
‘I won’t take you,’ he said baldly in the end, glancing at her resolute face for a second. It was all too clear to him that she did not appear to be in the least cast down or chastened by his refusal. He began to experience a sense of alarm.
