She dismissed Col with a toss of her silvery blonde hair and turned toward Wisenberry. “I would have thought better ofyou, milord, such a fine student of chess.”
The elderly marquess saluted her with his empty glass. “I would have lingered if for nothing more than to see your beautiful face again, but I needed to talk to this young man. I’m worried about his immortal soul. He knows nothing about women.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “Ah, but that, I’m afraid you have wrong. This man knows a great deal about women, but alas, nothing about chess. I’m afraid he’s wasted three expensive nights on a hopeless quest to retrieve something I have which he desperately desires.”
* * *
Charlotte bentover and held a candle lantern from the garden to inspect the lock on her back door. Nothing looked amiss. Not even a sign that Mr. Colwyn had ever been there. What was he talking about?
When she walked back to front entrance, Sam opened the door before she had a chance to insert her key. “I saw the club’s carriage lights outside, and when I came to check, I was worried you hadn’t alighted yet.” Her butler was a young man Captain El had found for her, one of the many loyal servants she seemed to have tucked throughout England.
He was in his mid-twenties, very muscular and athletic. She suspected he might participate in boxing matches on his day off. Samuel Porter had quarters at the villa, along with her cook and housekeeper. Mrs. Bertram kept a tight rein on maintenance of the villa while her cook, Lilith Alden, served up some of the most mouth-watering concoctions she’d ever tasted.
At least once a week Captain El would bring a young person to study under Lilith. Some of them spoke halting English, and many seemed to come from Mediterranean countries.
Charlotte never asked questions, because she trusted her employer implicitly. In fact, she trusted her employer with her very life. She suspected the young culinary apprentices may have escaped dark pasts similar to her own, but she didn’t want to pry. The less talk about what went on in Captain Eleanor Goodrum’s many properties and mysterious ventures, the better.
8
Col looked at the pale blue, folded letter that had just been delivered by a liveried footman from Goodrum’s. The only writing on the front said simply “Mr. Colwyn,” in a feminine, looping script. When he lifted the letter to his nose, the familiar scent of lavender, tangerine, and something else he couldn’t quite place filled his senses.
He’d had a long night of wandering the coffee house neighborhood between Whitechapel and Limehouse. There had been no further murders, but he was exhausted from hiding in the shadows until early that morning. He hadn’t even been to bed yet.
Collapsing onto one of his rickety, oft-painted kitchen chairs, he leaned back and let the scent emanating from the letter fill his nostrils again while he used his fingernail to loosen the dark blue wax that sealed shut the missive.
He already knew the sender without reading the contents. Charlotte Smythe was the only creature of his experience who could produce a scent like this one. He closed his eyes and conjured the vision of violet-tinged eyes and cornsilk-fine nearly white-blonde hair.
The chess costume she wore to torment amateurs like him was full of flounces and details that hid her mysterious body beneath. However, the split skirt betrayed the finest set of long, shapely legs he’d ever seen, clad in silky black and white patterned stockings. He wondered idly how she held them up. Fine lacy black garters? Or…?
His pleasant reverie was interrupted by George rising early to prepare Dee’s breakfast. “Where have you been all night? You smell like dead fish…the docks?” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “As soon as I’ve fed Dee, I’ll fill a tub with hot water.”
“You don’t need to fuss on my account. I’ll haul some water myself.” He gave his valet a long look. “How is the widow?” He got a perverse pleasure from the flush the mention of the widow brought to the man’s cheeks. At least someone was enjoying the pleasures of a woman in his bed.
“We may have had a few glasses of brandy after Dee finally fell asleep last night.”
Col’s eyes widened approvingly. “Good job, George.”
“Why, nothing untoward happened while you were gone, sir…I can assure you.”
Col waved a dismissive hand in his direction while opening the letter. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. The brandy was an unexpected perquisite from my last case. That West India merchant was particularly grateful I found out who was lightening his casks in the warehouse.”
The sounds of George puttering about in the kitchen, rattling pans, measuring out porridge, fetching bottles of milk from the second-floor landing, all faded away when he read the words.
Dear Mr. Colwyn,
You seem to be in dire need of a higher quality of instruction in the art of chess play. Please present yourself at eighty-five Loudoun Road this evening promptly at seven o’clock for a proper class followed by supper.
Yours, &C
Miss Charlotte Smythe
Regrets Only
He sucked in a deep breath. That settled it. He’d be drawing his own bath and tending to himself. His current cockstand would embarrass poor George.
* * *
Charlotte shooedboth of her companions toward the villa entrance where one of Goodrum’s carriages awaited them. They were attending an “evening” at an artist’s studio on Lison Grove Road. Margot and Gabrielle’s idea of an “evening” meant nothing less than an orgy of willing women and men, copious amounts of wine, sensual musicians, artists, and writers, not to mention lots of sybaritic food and plenty of hidden alcoves for trysts.
