She scooped them unceremoniously into her reticule and, when it wouldn’t close, pulled out a second bag to carry the rest. One necklace was still in its box, and as she tipped the string of silverand pearls into her hand, a slip of paper came with it. She turned it over.
Garrard & Co., followed by a direction in Hatton’s Garden. Not unusual, seeing as the jeweler was amongst the most famous in London, but an idea struck.
Her husband may be clever, but he wasn’t creative. If he was buying jewelry for her, perhaps his mistress received pieces as well.
Fury boiled in her gut, unraveling the knot of anxiety and flinging its strings against her insides, cracking at her bones. She’d doneeverythingright, everything she’d been capable of, at least, and it wasn’t enough. The marquess had taken her world and shrunk it, making subtle comments about her family until she stopped sharing her woes with her mother and sisters, then remarking on her stutter so often she feared socializing. Her marital obligations disappeared when she’d delivered a healthy heir and spare, and she became isolated as a mother. A role she relished, doing her best to be a safe harbor for her children in the storm of their lives.
And now he wanted to take that away, too.
Nostrils flaring, she marched to the door adjoining her bedchamber and the marquess’, one that hadn’t opened in almost a decade, and paused when she found it unlocked. She didn’t know what to expect when she entered her husband’s bedroom; she’d never set foot inside and had only caught glimpses through the open doorway.
Perhaps she’d expected some immediate sign of her husband’s mental state, his rampant infidelity, but the chamber was remarkablein its sterility. No personal items sat at his bedside, no family photos on his desk—
The desk.
She rushed to the writing desk, larger than hers but far smaller than those in his downstairs office or at Harrow Hall. Her trembling fingers tugged at the drawers, finding cufflinks and a broken watch fob, some gambling notes and personal cards from his colleagues in Parliament.
And a paper with the same logo from Garrard & Co.
A series of heavy knocks sounded on the door to her bedchamber. “Milady? Are you well?”
She didn’t even take the time to read the receipt, shoving it inside her bag with the jewelry that suddenly became so weighty she wondered if she’d be able to make it downstairs. Her pulse thundered, her palms slick beneath the leather of her gloves, and she tugged them off and pushed them in the reticule like a thief as she hurried through the adjoining door, shutting it as quietly as she could.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she called back, hoping the housekeeper didn’t hear the labor in her breath. She was certain the woman sent a messenger to find her husband the instant she arrived, meaning he could arrive at any moment. What if he found her like this? Would he confront her?
With one last glance at her bed, Marigold fisted her hands on the handles of the reticules and thought of Archie. He’d promised to be standing by in a hack around the corner, and knowing he was there, waiting and believing in her, made her throw the door openand meet the pinched, suspicious expression of the housekeeper. “Is there anything I can help you with, milady?”
She gave the woman the widest smile she could manage. “No, thank you. I have everything I need.”
Chapter 11
TheGaietyTheateratthe corner of the Strand and Aldwych was bustling when their hack pulled up, and Marigold’s gaze tracked men of all ilk hovering around the entrance through the grimy window. “Why was he sending jewelry to a b-b-burlesque theater?”
Archie shifted. What did a sheltered noblewoman understand about what happened behind those doors? He didn’t want to shock her. While burlesque operas were no longer in fashion, many West End theaters funded their musical comedies with evening productions. That night’s performance, Vandervell’sOur Traviata,would make dear Mr. Verdi roll over in his grave or develop a raging cockstand.
The receipt from Garrard & Co. had been a breakthrough, leading them to the Hatton’s Garden jeweler. When charm failed him, a bit of negotiating, flattery, and a hefty bribe gave Archie access to Lord Croydon’s account ledger, detailing the list of baubles he’d purchased for his wife over the years.
Except only half of the items were in Mari’s reticule.
The mistress is an opera dancer, Archie realized upon arriving at the second address he’d found in the ledger.How bloody cliché.The conclusion scraped at his insides; what he would give to return home to a woman like Marigold—
No, those thoughts would only feed the lurid thoughts his imagination fed him every time he so much as paused, when he remembered the delicate touch of her hands and how she’d asked him to pleasure her—
Dammit, Archie!
“Um, I suspect he was sending the jewels to a… a dancer.”
Her nostrils flared and her spine stiffened. “Oh.”
“But we don’t know for sure,” he hastened to add. “We’ll look for her inside.”
“But there was no name on the ledger,” she reminded him, her eyes wide and glued to the theater entrance. The show must be almost over, meaning the window of time to identify the mistress was closing.
“Let me do what I can,” he said, infusing more confidence into his voice than he felt, but he couldn’t stand to see her that way, her features pinched as though she were fighting back tears. Or worse, as though she was making herself feel nothing at all.
After passing off several coins to the hack driver—Jasper would be furious when he returned with empty pockets and no idea how much he’d spent—Archie made his way to the side of the theater. Unfortunately, a burly man, one Archie would love to have as a defenseman on the Rovers, blocked the entrance.
“‘Scuse me, mate!” Archie jumped, moved out of the way just in time to avoid being run over by an older man, his grizzled face contorted as he pushed a cart overloaded with packages up the alley.
