Grace gave Fortuity a victorious smirk, then hopped up from the table, returned to the last shelf she’d been pawing through, and fetched another book. “This one is a gothic murder mystery. Perhaps it will give us some ideas.”
Fortuity heaved another desolate sigh, wondering what had ever possessed her to bring her sister to her favorite sanctuary.
“Who are these ghosts who dare torment my dearest friend?” Mrs. Mortimore daintily held her teacup between her hands while propping her elbows on the table. She took a sip and kept the drink elevated as if another sip should soon follow.
“My husband’s cousin, Miss Eleanor Sykesbury, has returned to London. Staying with us, in fact, while she looks for ahusband. I am certain you heard of her when reading about the astonishing speed of my nuptials in the gossip rags.”
Mrs. Mortimore narrowed her eyes in a displeased squint. “Yes. I recall the name. From you, actually, when you told me you had taken Lord Ravenglass’s name, then insisted I still call you Lady Fortuity.”
“So I did.” Fortuity felt a momentary flash of guilt. “I am so sorry. It appears I come whining to you whenever I am troubled.”
The ever-patient matron lowered her teacup back to its saucer and gently patted Fortuity’s arm. “I am honored that you confide in me. That is what genuine friends do.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mortimore. I do cherish you.”
“Well, go on. Tell her about the other ghost,” Grace prodded without looking up from the book she had propped open against her cup and saucer.
“I believe I already know the identity of the other ghost.” The matron rose from her chair and disappeared behind the tall counter at the side of the shop. After an abundance of rustling and disgruntled mumbling, she reappeared with a pamphlet in her hand. After climbing back into her seat, she placed it on the table, then flattened her small, delicate hand on top of it. “This is the latest edition ofOn Dit—What a Treat. There is mention of a widowed duchess—by name—and her determination to win back a certain viscount whom she left standing at the altar some years ago.”
Fortuity’s heart fell, and her face blazed hot with embarrassment and humiliation. She swallowed hard and forced in a deep breath, held it to a slow count of five, and then let it out. “May I see it, please?”
“Are you certain?” Doubtfulness and concern filled Mrs. Mortimore’s tone.
“Yes. Absolutely.” Fortuity unfolded the reprehensible sheet and found the paragraph immediately.
Have you ever wondered which is stronger? Old love or new? Or is the new love not really love at all but a simple act of honor? We know what the Duchess of Esterton hopes, since she has not only sent innumerable correspondences to her dashing viscount’s home but also allows her lovesick gaze to follow him wherever he goes. She may be a widow, but he is not. Could it be, though, that he is in the market for a mistress? We all know how dreadfully dull marriages of convenience can be. Undoubtedly, Her Grace would happily comply with whatever her dear raven requests.
Fortuity handed the pamphlet to her sister, knowing Grace would wish to read it.
“That woman’s self-worth must be lower than the gutter.” Grace tossed the despicable sheet to the table and wrinkled her nose as if it stank.
“What do you mean?” Fortuity asked.
“She had to have given them those details,” Grace said. “How else would they know she had sentinnumerablecorrespondences to your Matthew?”
“Perhaps they guessed? Hoping to strike a nerve?” And strike a nerve they had. Fortuity felt like crawling into a hole and sobbing.
“When they guess at things they are usually more vague,” Mrs. Mortimore said. “According to what you are saying, the details of that drivel are too accurate. Of course, anyone could observe her watching your husband, but knowledge about the correspondence is different. They purchased that information, either from the widow herself or someone else. Who else would know about the letters?”
“Only my family and the servants.” Fortuity knew none of her sisters would ever take part in such a heartless attack. That only left the servants. “But I thought they liked me.” A sense of despondency as heavy as lead filled her.
“Who?” Mrs. Mortimore asked.
“Matthew’s servants.” Fortuity wrung her hands together, slowly shaking her head. “Mrs. Greer helped us care for Mama before I recommended her for the housekeeper’s position after Mama passed. The others seem happy enough with me. I cannot think of a single one with whom I have had a cross word.”
“Perhaps one of them needed money,” the shopkeeper suggested. “Desperate circumstances often force people to do desperate things.”
Fortuity glared at the pamphlet on the table. “I am so tired of all the stares, the whispers, the covert glances at every dinner party, every ball, even at the theatre and modiste. One would think I ran a brothel in the middle of Mayfair.”
“Unfortunately, there is little you can do other than hold your head up and stare them down,” Mrs. Mortimore said. “There is no fighting the tattling tongues of theton.”
“Perhaps not.” Fortuity snatched up the pamphlet. “But I must at least learn if my household is secure. If it was not the widow who gave them this information, what if this person decides they need more coin? Who knows what else they might attempt to sell? They might even decide to make things up and sell them lies.”
Mrs. Mortimore thoughtfully tipped her head to one side. “There is always that possibility.”
“How do you intend to discover your betrayer?” Grace asked. “Any you ask will simply deny any part in it and claim innocence.”
“I know I can trust Mrs. Greer. She was such an angel with Mama.” Fortuity wished she could say that of the others. Theyall seemed nice enough, and their work was exemplary, but she simply hadn’t known them as long as she’d known the servants back at Broadmere House.
