“Do you know if Lady Westford was having any difficulties with Mr. Goldsten?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Mr. Goldsten is hardly in my social circle.”
“No, but Lady Westford was.”
“True, but as I said, they have been most discreet in their relationship.”
“What about if she was having trouble at . . . work?” Was being a lady-in-waiting,work? What did a lady-in-waiting actuallydo? Kendra realized she had no idea.
Lady St. James laughed delicately. “Oh, there’s always troubles. Royal court is rife with politics and petty jealousies, and squabbles between the Mistress of Robes and Lady of the Bedchambers, vying for Her Majesty’s attention. I honestly don’t know how our poor Queen can abide their cattiness in addition to the King’s indisposition. Especially when he is in one of his spells and imagines he’s in love with one of the Queen’s ladies. Her Majesty was quite distraught when the king pursued her Lady of the Bedchamber, Lady Pembroke.”
“I suspect they are careful not to expose their rivalries in front of Her Majesty,” Alec commented, adroitly sidestepping the reference to the King’s madness.
“Very true,” conceded Lady St. James, pausing to refill her cup with milk and tea. “Grace was the Queen’s lady-in-waiting for six years. While one must always tread cautiously in court, she may have confided in one of the other ladies. I would imagine she formed friendships there.”
She took a dainty sip of tea before setting the cup down carefully. “I heard that Lady Melville, Lady Macclesfield, and Lady Bath have accompanied Her Majesty to Windsor Castle this week, but Lady Harrington is having a ball tonight. She is one of the Ladies-of-the-Bedchamber. If Grace confided in anyone about what was happening in her life, it would be the Saint—Lady Jane Harrington. I would be delighted to introduce her to you if you are attending this evening, my lady?”
Kendra managed to bite back a sigh, glancing at Alec. “I guess we’re going to a ball.”
Chapter 13
A cold gust of wind forced Sam Kelly to grasp the brim of his tricorn hat to prevent it from lifting off his head and sailing down the street as he stepped out of the butcher shop. His feet were already aching from having spent the morning quizzing every street vendor and shopkeeper in the vicinity of Bowden Theater. No one knew anything about the missing girl, Edwina. The closest Sam came was a nearby baker, who told him that Edwina had purchased a loaf of bread on Sunday morning. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since, which, now that he had a chance to reflect on it, was apparently most peculiar, as it was her habit to buy bread or pasties from him every other day.
This did not bode well for Edwina.
Sam scanned the area, studying a young girl in a tattered dress and wool shawl setting up a crate of oranges on the corner. He waited until the cart hauling bags of grain lumbered past, then sprinted across the street, careful to avoid the fresh dung.
The girl was no more than ten, but her voice rang out strong and true: “Two a penny! Come an’ get ’em afore they’re gone!” She looked at Sam at his approach. “Ye wan’ an orange, sir? Priced right, they are!”
“I’d prefer information.” He dug out a penny.
She focused on the coin, but it didn’t stop suspicion from tightening her thin face. “About what?”
“Edwina. She works at Bowden Theater.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are ye a Beak? Edwina don’t like Beaks.”
“Why don’t she like . . . er, officers of the law? Has she committed a crime?”
“Folks don’t need ter commit crimes ter not like Beaks,” the child scoffed, pulling her shawl tighter around her scrawny shoulders.
Sam acknowledged the sentiment with a slight nod. “What was Edwina’s reason?”
“Same as most folks.” The little girl’s chin jutted up in a gesture that was both defiant and oddly vulnerable. “They ain’t ter be trusted. She was hurt somethin’ terrible when she worked at Finnigan’s Theater. When she complained ter the watchmen and constable, they laughed. Said they’d look into it if she was a bit more friendly ter them.
“And it ain’t just Edwina,” she added, her lip curling. “Beaks don’t care about workin’ folk. Me ma was sent off ter Botany Bay ’cause a nob accused her of filching his handkerchief. Ma said she didn’t take it, but they didn’t believe her, neither.”
Sam’s lips tightened. The story was common enough. “I’m sorry about your ma.”
“Oi suppose being deported ter Australia is better’n hanging,” the child said with a contemptuous sniff.
“What’s your name?”
“Why should Oi tell ye?”
“I reckon this is a normal spot for you, if you know Edwina. It wouldn’t be difficult ter find out,” he pointed out mildly.
She scowled at him. “Bridget.”
