“It was several years ago. I was still in uniform on patrol.” He rubbed his chest. “A grocer had been hurt during a robbery. You were shopping at his store at the time. When I arrived, you were comforting his young daughter.”
She snapped her mouth shut. She did remember now. The obscene amount of blood the grocer’s head wound had produced. The fear of his child. And the man in the navy blue coat and red waistcoat of the Bow Street Patrol who’d taken her brief statement. “That was you?”
He nodded. “It was my first year in service. I probably asked you all the wrong questions. But I remember how kind you were to that girl. A fine lady like you wiping a stranger’s tears away.”
Eleanor’s throat went thick. “I wasn’t a fine lady then. I’d barely had money to purchase the apples I was there for that day.”
“Money doesn’t make a lady.” His green eyes darkened. He cleared his throat and pulled out his pocket watch, checking the time before sliding it back into his waistcoat. “I must be going. If you intend to ask questions outside this club, inform me beforehand so I can keep you out of trouble.”
Eleanor’s shoulders drew back. “I am quite accomplished at keeping myself out of trouble, thank you very much.” Just when she thought he had a heart, he had to open his mouth again and show his insufferable self.
“You haven’t seen this sort of trouble before.” He stepped forward, stopping a scant inch from her body. “And Miss Lynton….” His gaze dropped to her mouth before flitting back to her eyes, holding her gaze. “Trying to seduce information or favors from a target is a skill, one best not attempted by amateurs. Don’t try anything like that again.”
And with a tip of his head, he was gone. Leaving before she could find a pillow to chuck at his head.
Chapter Thirteen
Lady Mary
Although she madea merry chase, I finally tracked down my quarry on The Strand at Twinings. Mrs. Amelia Massey had her arm hooked loosely with her daughter’s as they browsed the aisles of tea leaves, the girl out just this season. Mrs. Massey graciously nodded her head to the other patrons, the green feather in her turban fluttering with the motion.
I cut across the store, ignoring the enticing scents coming from the bins, and joined the two Massey women. “I have been trying to speak with you for many days.”
Mrs. Massey turned to me. “Lady Mary.” She slowly inclined her head, the action almost unwilling. “I must have missed seeing your card among my callers.”
My card was near impossible to miss. It was printed on a thick, ivory cardstock, with my name in a bold font that took up almost all the space of the card. “How fortunate, then, to find you here.” I eyed her daughter. “This is a conversation best kept between us, I believe.”
“Mother?” Miss Massey asked.
Her mother sighed. “If Lady Mary wishes to speak privately, I am happy to accommodate her. We passed Miss Smythe at the haberdashers next door. Why don’t you go speak with her? I know you wish to discuss your gowns for the upcoming Vauxhall gala.”
“All right.” The girl hurried away, seeming eager to chat with her friend.
“Now.” Mrs. Massey lowered her voice. “What is it you wish to say?”
Seeing no reason to dither, I asked her directly. “Your fight with Lady Richford at my club. What was its cause?”
Mrs. Massey pressed her lips tight, her cheeks flushing nearly as dark as the puce of her muslin gown. After several moments of silence, she said, “It was private.”
“You threw a chair at her in my club.” I pushed my spectacles up my nose. “If you wanted it to remain private, you did a very poor job of it.”
She shot me a glare from the corner of her eye. “A broken chair is hardly the worst damage that occurs at your club. With the arrow holes, that catapult accident, and the lawn bowling dents, I’m surprised you even noticed a broken chair.”
A gentleman jostled my elbow as he reached for a sack of assam tea. Tired of blocking the shoppers, I herded Mrs. Massey out of the way and into a shadowed nook. “Come, come. You cannot be unaware that with the death of Lady Richford your actions would come under scrutiny. If the officer from Bow Street hasn’t been to question you, he soon will.”
“There is nothing to say.” She shifted her wrapper higher up her shoulder. “You know how Lady Richford was. Always trying to win a point when she spoke with you. Looking for any weakness to exploit. I lost my temper, but it was nothing to kill her over.”
“You threw a chair.” And my chairs were made out of solid oak. It wouldn’t have been easy. “You weren’t angry over just a cruel word. It was something more.”
Mrs. Massey slid her gaze to the left and frowned. “It was a personal matter.”
I waited. People tended to abhor silence. Mrs. Massey was no exception. She spoke to fill the void, her voice unnaturally airy.
“Lady Richford was a bit too free with her attention to members of the opposite sex.” She fussed with the feather in her turban, adjusting it so it stood more upright. “When she turned that attention on Mr. Massey, I objected. The attention was one-sided, of course, but she was interfering with my family.”
Mrs. Massey lowered her hands and gave me a hard stare. “I won’t let anyone harm my family. A set-down was required.”
The only portion of the woman’s statement I knew to be true was that last one, that she wouldn’t let anyone harm her family. The other bit, about Lady Richford’s roaming eye landing on Mr. Massey, rang untrue. It would support Edgar Bannister’s assertion that his mother looked outside her marriage for companionship, however, so perhaps Mrs. Massey was merely uncomfortable telling me, or anyone, about it. Perhaps Mr. Massey had returned the attention.
