They could not have gone far—not without being seen—so we followed the curve of the gravel walk, moving deeper into the shadows toward a small arbor draped in early-blooming clematis. It was the nearest place one might duck into unseen.
A rustle. A whispered protest. Then a pair of startled lovers emerged from the dim interior.
“This corner is rather spoken for, old chap,” the gentleman murmured, drawing his coat about the lady as she hid her face against him.
Rosalynd gasped. I issued a brief apology, and we moved on at once.
“That was Lord—” she began.
“Yes.”
“And Lady?—”
“Quite.”
“They are not married to each other.”
I stopped and turned to her. “You will forget what you saw, Rosalynd.”
“Yes,” she said solemnly. “Of course.”
We continued our search, but only the breeze remained. As we stood together in the stillness, listening for any hint of footfall or hushed conversation, the garden remained empty. The night had swallowed the men whole.
Chapter
Fourteen
Threads of Inquiry
Sleep proved elusive the night of the Marwood Ball.
I drifted in and out, suspended between the glitter of Lady Marwood’s chandeliers and the foul voices of two young men speaking of a Venus Grotto and the girls to be used as though they were nothing at all. Each time my eyes closed, the words returned—hollow, vile, impossible to dislodge.
By morning, May light filtered through the curtains, and birds sang cheerfully in the square below. It ought to have been a gentle sort of dawn. It was not. My temper felt as frayed as an old hem, worn thin by hours of wakefulness and thought.
At last, I gave up the pretense of sleep and rang for Tilly. She arrived in no time and proceeded to lay out my gown with practiced care.
“You seem tired, my lady,” she said. “Shall I bring your tea?”
“That would be kind,” I replied. “And some toast and jam, if you please. Thank you.”
When the door closed behind her, I crossed to the dressing table. A pale face looked back at me; my copper braid was halfundone. Tilly could put my hair to rights easily enough. My unsettled thoughts were another matter entirely.
After our discovery in the Marwoods’ garden, Steele had taken it upon himself to learn what he could about the Venus Grotto. Of course, he had. Because he was a man. Because he was a duke. Because he moved in worlds barred to me. I understood the logic of it. That did not mean I had to like it.
Finch’s report lay on a small table by the hearth. Restless, I picked it up and read it again, my attention settling on the list of six young women Sister Margaret had entrusted to me. Beside two names, Finch had noted places of employment.
The first meant nothing to me—a laundry in Lambeth, the sort where girls came and went in a steady stream.
The second did.
Mme Delacroix. Modiste. New Bond Street.
At the start of the season, we had visited her establishment to order gowns for Chrissie. I recalled Mme Delacroix’s elegant bows, the flutter of seamstresses moving through clouds of silk and muslin. I had thought the place a small miracle of pins and talent.
One of the missing women had worked there. But he had been rebuffed when he’d inquired about her.
I set the paper down slowly. The modiste might refuse to talk to a man about a former employee, but she wouldn’t do the same with me. I could visit Mme Delacroix under the pretext of ordering another gown for Chrissie. She had already begun hinting she would require something new for Lady Stratham’s ball. It would take very little persuasion.
