“I don’t see how you can possibly say that—” He broke off suddenly. “You don’t really think that Lady Rose would—”
“Don’t I?” I said grimly. “Come along, Stoker. We have to beard the little lioness in her den.”
•••
We ran Lady Rose to earth in her tiny playhouse. She might have chosen any of the diminutive pavilions scattered about the estate—a miniature French château, a Japanese pagoda, a longhouseof the Eastern Algonquin peoples. But she had selected instead a decidedly grubby hermit hut from Gloucestershire. It had once housed a recluse of great renown, a fellow who entered his solitary life during the reign of George II and had not died until the fall of the Bastille. The present earl’s father had purchased it for a farthing and had it brought to London to adorn his grounds at Bishop’s Folly, to limited success. Most visitors mistook it for a compost heap. It was woven of willow, arched to the height of a middling-aged child, and embellished with leaves and vines that played host to a riotous assortment of insect life. Lady Rose loved it because no one else ever dared enter, either from mild claustrophobia or fear of infestation.
Stoker had no such qualms. Lady Rose entertained him occasionally to tea there, although I was seldom afforded such hospitality. She had taken against me during our first meeting, and it was not difficult to determine the source of her hostility. Her misleadingly cherubic face lit at the sight of Stoker entering her little domain. Her greeting to me was decidedly less warm.
“Oh, it’syou.” She had been scolded repeatedly for rudeness to her inferiors, but the lesson had not yet taken hold. For my part, I ignored her jibes, as I had long ago formed the opinion that it is best never to notice children at all in any capacity lest they take a simple greeting as an overture for discussion—or worse yet, touching by grubby, sweet-sticky fingers.
I made an exception this time. I gave her my most winsome smile. “Good morning, Lady Rose. I see you have a new tea service.”
The stump that formed her table was spread with a dingy linen cloth—no doubt pristine until she had got her grimy little paws on it—and set with a miniature collection of Wedgwood. She pulled a face and poured out a cup of tea for herself and for Stoker. I raised a brow and she sighed theatrically before pouring a thimbleful of appalling russet brown liquid into my cup.
Stoker took a manful sip, then set the cup down, choking. “What an unusual and original flavor,” he managed, his eyes streaming.
“I took the slop leaves from yesterday’s tea,” she said matter-of-factly.
“And added?” Stoker prompted.
“A little cinnamon and ground clove.”
“And?” Stoker pressed.
She shrugged. “Mustard seed.”
“There it is,” he said, wiping his brow with one of his enormous handkerchiefs. Lady Rose slanted me an artful look.
“You aren’t drinking.”
“Perhaps later,” I said, pushing the cup a little distance away.
She fixed her gaze upon the cup and stared hard, her expression one I had seen only too often.
“Very well.” I sighed. I took up the cup and drained it, putting it carefully back onto the saucer. I held her gaze with my own, betraying no reaction whatever to her vile concoction.
She poured out the rest of the noxious brew. “I need something stronger, then,” she grumbled.
“Why? Are you trying to poison someone?” I asked pleasantly.
“Not exactlypoison,” she answered, her brow puckered in thought. “But a little discomfort wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Whose discomfort?” I inquired.
“Charles’,” she said, giving the syllables dark emphasis. Charles was his lordship’s second son, and as devious a creature as I had ever encountered. The trouble was, he had the looks of a Botticelli saint, so very few people ever believed him capable of real mischief. I had a fondness for the boy myself, but I could easily see how his tricks could irritate a younger sister beyond endurance.
“Now, Lady Rose,” Stoker began firmly.
I nudged him with my foot. “Stoker, I rather think that Lady Rose and I might like a few minutes of conversation. Just us women.”
Lady Rose opened her mouth, no doubt to protest, but the sound of the word “women” brought her up sharply. She gave me a look of grudging respect. “Yes, please, Stoker.” Her eyes followed him as he left. She regretted letting him leave, but I could tell she was mightily curious about what I wanted.
I came directly to the point. “Yesterday, I believe a crate was delivered to the Belvedere.”
Her eyes slid from mine. She was an adroit liar when she wanted to be, but she had not expected this. I settled back on my stump, arranging my skirt smoothly over my trousers as I waited.
“Was there?” she asked.
