A chilly fog had lingered for another day. Tennant signaled to a passing hackney, saying, “It’s too cold for an open hansom,” and opened the door for her.
“If you’re heading back to the Yard, I’ll drop you on my way to the clinic.”
Tennant climbed in after her. They rocked along silently, with Julia looking out the window. He studied her profile: her high cheekbones, firm chin, and chestnut hair pinned back beneath her hat. Just then, she looked like a young version of Lady Aldridge. He thought,I know what she’ll look like when we’re old and gray. She’ll still be a handsome woman, just like her aunt.Julia turned her head and looked at him.
He asked, “What were you thinking just now?”
“Secrets,” Julia said. “I suppose all families have them. Lady Middlebury and Lizzie Dowling. There’s a mystery there. The two princesses have their troubles, as well.” Julia sighed. “And Susan worries about them all.”
“Lady Styles is ‘a woman who lives in other people’s houses.’ She said that once to me. The lady leads a strange life, and I doubt her salary is large enough to make their problems hers. Yet, she does.” Tennant smiled. “And now there’s you, drawn into their orbit.”
“Oh, I’m a very minor moon of Jupiter,” Julia said lightly as the carriage slowed and stopped at the back entrance to the Yard.
“No. You’re just the same.” Tennant climbed out of the cab. “You’re never ‘in for a penny.’ It’s always a pound.” Before he closed the door, he said, “I wouldn’t have you any other way at any price.”
On Monday morning, Susan, Princess Louise, and Sir Lionel, accompanied by a groom, rode on horseback from Marlborough House to Hyde Park. Susan had suggested the ride to Lionel as a distraction for Louise.
They entered at Hyde Park Corner and turned their mounts toward Rotten Row, the park’s oddly named bridle path. Princess Louise lasted five minutes on the sedate stretch where London’s fashionable riders went to see and be seen.
“I’m going for a canter along the North Ride,” the princess said. “I’ll meet you at the far end of the row.” She pulled away and headed toward the Serpentine Road, the groom trailing her.
“I didn’t think she’d last long at this leisurely pace,” Susan said. “A gallop will be good for her.”
Ahead, a crowd had gathered at a section of the low fence that separated the bridle path from the footpath. Most onlookers were there to see Catherine Walters. “Skittles” was London’s most famous courtesan and was a superb horsewoman. Her riding costumes, tailored by Henry Poole of Savile Row, clung to her like a seal’s skin. That morning, Skittles wore a jet jacket and skirt with snowy lace at the cuffs and throat. She’d massed her dark curls at the back of her head. A top hat tipped forward at an acute angle shaded her eyes from the morning sun. A creamy ribbon streamed from its crown.
“Miss Walters hasn’t disappointed,” Susan said. “The curious have turned out to see what she’s wearing. But I had read she was in Paris.”
“Skittles is back from the City of Light, having bowled over a finance minister and the French emperor, if the rumors are true. But I’m surprised that Susan, the Dowager Lady Styles, follows her dubious career.”
“‘Dowager’ makes me feel in my dotage, Lionel.”
“Nonsense, my dear. Ah … what have we here? FitzGeraldand another fellow have reined their horses, and the major has tipped his hat to the lady. What do you suppose FitzGerald is about? Some ‘sleight of hand,’ perhaps?’”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Sleight of eye’ might be more apt. Rumor has it that Skittles is ‘entertaining’ the major, so logic dictates they’d avoid public encounters. And nothing is more public than Catherine Walters riding in Rotten Row. Therefore …”
“Therefore, what?”
“Meetings in the park telegraph that there aren’t private rendezvous behind closed doors …” Dermott waggled his brows. “A neat double bluff.”
“Lionel, your brain is overactive.”
“I’ll remind you of this conversation when Harriet sues for divorce. It’s the second time I’ve spotted FitzGerald and Skittles riding together. Both times, he’s been in the company of that chap as chaperone. More window dressing?”
“He’s the major’s groom and coachman. Harriet doesn’t enjoy riding, so the groom keeps her horse exercised.”
“Hmm … perhaps. There must be some reason for dragging the fellow along. Perhaps he knows his horseflesh and keeps his eye on FitzGerald’s racehorse.”
“He owns one?”
“Yes. He named the beast ‘Marmalade’ in honor of his father-in-law’s jam.” Dermott shook his head. “If FitzGerald thought the gesture would make the old chap sweet on the deal …”
“You think not?”
“Fitz doesn’t understand the merchant class. Sensibly, they believe in earning their money, not risking it on something as chancy as horse racing.” Lionel cocked his head and looked down at her with a slight smile. “Speaking of taking chances … There’s a solution, Lady Styles, if you’re interested.”
“A solution to what?”
