“We must do all we can to learn what they are about. They are wily, those two. You would be wise to realize when they are on a cause, nothing will stop them from attempting to set things to rights. Take it from me”—he picked up his glass, but realizing it was empty, plunked it back on the table—“every little action should be considered suspect.”
James was at a loss. “As in…”
Ryleigh’s grim tone said it all. “Everything. Balls they attend. Social calls they make. Visitors they receive.”
Tossing back the contents of his own glass, James mulled over his words. “Shopping?”
“Absolutely.”
“I set my man of affairs after Gabriella today,” he said slowly. “She visited the modiste’s. After another stop at Gunter’s, she came straight home.”
Ryleigh pierced him with a ducal stare. “And you believe she never spotted him?”
“She couldn’t possibly have.”
The duke shook his head in sympathy. “My poor man. You are not listening.” He rose from his chair. “I’m going home, and I would suggest you do the same. I believe we are bound for the Faulks musicale in a couple of days. I expect I shall see you there.”
James watched Ryleigh disappear, unsettled by the man’s assessment. Gabriella couldn’t have seen Lars. If she had, she would have blasted James’s head off with the knowledge. He knew that much about his wife. She was an emotional creature, not given to hiding her feelings. Still, Ryleigh had known Gabriella her whole life. James had known her less than a year. It was best to remain on the side of caution.
He stood up and made his way out of the club, thinking lastly of Ryleigh’s unsettling question—what possible interest Liverpool would have in a missing lowly actress, and coming up with only one solution. Someone of the haute ton had set the prime minister on the task.
But who? And, more importantly, why?
Twenty-Three
London was renowned for soupy fogs, and one saturated the night, sending shivers over Vella, two nights later. ’Twas only eight. Early for the nobs of Mayfair. She sat stiffly in a lower-to-the-ground phaeton Thomas had procured. She decided it was safer in not knowing the how…
The conveyance hood was up, the only shelter from the night. She huddled in a corner with the reins clutched in her hand. Thomas’s younger brother was stationed a few feet away ready to sound an alarm if some degenerate ventured too close. Vella was thankful for that small mercy. From where her small carriage was parked, Vella couldn’t see the entrance to the Berkley gardens, and her nerves were as taut as a knot in a tangled strand of thread trying to get through tightly woven silk.
Lady Huntley had shocked her with her candidness. She was just so… normal. A duke’s daughter was miles above a hired seamstress. The countess had given Vella something she’d never before possessed. Hope.
The phaeton shook with Thomas’s sudden weight and the low-lit lamp he held, swayed. “I’ll see you at home, Georgie,” he rumbled to his brother. A pouch clunked on the seat between them.
“He paid?” Vella’s voice was a squeak.
“Aye. I hope this plan of yours in getting word to the countess doesn’t land us in Old Bailey,” he growled.
She patted his shoulder. “It will. Lady Huntley is expecting us. ’Tis a musicale, thank the heavens, and not a ball. The Faulks.”
Thomas was the most steadfast man she’d ever known. He didn’t question her, just gently took the reins she still clutched and set the horses in motion. “We’ll come in through the mews,” he told her. “The street will be mobbed with rigs. We can’t take the chance that some aught might recognize ye.”
Vella’s stomach tightened into coiled knots. They reached the mews quickly, and she clung to the side of the phaeton with each rut the wheels hit.
He pulled the vehicle to a stop and jumped out.
“What are you doing?” she whispered fiercely.
“Ye don’t think I’d let ye go in alone, do ye? They’re liable to jerk ye inside and put ye to work. Ye have the note?” His tone was barely audible.
“Oh, yes.” She dug through the small reticule she held in her lap for the two missives. She pulled them out and unfolded one near the light: Lady Macbeth is not well. She tore that one in half and dropped it on the seat then clinging to the other, she grabbed his hand. “Why is your hand wet—it’s bleeding,” she whispered.
“I’m alright, dearling.” He lost patience as he was wont to do and took her by the waist, lifting her from the conveyance, and carried her to a patch of grass. He then clasped her hand and led the way to the servants’ entrance.
Dishes clinked and voices hummed. No one came to the door and Thomas boldly crossed the threshold.
“Ho, there.” A footman. “Where is your livery? You’re late, man.”
Vella gathered her courage, stiffening her spine. “We are not your hired hands, sir. I have an urgent message for the Duchess of Ryleigh.” She’d practiced the words in her sleep until she could say them without stumbling over them.
