Ash climbed into his curricle. Had Farnborough moved Miss Brown somewhere else? It didn’t seem so, as according to the landlady, her things were still there. He could well believe that Farnborough, discovering her to be a nuisance or a threat, would deal badly with her. He’d call again or send Peter in a few days to inquire if Miss Brown had returned. In the meantime, he must push the matter to the back of his mind. He could ill afford to worry about a country lass who had fallen into bad company. Sadly, London was full of them.
His Great-Aunt Clara, Duchess of Clement, was who he needed to see. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of all things relating to theton. Clara lived in a fashionable part of Chelsea, close to the Chelsea river walk, and might know of this man. But would she receive him at this hour?
He drove to Chelsea, where her large stone mansion was situated a block from the river. Ash handed the reins to his great-aunt’s new footman, a surprisingly young and good-looking fellow, and climbed the steps to the towering front doors. The gray-whiskered butler greeted him and showed him in.
His great-aunt had lived there since her marriage to the duke sixty years ago. Their long marriage produced one child, a girl, who died in infancy. Two retainers had remained with his aunt through the years: Smithkin, of indeterminate age, and his wife, the housekeeper. There was also a cook and a maid and the blond-haired footman. Most of the rooms were closed up and the furniture under covers, but Great-Aunt Clara stated emphatically on more than one occasion, that she would never move. “They will carry me out in a box,” she responded when he tactfully suggested a more comfortable establishment.
There were many fine antiques in the overheated drawing room, ranged side by side with heavy old furniture, long out of fashion. “Ashton.” Bedecked with shawls, his aunt sat ensconced by the fire, dressed in a purple, full-skirted gown and an old-fashioned elaborate white wig, jet jewelry at her throat. She held out her hands to him, the reflected flames setting fire to an enormous diamond on her finger, catching his eye as he crossed the room. “’Tis an age since you came to see me, naughty boy.”
“I apologize, Aunt Clara. I have been sadly remiss. You have employed a new footman?”
“Winston grew too old and wished for his pension. And I need something pretty to look at.” She winked roguishly.
Ash chuckled. “Are you well?” He bent to kiss her papery cheeks, breathing in the scent of cloves and lavender.
“I am as well as can be at this great age. I’m at a loss to know why people ask me. The answer can never be particularly gratifying.” She waved him to a chair. “Brandy? Or coffee?”
“Coffee, thank you.” He chose the ruby velvet upholstered wing chair opposite her. “I am here in need of your excellent knowledge of the beau monde.”
Smithkin answered the bell. After receiving the order for coffee, he went silently away.
“He is becoming crotchety,” his great-aunt said. “Now, what is it you wished to ask me?”
“A gentleman whose name I have yet to discover is in the habit of walking beside the river in the evenings.”
“A very odd practice, I must say. The Thames at low tide smells worse than a dozen piggeries.”
“Does anyone come to mind, Aunt?”
“Only one foolish fellow. He has a house near here but spends time in Scotland.”
“His name?”
“Give me a minute, Ashton. Names take a while to surface. Ah. Yes. Robert Spencer, Laird of Wigton in Lanarkshire. Walks his rangy Scottish hound in the early evenings.”
“Is he here in London now, Aunt?”
“I usually see him pass the window but haven’t of late. You might try his house, it’s in this street. On the next corner.”
Ash drank his coffee. “I will, thank you.”
“Yes, now I recall,” she said thoughtfully as she stirred sugar into her coffee. “Spencer always gives me a wave when he passes. Spends a good part of the year at his castle. Wigton’s widowed sister, Diana, married Farnborough, you know. She died nine months ago in Yorkshire. When the death notice appeared inThe Times, it bore no explanation of the cause.”
Ash put down his cup. “That is indeed helpful. I knew you would be informative.”
Her smile made her wig bob. “I am consumed with curiosity, Ashton. Perhaps you will tell me what’s afoot. Once you’ve settled the matter.”
“I promise to.” He came over and kissed her. “I must go. I won’t leave it so long before I come again.”
He made a mental note to send some of her favorite chocolates as he went down the steps to where the footman held his horses.
On the next corner, the laird’s stately mansion of Portman stone took up half the block.
He banged on the knocker, and moments later, a footman opened the door. “May I help you, sir?”
He handed his card. “Is the laird in residence?”
“The laird has been in Scotland, sir. He is on his way, and we expect him in a day or so.”
