Page 18 of A Perfect Gentleman

Abigail went to the dainty desk and pulled the envelope out of the drawer. Opening it, she read,

If you want to know the truth about your marriage, come to the corner of Pinksey Lane and Harburton at the old wall. Nine tomorrow evening. Come alone or you will learn nothing.

It was absurd. Like something from a melodrama. She knew the truth about her marriage. Didn’t she? What more could there be than that her husband loved another and hated having to marry Abigail instead? What could be worse than knowing her father had been the cause of Graeme’s financial dilemma?

Still . . . what if there was more? How could she walk away and not find out if there was?

Stepping into her slippers, she hurried down the corridor and, eschewing the slower lift, trotted down the stairs. The clerk behind the imposing mahogany counter smiled ingratiatingly at her approach.

“Lady Montclair. May I help you? I trust there isn’t a problem.”

“No, no problem. But I hope you can help me.” She held up the envelope for him to see. “This note was pushed under my door. Did you receive this letter? Did one of your employers bring it up?”

“Under your door?” The clerk looked horrified. “Oh, no, my lady, I assure you. We would never leave a letter for you like that. If a message for you was brought to me, I would have put it in the box for your room.” He gestured toward the set of cubbyholes behind him. “If someone had handed it to one of the other employees, he would have brought it to me. Even if one of them had taken it upon himself to deliver it to you”—his frown did not bode well for such impertinence from an employee—“he would have knocked and given it to you, not shoved it beneath your door. I will question the employees, but I doubt it was brought by any of them.”

Even if they had done so, Abigail thought, none of them would be likely to confess it, given the desk clerk’s thunderous look. She nodded. “Thank you.”

“I do hope the note did not upset you,” he went on anxiously. “I assure you we keep a careful eye on any strangers who come in our lobby. The Langham has a reputation for—”

“Yes, I’m sure. Don’t worry. I’m not upset. I simply wanted to find out who had brought it. There was no name on it, you see.”

“Most irregular.” The clerk seemed put out by the sender’s breach of etiquette. “I will question everyone thoroughly, I promise you, and if any of them saw a person enter with the letter, I will bring him to you to question.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Abigail turned away. She had little hope of learning anything from the man’s underlings. She stood for a moment, thinking, then strode outside. The doorman pulled the door open for her with a grand gesture.

“I wondered if perhaps you had seen someone enter the hotel tonight carrying an envelope like this?” Abigail smiled encouragingly at him. The doorman would see everyone who came through.

“An envelope?” He looked doubtfully at the item in question. “No, ma’am, I can’t say as I have. This evening?”

“Yes, just a few minutes ago, in fact.”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. There have been people in and out the last hour, but I didn’t see one carrying a letter. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Do you know where the corner of Pinksey Lane and Harburton is? It’s by an old wall.”

“Well, that’d be the old city wall.” He frowned, thinking. “I’m not sure exactly where Pinksey Lane is. But I know Harburton, and that’s not an area a lady would have anything to do with.”

“Mm. I don’t know that it’s supposed to be a lady’s sort of place.” She started to leave, then turned back. “Please have a hansom waiting for me here tomorrow night. A little before nine?”

“My lady!” His eyes widened in alarm. “You’re not thinking of going there! It wouldn’t be safe. Really. That’s not a place you should go.”

“I am sure I’ll be fine. Just have the carriage here. Thank you.”

In truth, she was a good deal less than sure that it would be either safe or wise to keep the mysterious appointment. But she knew that she could not stay away, either. She would always wonder about it and wish she had found out this “truth,” whatever it was.

She thought about asking David Prescott to accompany her. But the note had said to come alone, so she feared a companion would frighten the letter-writer away. Besides, she didn’t want anyone, even a friend, to know some horrible fact about her marriage, if it did indeed turn out that the man had viable information to offer.

The invitation sounded to her as if the fellow was after money in exchange for his information. This would no doubt be a preliminary meeting to establish good faith on both sides. He would tell her something to indicate that he had information worth selling, and they would haggle over price. The man would have no reason to harm her; in fact, he’d have every reason to keep her safe, at least until she could get the money he wanted.

There was more she could do to protect herself. She’d take that handy little weapon Mrs. Carson had given her when she had started visiting the settlement home. It, too, had been in a disreputable part of town and even with her coachman taking her there, the founder of the settlement home had insisted she have a weapon on her person, as well. Abby had never had to use it, but she was certain she could if need be. And she would have the driver of the carriage wait for her discreetly down the block so that she could leave quickly.

It would be perfectly safe.

Abigail was less inclined to feel that way the following evening when the hansom she was riding in turned down ever narrower and seedier streets. She had dressed in her plainest brown dress, without a bustle and with only one petticoat, and despite the mild summer evening, she had pulled on a hooded cloak, which hid her entire body from top to bottom. Tall as she was and with her skirts melting into the shadows, perhaps any watcher would assume she was a man.

But, peeking around the curtain in the window, she wondered if even a man was in danger of attack here. The best thing that could be said about the place was that it seemed largely made up of small shops and was deserted at this time of night.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and the driver turned around to say, “ ’Ere you are, miss. You said to stop before I got to it. Pinksey Lane’s that little lane ahead.”