Rosemary Stevens (11 page)

“How sad,” Freddie said.

“It was charitable of you and Mr. Jacombe to be so kind to Mrs. Hargrove,” I said. And it was true. Ordinarily, when a servant became pregnant, she was tossed out to fend for herself, sometimes even without a reference.

Tears came to Mrs. Jacombe’s eyes. She picked up a black-edged handkerchief and wiped the moisture away. “Please forgive me. I cry quickly these past few days.”

“That is understandable,” I said. I felt sorry for Mrs. Jacombe. No merry widow was she. Apparently it had been a love-match, as Freddie had told me.

Just then the tall, thin, dark-haired man who had supported Mrs. Jacombe at the funeral walked into the room.

“Mrs. Jacombe, are you over-exerting yourself?” he asked with an arch look in my direction. He seemed the sort who would not hesitate to order me from the room if he thought me interfering with the well-being of his patient.

“No, Doctor Trusdale, I am fine, really,” she replied, looking pale. “Let me make you known to Mr. Brummell. Mr. Brummell, this is Doctor Trusdale. He has been our family physician since Mr. Jacombe and I married eighteen years ago.”

I stood and extended my hand to the physician. He took it and gave it a brief, firm shake. He was a good-looking man, probably in his mid-forties, but wearing his years well. His attention did not remain on me for long. Instead, he went directly to Mrs. Jacombe and gently held her wrist while taking out a pocketwatch and timing her pulse. The greyhound ambled out of the room.

“Did you sleep well last night?” Doctor Trusdale asked her.

“I am afraid not,” Mrs. Jacombe said.

“Did you try the new mixture of laudanum?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Jacombe responded weakly. Tears formed in her eyes again and slowly fell down her pale cheeks. “It is no good, I am afraid. Nothing can ease my pain.”

The physician turned and looked at me, but I did not need a hint from him to know it was time to take my leave.

 Freddie moved her chair closer to Mrs. Jacombe and murmured comforting words. Doctor Trusdale was busy checking the bottles of medicine.

I slipped from the room with a soft goodbye, and walked down the stairs in a somber mood.

In the hallway, Mrs. Hargrove was petting the greyhound. “Gabriel,” I recalled, was his name. She had a treat for him and made him stand on his hind legs to receive it. When he obeyed, a rare smile tilted Mrs. Hargrove’s lips.

A smile that reached her almond-shaped brown eyes.

That was when I knew. Another pair of almond-shaped brown eyes flashed in my mind.

Molly’s.

It was Molly who Mrs. Hargrove reminded me of. I looked closer. Yes, the shape of the eyes and the shape of the face were exactly the same. Something about the nose as well. The resemblance was uncanny.

Everything came together in my mind. Molly did not know who her parents were. Mrs. Hargrove gave birth soon after coming to work for the newly married Jacombe couple. That would make the child seventeen years old, exactly Molly’s age.

“Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Brummell?” Mrs. Hargrove inquired.

I realised I had been staring at the housekeeper. “No, I shall be on my way.”

She eyed me with a hint of suspicion quickly masked.

I exited the house and entered my sedan-chair. Ned and Ted carried me to Half Moon Street where I would interview Mrs. Roucliffe, but my mind was on the housekeeper. Which brought me to a question: Who was Molly’s father? The idea that it might well be Mr. Jacombe himself burst in my brain. My mind went back to the heated words between Lieutenant Nevill and Mr. Jacombe at Watier’s that fateful night. I remembered that when the soldier had declared his love for Molly, the first question Mr. Jacombe had asked had been “Who is her father?” Was this significant? Had Mr. Jacombe kept the pregnant housekeeper, knowing that if he threw her out on the streets, she would tell his new bride that the child was his? It would not be the first time such a scene in fashionable circles had been played out. Some men routinely took advantage of the females under their roof, as Miss Lavender, in her role as directress of the Haven of Hope, would be the first to confirm.

If I was correct, and Mrs. Hargrove was Molly’s mother, did she keep herself apprised of her daughter’s life? If so, surely she would know of the girl’s attachment to the lieutenant, know of their desire to marry. Living in the Jacombe house, she was also sure to have learned of the proposed duel. The gossip amongst servants spreads even more quickly than gossip in the
Beau
Monde
.

Could the capable Mrs. Hargrove have taken matters into her own hands? Was she loyal to her daughter, or to her employer who might very well have been the girl’s father?

Per my instructions, Ned and Ted set me down in Half Moon Street, necessitating a change in my thoughts.

A plump maid answered my knock on Mrs. Roucliffe’s door. The servant was all smiles as she led me through the hall to a smallish sitting room overdone in shades of peach and coral.

Everything from the paint on the walls, the furniture, the carpet and the bunches of roses in vases was done in varying shades of the same pinkish-orangey colour.

I bit back a chuckle at Mrs. Roucliffe’s idea of the setting for seduction. Then I chastised myself. Peach would be a flattering colour to the dark-haired Mrs. Roucliffe. Perhaps she was shrewd enough to know what colour surroundings would favour her looks.

A long peach-colored chaise dominated the area. Covered in slippery satin, it was undoubtedly intended for amorous pursuits. I could just imagine Foggie, the worse for drink, attempting to embrace his mistress and sliding off, falling flat on the floor.

The sounds of feminine voices caused me to look toward the hallway I had just come through. Mrs. Roucliffe stood with another woman. Perceiving my presence, she was about to motion her friend out the door. But that lady—I use the term loosely—had other ideas.

“Why, Cammie, you didn’t tell me you had such a handsome visitor,” she cooed to me. “I’m Angelica Nunn.”

From the smell of gin coming from the puffy-featured blonde, I doubted there was anything angelic or nun-like about the woman. Past forty, and unable to deny it, she had resorted to the rouge-pot in a feeble attempt at a girlish glow. This only served to emphasize the lines spreading out like an open fan around her brown eyes. A more cruel person than I might say she was mutton dressed as lamb. The thought only crossed my mind, you see. I did not speak it.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Nunn,” I said in a cool tone while Mrs. Roucliffe looked on in amusement. “I am George Brummell.”

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” she replied with a slow smile of invitation.

Mrs. Roucliffe had had enough, though. “You were just leaving, Angelica. Come along. I want to have Mr. Brummell all to myself.”

She ushered Mrs. Nunn out the door amidst much protest from that woman.

“I hope I was not interrupting anything,” I said.

Mrs. Roucliffe indicated I should sit on the chaise. “Not at all. Poor Angelica was just complaining to me of her lover. She is looking for another
parti
. But let us not talk of her. You wanted to see me, no?” She sat next to me on the chaise and leaned close enough that I could smell her perfume. The scent was no more French than was the authenticity of her accent.

“Er, yes, I did,” I said, feeling my intentions had been misunderstood. “I came to speak with you about Theobald Jacombe.”

From the way Mrs. Roucliffe drew back, I could tell she thought her charms had brought me to her door and was disappointed they had not. “But why?”

“I am a curious sort of fellow, Mrs. Roucliffe. I find the arrest of Lieutenant Nevill too convenient. I should like to know more about the murder victim in order to find out who really killed him.”

“Maybe his wife,” Mrs. Roucliffe said, her face hardening. “God knows, she would have reason. But, no, she is too innocent, he kept her too sheltered. She had no idea what he was really like.”

“And you do?”

“I knew enough that I refused to accept a position as his mistress.”

“Why did you do that, Mrs. Roucliffe?”

She suddenly became playful again. I did not envy Foggie this lover, a woman whose moods could be so mercurial. “La, there wasn’t enough in it for me,
n’est-ce pas
? I do not mean money, for there was plenty of that. No, I engaged in a little dalliance with Jacombe, only to discover he was, how shall I say,
tres petit
.”

Good God. “I believe I understand.”

She laughed and leaned toward me with the air of a conspirator. “It might have done John, Count Boruwlaski, the dwarf, proud.”

“So he offered to pay you a lot of money, did he?” I said, desperate to change the subject.

“Did you want a glass of wine? I see my maid neglected to bring you one.”

“No, I am fine, thank you. Did Mr. Jacombe offer you a fine house?”

Again, she laughed. “Indeed, he did. In Richmond. Imagine, all the way out there. He wanted to keep me tucked away in a cage. A true Bird of Paradise.”

“But you refused.”

She nodded, a little more serious again. “You really are interested in what happened to him.”

“Yes.”

Her face changed then to a more serious expression, adding at least five years to her age. “There was a vein of cruelty in Theobald Jacombe. I have seen enough in my life to recognise it. Nothing, no amount of money, nor fancy house and servants could induce me to the life he would have subjected me to.”

“Do you know if he set up another paramour?”

“No one that I knew.” She slanted a look at me. Flirting again. “Would you like to stay for a while, Mr. Brummell? We could have a little supper together. Later.”

I rose. “You honour me, but I have a previous engagement.”

“Another time?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Roucliffe,” I said noncommittally, taking my leave.

I gave the order for home to Ned and Ted, wondering about Theobald Jacombe. His reputation in Society was spotless, yet he had been cheating at cards that night at my club, had been involved in a questionable banking transaction that had cost the Nevills a fortune, had possibly fathered a child by his housekeeper, and had been refused an offer of protection by a courtesan because of his cruelty. The deeper I dug into his life, the darker Jacombe’s character became.

If only I could find the one person who had put an end to his existence.

I stayed at home just long enough to pick up a bundle of freshly laundered shirts to take to Nevill. Robinson tried to detain me.

“Sir, how long do you suppose Mrs. Ed will be with us?”

“She only arrived three days ago.”

“Three days?” he sighed dramatically. “I thought it was three months.”

“Cut line and give over, man. Has she really given you any trouble?” I could have bitten off my tongue the moment the words were out of my mouth.

“She shot a rabbit in Hyde Park this morning, then sent Andre home early so she could prepare it herself for our dinner tonight. Andre was none too pleased about it, nor was he pleased about the lecture she read him on how food should be boiled, not sautéed. She told the laundress the starch in her boys’ linen was too heavy and would give them neck aches. And she wanted to know why I would not cut the twins’ hair, since I performed that service for you.”

I edged toward the door. “I shall not be home for dinner. Tell Andre he is the best chef I have ever had in my employ, instruct the laundress not to change a single thing about the way she cleans our linen, and let the twins know their hair is handsome enough to be worn rather long. Oh, and do not wait up for me, I shall be late in returning.”

I slipped outside before he could say another word. I would have to avoid my own house for the remainder of the day.

I took a hackney coach to King’s Bench Prison, where I found Molly alone with Nevill. I experienced a qualm at interrupting them. “I am sorry for intruding. I did not know you would be here, Molly.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Brummell. I’m sure Nicky is happy to see you.”

“I am that. Thank you for the shirts. Did you visit my grandfather?”

I took a step farther into the small cell. “I have spoken with him twice. He is a crusty old fellow.”

“I warned you,” the lieutenant said.

I glanced casually at Molly. It would not do for her to know the motivation behind my next remarks. “You must be thankful not to be plagued by relatives, Molly.”

The girl gave a half smile. “That’s true. I never looked at it that way.”

“So you do not know who either of your parents were?” I said, still in the most offhand way.

“No. The couple who took care of me said they were just ordinary, poor people. Apparently they weren’t married and made a mistake. Me.”

The lieutenant wrapped an arm around her waist. “It’s no mistake as far as I’m concerned.”

So the girl knew nothing. Perhaps it was for the best.

I cleared my throat. “To return to the topic of your grandfather, Nevill, I have spoken to him on two occasions.”

“And he won’t help me,” the soldier stated.

“Let us say he is being reticent at present.”

“I told you he doesn’t care about me.”

I shook my head. “I would not say that at all. He helped your family through that situation with the banking deal that went bad.”

The lieutenant’s face reflected surprise. “How did you find out about that? I’d almost forgotten it.”

“I told him, Nicky,” Molly said.

“Yes, she did,” I said. “We need any scrap of information that might help us find out who really killed Theobald Jacombe.”

“But how could that old scandal have anything to do with what’s happening now?” the lieutenant asked.

I paced for a moment, then looked the soldier in the eye. “Do you think there is any possibility that your grandfather is the one who killed Mr. Jacombe?”

“What!”

“Oh, Nicky!” Molly cried. “What if he did?”

“This is preposterous,” the soldier declared.

“Now, listen to me. Your grandfather knows he does not have much longer to live. He harbours a grudge against Jacombe over the money he had to turn over to pay bank debts. Jacombe got away without paying anything, you know. Now he hears that the older, more experienced Jacombe is going to fight a duel with his grandson.” I spread my hands in a gesture that invited the lieutenant to consider my words.