telling a servant to find the blasted thing, Lady Clifford went into hysterics. She screeched at Mrs. Dale about her every fault, until Lord Clifford, who was home, had to come to see what was the matter.
I stepped to the next room, pretending the need to refresh myself-and indeed, I was developing a headache as fierce as Mrs. Dale's supposed ones. I heard Lord Clifford quite clearly tell his wife that the loss of the knitting basket was her own fault, that she could not keep account of any damned thing, and there was a reason he'd begun to favor Mrs. Dale over her.
I am not certain he'd have said such a thing had he known I was listening, but then again, Lord Clifford hasn't the best of manners. But really, what a thing to tell your wife! Lady Clifford cried all the more, Mrs. Dale joined her when Lord Clifford stormed out, and I returned to two weeping women.
But interestingly, I found them trying to console each other. Dear, dear Annabelle wasn't to blame, said Lady Clifford, and Mrs. Dale cried that dear, dear Marguerite was brave to suffer so much.
They continued weeping and embracing even after I sat down and pointedly started going through the guest list for the musicale. I gather that the two were the dearest of friends before Lord Clifford decided he wanted both his meat and his sauce in his own house. Saves him the bother of going out for it, I suppose. The two ladies are putting up with it as best they can.
The truce did not last long, however. Before another hour was out, Mrs. Dale was once more a hard-hearted, ungrateful bitch, and Lady Clifford a slow-witted fool.
I took Mrs. Dale aside and asked her why she stuck it here. I do not for one moment believe that she has fallen in love with Lord Clifford. From all evidence, she rather despises him.
Mrs. Dale blinked red-lined eyes at me and bleated that she stayed because she had nowhere else to go. This I can well credit. Her husband hadn't a penny left to his name when he died, and Mrs. Dale immediately went to live with her girlhood friend, Lady Clifford. She's been in the house ever since. Mrs. Dale did not say this, but I also had the feeling that she does not want to leave Lady Clifford to face Lord Clifford on her own.
Both ladies are well under Lord Clifford's thumb, and I strongly suspect that his interest in Mrs. Dale is more a game of power over his wife than any sort of sentimental feeling.
This was confirmed by my maid who spent the time in the kitchens while I was there (and by the bye, she is not very forgiving of you, either). Lord Clifford apparently satisfies some of his baser needs with maids below stairs, including the very maid arrested for stealing the necklace.
Of the necklace itself, I haven't a dratted clue. I have run very tame in Lady Clifford's house but have been unable to find a trace of it. I began with the most obvious place, Lady Clifford's own bedchamber and dressing room. The woman has many baubles-Lord Clifford does not stint on hanging finery on her. He must be of the ilk that believes a jewel-encrusted wife reflects well on him. However, the necklace in question was nowhere in Lady Clifford's chambers that I could see.
Next was Mrs. Dale's meager chamber, but again, I had no luck. What I discovered there was that Mrs. Dale wears Lady Clifford's castoff gowns, modified to fit her rather narrower figure. Her jewelry is quite modest. Again, I suspect, gifts from her dear Lady Clifford before their falling out.
Lord Clifford might favor Mrs. Dale in his bed these days, but he certainly hasn't rewarded her with anything costly. Or, if he has, she neither displays these gifts nor keeps them in her bedchamber. I assure you, I was quite thorough.
Other rooms revealed nothing. I could not do much searching in the main sitting room, because Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale were sitting in it. Constantly. I took a quick look at the dining room, but I had little time, and it's likely anything hidden there would be found by a servant.
Not that the staff of Lady Clifford's house is anything like efficient. I would sack the lot of them, and I told the housekeeper so. The housekeeper is an exhausted stick, not pretty enough for Lord Clifford, I gather, and he does run rather hard on her when he bothers to notice her at all. Were it my lot in life to be a housekeeper, I'd certainly try to find a better place.
Nonetheless, the servants at least attempt to keep the large house clean, and anything hidden in the public rooms would come to light eventually. That leaves the kitchens, the chambers of the servants themselves, and Lord Clifford's private study and bedchamber.
A servant might hide the necklace for her employer out of loyalty, but I do not think so in this case. I have not seen here the sort of affection some servants have for their employers. Barnstable looks after me as though he still regards me as the naive young wretch who first married Breckenridge, ages ago it seems now. The staff in the Clifford household simply do their jobs, and from what my maid tells me, the family is not much respected below stairs.
As I say, that leaves Lord Clifford's private study and bedchamber. If I can contrive to enter them, I will, but apparently, there is but one reason a lady enters Lord Clifford's bedchamber, and forgive me, Lacey, but there is a limit to my interest in this little problem. Lord Clifford's chamber might have to go unsearched.
I am afraid this letter will not help you much. In conclusion, if the stolen necklace is still in the house, it is well hidden. And if it secretly has been sold, I cannot tell either, because no one here ever discusses the necklace at all. A forbidden topic, I gather.
The atmosphere is strained and full of anger, and Lady Clifford, Mrs. Dale, and Lord Clifford make a strange threesome. There is no love lost between them, and much misery exists.
Now, then, Lacey, in return for my prying, I will ask one of my favors right away-and that is for you to attend said musicale tonight. I have observed that you dislike crowded gatherings, but you must put a brave face on it and come. If nothing else, your presence will give me a chance to speak more to you about this problem.
Wear your grand uniform and stand about looking imposing, as you do, so that my guests will have something to talk about. They grow bored and need a good whisper about the captain friend of Grenville's who turns up at Lady Breckenridge's gatherings now and again.
Besides, in truth, you will quite enjoy the soprano. Unlike Lady Clifford, I do have fine musical taste, and I shall have Barnstable look out for you.
Ever yours in friendship,
Donata Breckenridge
Chapter Seven
Bartholomew would not return tonight, so I had to dress myself for the musicale. Bartholomew was convinced I could no longer do this on my own, but he kept my clothes so clean that they always looked fine, no matter how clumsy I might be at buttoning my own coat.
I peered into the small square mirror in my bedroom as I brushed my thick hair and fastened the braid across my chest. The regimentals of the Thirty-Fifth Light consisted of a dark blue coat with silver braid and dark cavalry breeches with knee-high boots. I wore the regimentals for social occasions, this being the finest suit I owned.
Imposing, Lady Breckenridge had written. I glanced into the aging glass again. She either flattered me or poked fun at me.
I took a hackney across London to South Audley Street and entered Lady Breckenridge's house with a few moments to spare.
Lady Breckenridge prided herself on her musicales and soirees, styling herself as one of the tastemakers of London. Therefore, her sitting room was filled to overflowing, and I sidled through the crowd as politely as I could.
Sir Gideon Derwent was there, his kind face breaking into a smile when he saw me. Next to him was his son Leland, a slimmer, younger version of the father, and a pace behind them, Leland's great friend, Gareth Travers. The Derwents were a family of innocents who invited me to dine with them at their house in Grosvenor Square once a fortnight. There, they'd beg me to entertain them with stories of my army life. Travers had a bit more cynicism, but he seemed to enjoy the unworldly companionship of the Derwents as much as I did.
We took seats for the performance. Lady Breckenridge, dressed in a russet gown that bared her shoulders, introduced the lady as Mrs. Eisenhauf, a young Austrian who was just beginning her career. A pianist played a few strains on her instrument, and the soprano launched into her aria.
I found myself floating on a cushion of music, sound that filled my entire body. The woman's voice soared,
