“But they did not arrive together?”
“No, my lady.”
“Did the first leave a card?”
The maid looked blankly at her. “She just went, my lady.”
“And the second?”
“She’s waiting.” The maid seemed more used to cleaning fireplaces than conversing and she simply bobbed another curtsey as she had run out of information to impart.
“Thank you. Where might I find her? Did she give a name?”
“No, my lady, it were something foreign. She’s in the parlour.”
Foreign! Adelia ran to the parlour door and then stopped, brushing down her dress and taking a moment to breathe deeply. It could only be Mariana da Costa. She flung the door open.
It was indeed Miss da Costa, and she was raging.
She was dressed in more sober clothing than she had worn to the party, and her cloak had a light sheen of water droplets standing on it. Her boots were soaked and her hair frizzled at the edges. Adelia decided it was exactly the right time to make meaningless conversation about the weather.
“Ah, Miss da Costa. May I wish you the compliments of the season? I hope you are having a restful and contemplative Christmas. And you’re wet! It’s raining today? It is a wonder you have come out in it at all. Shall we ask for a fire to be lit? Have you been offered refreshments? One needs a hot drink on a cold, wet day. Do you think it will last all day? I hoped to take a walk this afternoon. Or perhaps you don’t mind the rain? What a dreary season we have had of it this year...”
Every time Adelia got to the end of a sentence, she slowed down a little but before Miss da Costa could speak, she started up again, and watched as the fake-Spaniard got increasingly infuriated. It was a calculated move on Adelia’s part, of course. She wanted nothing but the truth from her “exotic” visitor, and hoped to get it by putting Miss da Costa on edge.
Or maybe Miss da Costa had come to tell the truth anyway.
“Lady Calaway!” she burst out. Her dark eyes flashed. “I will not stand for it!”
Her accent was pure Londoner.
Adelia smiled mildly. “Then do sit.”
Miss da Costa remained standing foursquare, her hands on her hips. “Do I look like a murderer to you?”
“Heavens, no.” You’re a damp courtesan, she thought, and wished she could say that out loud.
“Then why have you gone to my father and stirred up such trouble?”
“I did not go.”
“Oh, you cannot blame your husband when the word is that he does nothing without your say-so.”
“Well, I will concede that my husband visited someone he suspected was your father, but the man denied it. Yet here you are, suggesting that it was, indeed, the truth. How interesting.”
“You are speaking to too many people, about too many things.”
“It is Christmas and I am trying to be sociable.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do not. Why are you here? To make a confession? To issue threats? What’s your purpose?”
“Ha! A little of all of that but mostly because I do not want you anywhere near my family. My mother told me you’d been. My father ... has washed his hands of me, as you can see. Therefore you have no business going there and asking questions. Don’t go again.”
“Or...?”
“You foolish woman. Why are you meddling in all of this?”
What, thought Adelia suddenly, does she really mean by “all of this”? “A man is dead,” she said.
“So what? Men die all the time. Digby Nettles, you mean. He was nothing to me – there is no connection and you are asking the wrong things of the wrong people. You’ll get yourself into a mess you cannot get out of. You don’t live in London now, and you don’t mix in these circles. Go home.”
“Miss da Costa,” Adelia said firmly. “I do not believe you are a killer. I am not investigating you. Yes, you were of interest due to your connections but we have established you are not a murderer. Many things, yes, but not that.”
“Many things? Connections? What do you think you know about it? No – don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Bea warned me you were tricky with words.”
“Who?”
“Good day, Lady Calaway.”
She flounced out. Adelia drummed her fingers on the windowsill. A maid bustled in to get the fire lit.
Bea – Beatrice Hutt, of course.
All the connections were made in a flash. Sally Spencer, who was to take Beatrice under her wing, was the model she had seen in the painting by Lord H. She called her up in her memory – the beautiful young woman with striking green eyes. Charlotte had told her the name. And Charlotte knew who Lord H was.
Digby Nettles had not known who the mysterious artist was until Charlotte and Robert told him.
Was the web of intrigue around Lord H, the artists and the models, and not Lady Purfleet at all?
Twenty
Theodore and Robert were both glad to be out in the open air. They had spent the morning talking together about Mr Wiseman and his visit. Robert grew more and more anxious the longer that they discussed the matter.
“He will stir things up that ought to be left in the past,” he said repeatedly. “My earlier enthusiasm for this business has quite gone. We must simply move past it now.”
Eventually Theodore agreed to take a walk with him. They headed out and strolled through the light drizzle, at first aimlessly, and then with more purpose. It was as if they had intended to call upon Mr Wiseman all along, but had not admitted it to themselves or to one another.
Theodore started to lag behind as they approached the modest townhouse.
Robert glanced over his shoulder. “You do not have to come in.”
“What are you going to say to him?”
“I am going to persuade him that nothing can be gained from a pursuit of this matter. I don’t know how he expects to find
