The nephew, who would have had to lean over C.J.’s body to partake of the view of the prehistoric megaliths and lintels, glanced at his pocket watch. “Why, we have several hours to go before sunset.”
“Sunset, bah!” commented his uncle, reaching for a pinch of snuff. “This is the time when the sun casts the finest shadows.” He leaned as far back against the rear of the coach as he could. “Here you go, miss,” he said, offering C.J. the chance to look past him out the carriage window.
Although her glimpse of Stonehenge was but brief, C.J. was measurably affected by its power and mystery. Though the sun was now high in the sky, it had rained early that morning and the smaller inner stones, because they were still wet, appeared to be blue, lending the awesome circle an even deeper magic. “It is . . . truly breathtaking, sir. Thank you kindly.” Her enjoyment of Stonehenge, however cursory, temporarily relieved her mind of the anxious thoughts that beset her and what she might do upon her arrival in London.
The Royal Mail coach reached its final stop sans further incident, and C.J. gave the outrider the address that had been written on the cryptic note. He was quite insistent that she not achieve her destination on foot as it was not in the city’s most savory location and assisted her in acquiring the services of a reputable hackney to bring her to Whitechapel High Street in the heart of East London.
Shortly before dusk, C.J. was helped to dismount from the hackney and immediately stepped in a mudpie. At least she hoped it was mud. The driver did not fail to remark upon her obvious unfamiliarity with the surroundings in which he was depositing her—not merely the copious quantities of mud and manure, but the confluence of urban stench and filth in one of the oldest districts in London.
Assuring the hackman that she was well provided for, C.J. began to wander about the bustling—and odiferous—center of commerce, searching for the mysterious address.
“GONE?!” LADY DALRYMPLE EXCLAIMED, examining the state of C.J.’s rumpled bedclothes. “When did you last see my niece, Mary?”
“Not for several hours, ma’am,” the girl replied, fearing retribution for her inattentiveness. “As she needed her rest, I thought it best not to disturb her. Clearly, I was wrong,” she added, her eyes welling with tears. Almost reverentially, she began to smooth the sheets and counterpane. “Holy lamb of God!” she cried, discovering the crumpled note amid the bedclothes. “Miss Welles has gone to London!”
“Mary, how do you know?” asked the countess incredulously.
“It’s right here, in this note. The one that came to the door so early this mornin’. I brought it to Miss Welles with her bowl of broth when she woke.” She handed Lady Dalrymple the scrap of paper. “It says somethin’ about Miss Welles’s amber cross and a mystery to be solved.” There was a shocked pause as the countess regarded the lady’s maid with great astonishment. “Miss Welles taught me my letters,” the girl said, with a mixture of pride and sadness at the sudden departure of her beloved mentor.
“She must have gone to this address,” Lady Dalrymple reasoned, turning the parchment over and over in her hand. “Mary, ring for Collins. We must prepare to travel to London. I shall dispatch a note to Lady Chatterton and inform her that if we locate my niece, we shall be able to attend her masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens after all. You shall help me see to our disguises, Mary.”
“If I may be so bold, ma’am, should not his lordship be informed as well, as regards Miss Welles’s disappearance? For certain he will be quite concerned. I can run to the Circus with the note,” Mary offered helpfully. There was little time to lose.
DAVIS, THE EARL’S ANCIENT MAJORDOMO, was surprised at his lordship’s insistence that the tiny serving girl be shown up to the library rather than be asked to leave Lady Dalrymple’s note at the door.
Mary’s arrival had caught him preparing to depart posthaste for Canterbury to obtain a costly Special License from the archbishop. He had already wasted enough precious time, and the dispensation would eliminate three consecutive Sundays of reading the banns, during which his aunt would undoubtedly waste no time in registering her own objection to his marriage to Miss Welles. Lady Oliver had fumed enough when Lord Digby, in a remarkable volte-face, had told her that his wife and daughter were quite undone by all the embarrassment and gossip following the announcement of Lady Charlotte’s betrothal, and thus had agreed with alacrity when Darlington requested to withdraw quietly from their arrangement.
“I do not know this address,” Darlington told Mary, studying the handwritten note. “Clever of its author, though, to pose a rhyme.”
“Will you come with us to London?” the maid asked. “Her ladyship said something about a party at ‘Vox-ill’ something—a fancy dress ball.”
“Do you mean Lady Chatterton’s ball at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens?”
Mary nodded. “Yes, I think that was it. Sounds about right to me.”
“My aunt and I were invited as well. I had not intended to leave Miss Welles’s bedside while she was still infirm; yet honor and duty now impel me to ride to London in search of her. Ordinarily, Lady Chatterton’s midsummer masquerades are not to be missed. It gives her an opportunity to exercise her passion for Shakespeare. Every guest is exhorted to arrive in costume, dressed as his or her favorite Shakespearean character.”
“Then is Lady Chatterton an actress, your lordship? Like Mrs. Jordan or Mrs. Siddons? Miss Welles is very fond of Mrs. Siddons,” Mary added, tearing up at the woeful thought that she might never again see her beloved mentor.
Darlington smiled and offered the maidservant a linen handkerchief. “Lady
