And the chair!
Why, yes, it had been modeled after the throne at Westminster—the very one the king used for his coronation. (“We had tried several other chairs, but with Mr. Mayhew’s regal bearing, nothing else would do. It is, I will admit, a little mortifying to have a husband who is so monarchical.”)
’Twas not a direct replica, of course, for that would be sacrilege, but rather a facsimile in the general style.
“And France is such an interesting country, do you not think?” Mrs. Mayhew asked before eagerly providing the correct answer. “But of course you do, for you are well educated, your grace. Other women might censure your bluestocking behavior, but I think it is wonderful to know things like the height of Canterbury Cathedral and the year the Parthenon was built. Ah, you are wondering if I am interested in classical architecture, and the answer is yes, I will visit Les Invalides and the Hôtel de Sully. But you must not fret that I will be distracted from our purpose, which is to hire a new chef. We will never find anyone as talented as Monsieur Alphonse, but that does not excuse us from making an effort.”
Naturally, Bea was not at all worried that Mrs. Mayhew would allow herself to be diverted from her objective by the pleasures of Paris, as she knew the woman would not be visiting the city anytime soon—at least not in the company of her husband.
That Mrs. Mayhew’s spirits had been dulled by the specter of murder that had hung over the house was apparent by how buoyant they were now that it had been removed.
Well, that and Kesgrave’s deposit of fifty thousand pounds.
Those twin good fortunes had made her almost lightheaded with happiness. Knowing how fond Bea was of macarons, she held out a plate spilling with them at regular intervals, and she kept offering to refill the duke’s glass of arrack even though he had barely taken two sips of the liqueur.
Although Mrs. Mayhew was grateful for Kesgrave’s vindication, she remained convinced that Beatrice had been correct in her actions and opinions. Even if le peu guillotine was responsible for Monsieur Alphonse’s death, the duchess’s suspicions were entirely justified. “And I’m not just saying that because I shared them too,” she had said graciously before turning the conversation to a less chastening topic such as her trip to France.
“I am sure you are wondering how one finds a new chef in the vast city of Paris,” Mrs. Mayhew continued, “and you are right to ask. Mr. Mayhew will begin by consulting with his friend Mr. Rothschild, who also oversees a large financial concern.”
As she suspected that this was another topic on which the banker’s wife could expound endlessly, Bea decided she had indulged the Mayhews in enough benign conversation. Launching into their scheme, she timorously interrupted her hostess to ask if she may have her help in a troubling matter. Then she looked at Mr. Mayhew and said that she would need his assistance as well. “If you would deign to give it.”
“Of course, of course, your grace,” he replied robustly. “You need only ask.”
“It is a sensitive subject and one my husband does not want to hear another word about,” Bea said, casting a brief, defiant look at Kesgrave, whose expression remained inscrutably blank at this statement. “He is, you see, still displeased with my misunderstanding of Monsieur Alphonse’s death and wants me to avoid awkward questions, as he is determined to make amends for intruding on what was a tragic episode for your household.”
Mrs. Mayhew, drawing her brows together sympathetically, murmured soothingly, “You poor dear, I can positively feel your anxiety from where I am sitting. You are new to marriage and not used to husbands, so let me be the first to assure you they are often churlish. You must pay it no mind and do what you think is best according to your own conscience. Now how may we help you?”
Although the other woman’s voice was even and gentle, Bea could detect her excitement beneath the surface. Even if she didn’t say another word, the Duchess of Kesgrave had already revealed several uncomfortable things about her marriage—an indication that Mrs. Mayhew had indeed managed to forge an intimate relationship with the new peer.
“You are so kind,” Bea said, then pulled the ledger sheet from her pocket and held it up. “You see, the problem is this.”
Mr. Mayhew, unable to recognize his own handwriting from several feet away, furrowed his forehead. “What is that?”
But his wife, who was only one chair over, gasped in recognition.
“It is a page from your ledger recording your employees’ salaries,” Bea said simply. “Mrs. Wallace had it.”
Mr. Mayhew’s utter bewilderment would have been funny if the situation itself were not so serious. “Mrs. Wallace? I don’t know any Mrs. Wallaces.”
“Mrs. Wallace is our housekeeper at Kesgrave House,” Bea said.
Alas, the information only baffled him further, and he stared at her with a distracted air, as if trying to work out a very complicated equation in his head. “Your housekeeper was at my bank?” he said.
As he seemed to find the prospect of Mrs. Wallace among the regal statues and noble pediments of Mayhew & Co. to be particularly upsetting, Bea rushed to assure him that his understanding of the situation was wrong. “She did not travel to One Fleet Street. She and Monsieur Alphonse had a little romance, of which you are perfectly ignorant, for why would you know about a flirtation among
