Chapter 5

Chapter Five

A s the butler leads us through the house, I don’t notice any of it. I’m too busy fuming at Gray. I’ve done backflips to be sensitive and suggest ways to alleviate his discomfort, and in the end, all I got was his wasp sting of annoyance.

Screw that, then. He’s an adult, and he can make his own choices and deal with his own discomfort. Whatever’s going on here is between him and Lady Inglis. I just happen to be stuck in the middle of it.

As long as I’m there, I’ll take my place at that center. I’m the detective, and since there are no dead bodies involved, I’m in charge.

We enter the dining room to find Lady Inglis arranging flowers on the side table. That gives me pause. Oh, flower arranging is a very suitable hobby for a wealthy woman. But this is also the era when people assigned meanings to every flower and color. It was a method of communication, especially between men and women. I know nothing about the language of flowers, though I am aware that there could be some meaning in the arrangement Gray might comprehend.

And then I remind myself that I don’t give a shit.

I don’t even look Gray’s way to see his reaction. I greet Lady Inglis and compliment her on the lovely arrangements and the lovely home. She seems startled, and I presume the impression I gave last night was one of slightly less poise.

The flowers are lovely—white honeysuckle and blue cornflowers. The dining room is also lovely, tastefully appointed in the same colors, white and blue, carried from the carpet to the lampshades to the wallpaper.

Lady Inglis invites us to sit at the table, fully set for lunch. She takes what I presume is her usual spot at one end. Gray gets the other, and I’m in the middle, literally this time.

There is a bit of awkward small talk, which I stay out of. Having decided I don’t give a damn also means I don’t feel the need to smooth the way for Gray. I spend my time discreetly taking in my surroundings.

Most of the art is landscape, but there’s a portrait that seems to be Lady Inglis and her father until I realize she’s in a wedding gown and he doesn’t quite look old enough to be giving away the bride. Her husband, then. In it, Lady Inglis is about twenty. She’s holding her new husband’s arm, and she doesn’t look frightened or even determined. She looks happy. Genuinely glowing.

The first course arrives. At home, lunch is a fairly simple affair, betraying the Grays’ middle-class background. There is rarely a first course, and the meal often makes use of leftovers from the day before. That’s not frugality as much as convenience and efficiency. Dinner takes much longer to prepare in this period, and unless you have a dedicated cook, shortcuts are essential. One thing we always have, though, is dessert, because our gorgon housekeeper, Mrs. Wallace, dotes on Gray. God forbid the man miss an opportunity to have a rich pastry or slice of cake.

The first course here is a cream of asparagus soup along with fresh bread. I wait for everyone to take their first sips of the soup, and then I say, “You will forgive my bluntness, Lady Inglis, but I do not wish to take up too much of your time. May we discuss the case over lunch?”

Her gaze shoots to Gray, who scoops another spoonful of soup and says, “Miss Mitchell will take the lead here,” without looking up.

“Lacking Dr. Gray’s background and position, I am usually forgiven for also lacking his manners.” I smile, but it feels a little feral. “I am, as I said, rather blunt. I can get to the heart of the matter where he might need to dance around it, and I can ask questions that might give him pause.”

“I see,” Lady Inglis murmurs. “All right, then. Let us move directly into discussing the situation. As I said, I am being blackmailed. You are aware that I am a widow?”

“I am.”

“You said that your background allows you certain liberties. My status allows me others. One is that I do not need to forsake the company of men.”

Her gaze holds mine, as if trying to convey a delicate secret that I might be too young to comprehend. Victorians have a reputation for prudery that is well earned. Sex is not a thing you discuss, at least not if you are female... or a male in mixed company. I’m going to presume men talk about it among themselves, but not being a man, I can’t comment on that.

I know women—at least those in lower classes—talk about it. But well-to-do ladies do not. This does not mean well-to-do ladies aren’t having sex. It doesn’t mean that men who turn bright red at the most obtuse mention are not having sex. There is plenty of that going on—and plenty of it is extramarital—but everyone acts as if there isn’t, even if they’re having it themselves.

I’m sure many widows enjoy their freedom to some extent. God knows, I wish Isla would. But Lady Inglis watches my reaction as if I would be scandalized.

“I understand,” I say.

She hesitates. “I am not certain you do. This is a matter of great delicacy, Miss Mitchell.”

“You have lovers, and this blackmail is connected to them.”

I shouldn’t be so blunt. The fact that I am might prove I’m still annoyed with Gray and in a bit of a mood. Her gaze shoots to him, and I notice he gives the barest shake of his head. Telling her that this information did not come from him. Technically true.

I continue, “You forget that I do not share Dr. Gray’s background, and certainly not your own, Lady Inglis. These things are much more common—even natural—where I am from.”

Catriona actually seemed to be from a middle-class family, but Lady Inglis nods her understanding, even as color touches her cheeks.

The door opens with the second course—lamb cutlets, roasted potatoes, and green beans—and I wait for that to be served and for everyone to take a few bites.

“Can you explain the nature of the blackmail?” I say. “Does it come from a former lover?”

“Certainly not.” She sets her fork down with a decisive clink. “I am very careful, Miss Mitchell. I would not associate with any man who might do such a thing.”

“And you know that because...?”

She blinks, as if taken aback by the very question. “Because they are men of honor.”

“If you mean that they are wealthy?—”

“That hardly makes them honorable,” she says archly. “In fact, in my experience, most dishonorable men come from my own class. I say they are honorable because they choose the companionship of widows over... other options.”

“Serving maids and sex workers?”

Lady Inglis chokes on her cutlet, and Gray makes the smallest noise of warning.

“This is why I take charge,” I say. “Dr. Gray doesn’t even like hearing me ask these questions. He certainly wouldn’t ask himself. You say your lovers are honorable because they choose mature, unattached women rather than seducing young ones.” I pause. “I probably shouldn’t include sex workers in that. A fair and respectful exchange is always better than seducing serving maids.”

Lady Inglis only stares. Not at me, but at Gray. Rather like Dickens did last night.

“Miss Mitchell has strong opinions,” he murmurs, “and no difficulty voicing them.”

“If that makes you uncomfortable, I’ll stop,” I say.

“No, it is just... unexpected. You are... very young, and I did not expect...” She manages a smile. “Although, I suppose, if Duncan hired you as his assistant, I should have known you’d be more than you seemed.”

“She is,” Gray murmurs.

I decide to set aside the question of honorable men for now. From what I understand, Gray’s lovers are usually widows, and I agree that is preferable to other options in this world. Sex work is often the course of desperation—and the source of venereal disease. Unmarried women of his own class likely know nothing about the art of preventing pregnancy. And while sex between men and their household staff is common, it’s the most problematic of the options.

Whether choosing widows is “honorable” or not, it has nothing to do with whether a man wouldn’t blackmail a past lover. My experience—as both a woman and a cop—tells me to be very careful presuming a lover would never blackmail you because once you’ve left them, they can become a very different person. At sixteen, I made the boneheaded mistake of sending a risqué picture to a boy. I thought I was being sexy—and clever—sending a shot where I was clearly naked but all the “naughty bits” were hidden. Also, he was the sweetest guy, one who would absolutely never send it to his friends when I broke up with him.

Lesson learned.

Still, this is not a point I can argue. I’ve had friends swear up and down that it’s safe to send nude pics to their boyfriends, and I’ve had boyfriends who were offended that I wouldn’t send them nude pics. So I’m not fighting Lady Inglis on this. I just know what I know.

“Can you explain the nature of the blackmail?” I say after a few bites of the cutlet, which is really very good.

“Letters of an intimate nature,” she says, and I nearly choke on my mouthful.

I manage to swallow and dab my napkin at my lips to hide my reaction.

“Letters you had sent to a former lover?” I say as evenly as I can.

“No.”

I look up at her.

She continues, “I sent them to someone I have been involved with for many years. He was a dear friend of my husband and became my friend as well. After my husband passed...” Her cheeks color, just a bit. “Eventually, we grew closer.”

“I understand.”

“It did not happen while my husband was alive,” she says firmly. “Nor even shortly after his death. I did not have such feelings for this friend until significantly later. But since then, our friendship is periodically... more intimate.”

Friends with benefits, Victorian-style? That actually surprises me. Not the sex part but the friendship part. Friendship between men and women isn’t common in this time. It can’t be common in a world where women are guarded as if any man who is alone with them for five minutes will have them against the nearest wall.

Gray and I fight that battle constantly, dealing with the presumption that he only hired me so we can be alone together, and if we are alone together, it’s clearly for sex. What else would he want with me?

If Lady Inglis has found a satisfying friendship-with-benefits relationship, I’m glad of it, for her sake. Although, given that it seems to have been going on for years, this might be the relationship that ended hers with Gray.

But I’m not thinking of that, so I’m not speculating on it. Nor am I glancing his way to gauge his reaction.

“You sent this friend letters of an intimate nature,” I say. “And you are being blackmailed with them but not by him.”

“They were stolen,” she says. “He did not even realize they were missing until I received the threat. I contacted him immediately. He checked the locked box where he keeps them and found it empty.”

“You received a threat. A letter?”

“Yes. I still have it, and I will show it to you after lunch. In short, the sender threatens to print my letters unless I pay. They included one letter as proof that they have them, which also told me who I’d written it for. I immediately checked with Lord— my friend, in case that was the only one missing, which would mitigate the threat. It was not.”

“The blackmailer is threatening to print the letters... where?”

Another flush. “They are threatening to publish the letters. There is— That is to say, I have heard there is a taste for such things. The letters would be sold to a publisher of ill repute. That person would then print and sell them in a chapbook.”

“I understand you would not want them published under any circumstances, but are the letters clearly identifiable as having been written by you?”

“No, but the blackmailer knows I am the writer—and that my friend is the recipient—and this person intends to reveal that.”

I eat a few pieces of potato as I think. Then I say, “If we take the case, I will need to see the letter. Also, while I understand your desire for discretion, we will need to speak to your friend. Since he is also under threat—and he lost the letters in the first place—he will understand.”

Lady Inglis sips from her wineglass. “Is that necessary?”

It’s Gray who answers, “It is. As Miss Mitchell said, he lost the letters. They were taken from his home, I presume.”

“Yes, but?—”

“That makes this a theft, which we cannot investigate if we cannot see the scene and speak to the person who possessed the missing goods.” He looks at her. “As I already know who we speak of, I do not see why you would shelter him.” Gray pauses. “Unless he has asked to be sheltered.”

“He has not,” she says. “He is most distressed by this. I simply did not wish to involve him.”

“He’s already involved,” I say. “He’s also responsible. He chose to keep the letters, and his security was lacking. If you ask me, he’s the one who should be paying the blackmailer.”

“He has offered,” Lady Inglis says. “I would not hear of it.”

“Why not?”

She stares at me as if I’ve asked her to read the letters aloud. Yep, good thing I led with the warning about being blunt.

I continue, “This is entirely his fault. He should pay.”

“I would agree,” Gray says. “He chose to keep the letters and store them in an unsafe location, and yet the one who is truly under threat is you. Yes, the blackmailer might say they will also reveal his name, but you are the one they expect to pay because you are the one who will suffer.”

“They are still threatening him,” Lady Inglis says.

“With what?” I say. “Telling the world that he’s getting?—”

Gray coughs, as if knowing whatever I was about to say was both improper and probably not a term currently in use.

“That he has a lover,” I say. “A lover whom he inspires to write... er, letters of an erotic nature. That’s not a threat. That’s advertising.”

Gray chokes on what might be a laugh. Lady Inglis stares, and then she lets loose a low chuckle.

“I take your meaning,” she says. “I can assure you that my friend does not require advertising, but the point is that, as you said, I will suffer, and he will not. That is the way of the world.”

“Yes, and highly unfair, but that’s nothing we can rectify. So why not let him pay?”

She taps her fingers on the tablecloth, and it seems as if she isn’t going to answer. Then she blurts, “Because it would put me in his debt.” She pulls back, adding, “He is not the sort of person to use that to his advantage. We truly are friends. But in my experience, no matter how much a woman trusts a man, it is unwise to let him come to her rescue, particularly in matters of honor. If the blackmailer went to him, I would let him pay it. As I am the target, I wish to resolve this myself.”

Okay, she’s not as naive as she seemed with her earlier comments on honor. She has a point here. A good one.

“Can you pay?” I say.

She bristles. “I do not wish to.”

“Let me rephrase that. I’m asking whether you could afford to and how easily.”

She pauses and then says, “It is not what I consider pocket change, but it would hardly put me in the poorhouse. But even if it were pocket change, I do not wish to pay.”

“I agree. You could pay this person and get the letters back, only to have them threaten you again with copies they have made. The only way to stop this is to uncover the blackmailer’s identity.” I take one last bite of potato. “How long do you have?”

“Only until Hogmanay. I received the demand a week ago, but I have been dithering, trying to determine what to do about it.”

“May we see the blackmail letter now?” I ask.

“Certainly.”