Chapter 9

C hapter 9

Our coach bumped along the cobblestone streets, the buildings around us fading into shadow with the coming night. Mama sat across from me, dressed in a gold-silk evening gown, her dark curls arranged in an elegant coiffure. She seemed as distant as I felt, for which I was grateful. I did not want her questioning my black mood, not when I’d assured her just the evening before that I had everything well in hand regarding my case.

I’d been so looking forward to the party tonight—particularly to seeing The Woman in Red —but anxiety had replaced anticipation. I had no answers for Elizabeth and only doubts for myself.

“What is that you have there, darling?”

Mama had been staring out the window absently, but now her eyes fixed upon the portfolio I held in my lap. My hands tightened around the worn leather, but I’d prepared a reason.

“Just a sketch of Elizabeth,” I said lightly. “I promised I would bring it tonight.”

I wasn’t sure why I didn’t tell Mama of Mr. Allett’s interest in my art. Perhaps because it might give her a false hope that something would catch my interest as much as my investigative work. Painting was certainly a more acceptable occupation for a woman such as I.

I tried to keep my own hopes bundled close, sure that if I let them rise at all, the fall would be all the greater. I had sorted through my sketches after I’d dressed tonight, trying to understand what Mr. Allett had meant. Pieces that represented me as an artist? All my sketches seemed trite and simplistic—Mama on stage as Lady Macbeth last Season, Grandmama knitting before the fire, Jack walking the street, head bent and expression serious. But I had little else to show. I was never interested in drawing landscapes or architecture. It was faces that fascinated me, that drew me in and made me wish to capture the secrets I saw in my subjects’ eyes.

I had stacked a few of my drawings, chewing my lip. It wouldn’t be enough, of that I was certain.

Right before I had closed my portfolio, I’d paused. I hadn’t had much time to work on my latest sketch—the wavy brown hair and unyielding eyes of a certain Bow Street officer—though I’d been unable to rid my mind of his face or his expression when he’d caught my arm and pulled me close on the street yesterday.

The sketch was far from finished, and yet there was something in it that felt ... alive. I had slipped it inside my portfolio before I could second-guess myself.

Which I was doing plenty of now as I climbed the front steps of Harwood House behind Mama. Mr. Allett would be kind, I was sure. But whatever he’d seen in me wouldn’t be enough after he saw the rest of my work. And that would be perfectly all right, I told myself. It would.

Yet I could not deny that his words kept coming back to me. This is very good, Miss Travers. Very good, indeed.

We handed our things to the footman, though I kept hold of my portfolio, of which I was suddenly very self-conscious. Was I to walk about the entire party with it in hand?

While Mama instructed the footman on how precisely to handle her silk shawl, I slipped my portfolio into the drawer of the sideboard to my left. I could retrieve it when Mr. Allett was ready.

The butler escorted Mama and me inside the drawing room filled with milling guests and conversation. Sir Reginald and Lady Harwood waited to greet us near the door.

“My dear Mrs. Travers,” Lady Harwood exclaimed. “How pleased we are you could come.”

Mama swept forward, smiling grandly, and I followed behind, as I always did.

“But of course,” she said, curtsying. “How kind you are to invite us both. I should never refuse an invitation from the foremost hostess in all London.”

Lady Harwood waved her off, her cheeks pinking. “Heavens, how you flatter me when it should be I complimenting you. Did Verity tell you how very much I enjoyed your performance the other night? Oh, I was in raptures, to be sure.”

Mama sent me a playful smile. “No, she did not, but then, daughters enjoy keeping secrets from their mothers.”

“Secrets?” Lady Harwood repeated as though she’d never heard the word before. “Elizabeth tells me everything. What could she have to keep from me?”

A great many things, it would seem, though I would be mad to say anything.

“Indeed,” Mama said with amusement. “How lucky you are to have such an obedient daughter.”

Mama was teasing me, of course. She was far from an obedient daughter herself, reminded daily by Grandmama, but her teasing struck me differently tonight. Mama did not know that my nerves were already on edge.

“Elizabeth is just over there,” Lady Harwood said to me, nodding across the room.

I took a deep breath and released my irritation. “Thank you.”

She led Mama off to a group of her friends gossiping in the corner, and I turned to inspect the room. A small frame hung in the place of honor above the mantel, though it was covered by silk wrappings. Undoubtedly, the Harwoods intended to unveil the Romano painting later in the evening in dramatic fashion. They’d certainly invited quite a crowd, with close to two dozen guests mingling about the drawing room.

Because of Mama’s fame, I often rubbed shoulders with the ton . I knew which fork to use, which dance step to take, which topics to avoid in conversation. Yet I still never felt entirely comfortable at Society functions. If these people truly knew me—the illegitimate, thief-taking me—they would not be so eager to seat me at their tables.

I spotted Elizabeth near the fireplace, its flickering glow painting her even more beautiful than usual. It was unsurprising that the man beside her could not keep his eyes off her. He was a handsome fellow, with light hair and an easy smile. This must be her Lord Blakely.

I stepped toward them but paused when my gaze caught on another familiar figure—this one far more surprising. Mr. Denning watched me from the corner, glass in hand, eyes narrowed.

My stomach jolted. What on earth was he doing here? Surely his duties did not extend to attending his clients’ parties.

He took a sip of his drink as he watched me, perfectly at ease, uncaring that his plain black jacket and unadorned green waistcoat were far simpler than any other in the room. Not that it mattered. He was handsome enough that he could have worn rags and still attracted the gazes of the several young ladies who eyed him now. Including me, apparently.

He nodded a greeting, though he made no move to join me, quite thankfully. The last thing I needed was another lecture about how I would get myself into trouble.

I pulled back my shoulders and returned Mr. Denning’s nod—there was no need for rudeness, but neither did I need to be overly friendly—then promptly turned away and marched to Elizabeth’s side.

“Verity,” she greeted me, smiling brightly. Too brightly. “There you are. I thought you’d never arrive.”

“Mama believes no party begins without her,” I said, “and thus has developed a terrible penchant for tardiness.”

The man beside her laughed. “Ah, you must be the much-lauded Miss Travers.”

I curtsied, focusing on Lord Blakely as I rose. I was glad for the distraction—my eyes kept trying to wander toward Mr. Denning playing the part of mysterious, handsome stranger in the corner. “Not so lauded as you, my lord,” I said. “Assuming, of course, that you are Lord Blakely and not some interloper intent on stealing away Miss Harwood.”

He grinned. “I am he, though I shall certainly be on the lookout for interlopers.”

“Yes, one must be prepared,” I said quite seriously. “Especially with such a diamond at your side.”

Lord Blakely nodded with equal sobriety. “I primed my dueling pistols this morning.”

“Oh, hush.” Elizabeth shook her head. “So much for my practiced introduction. I might have guessed with the two of you.”

We chatted a few minutes more, our conversation moving easily. Lord Blakely was a pleasant man, well-read and intelligent. I liked him immediately and understood why he’d been one of the most eligible men of the Season. Although a title and fortune had not hurt his appeal.

Elizabeth was quiet throughout, seeming content to listen. I tried several times to catch her eye, wanting to give some sign of my approval, but she seemed distracted, her gaze never settling on anything longer than a few seconds.

I turned to inspect the room again, avoiding Mr. Denning’s corner even as I tried to catch a glimpse of Mr. Allett’s clever eyes. But the artist was nowhere to be seen.

“Has Mr. Allett arrived yet?” I inquired.

Elizabeth said nothing, and when I turned to her, she stared off into the crowd, not seeming to hear me.

“Miss Harwood?” Lord Blakely touched her arm, and she jumped, nearly spilling her drink.

“I am sorry,” she said, wide-eyed. “What is it you asked?”

I examined my friend. She had been different since that night outside the theatre, that much was certain. But tonight, she seemed worse. Not even a room full of people, including her betrothed, could draw her away from whatever thoughts brought such worry to her eyes.

“I wondered if Mr. Allett had arrived yet,” I prompted gently.

“Oh.” Elizabeth passed her glass to her other hand. “No, he sent a note this afternoon saying he’d come down with a cold and was unable to attend.”

My disappointment was fierce. Mr. Allett wasn’t coming. Likely, he’d already forgotten about me and my sketches. He was a busy man, after all, one who certainly did not have time to mentor the likes of me. I managed to keep a smile on my face even as my stomach fell to the floor.

“Let us hope he does not remain ill for very long,” Lord Blakely said. “I am anxious to see this portrait of yours. I cannot, after all, think of a more beautiful subject than my bride.”

He took her hand and settled it on his arm, his movement tender and sweet. Elizabeth forced a smile as she looked up at him. Lord Blakely did not seem to have noticed Elizabeth’s strange behavior.

Dinner was announced, and I was escorted to the table by an elderly man named Mr. Falsey, who, based on his sour expression alone, would have gotten along rather well with Grandmama. When we were also seated together at the table, I sighed and gave up any hopes for stimulating conversation.

That was, until the chair on my left scraped backward. I looked up, hoping to see some mildly intelligent middle-aged man who did not smell too strongly of tobacco.

I should have known better.

“Miss Travers,” Mr. Denning said as he sat beside me, the lines of his figure taking up far too much of my space.

I focused on removing my gloves one finger at a time. “Mr. Denning,” I managed finally, laying my gloves across my lap.

He did not look at me as he adjusted his chair to his left. I frowned. I hadn’t worn any particularly offensive perfume. “I hadn’t thought to see you here tonight.”

“Neither did I think to come.” He looked up the table, inspecting every guest. “But Sir Reginald is a difficult man to refuse. He hired me to attend tonight as security for the unveiling.”

“You are fortunate,” I said as a servant filled my wine glass. “The rest of us must suffer through dinner without compensation.”

If I hadn’t been eyeing him so closely, I might’ve missed the twitch of his mouth.

We sat in silence as the food was served, the chatter of the table around us filling the air. Mama sat across the table and to my right, and she sent me a curious glance, eyes flicking to Mr. Denning. I sighed. I had to say something or risk provoking her interest in the man.

“Are you an admirer of Romano?” I asked him.

“Who?” His hand rested on the table between us, large and manly and uncomfortably close.

“Romano. The artist of the painting you are being paid to protect.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “No, I cannot say I’ve seen any of his work.”

I blinked. “Surely you jest. Not even The Woman in Red ? It is his most famous piece.”

Mr. Denning gave a dry laugh. “I am afraid I’m terribly uncivilized, Miss Travers.”

He still did not look at me, and I found my annoyance growing. I was no beauty like Elizabeth, but I wasn’t so terrible to look at. Besides, common courtesy demanded some eye contact during a conversation.

“I doubt that very much, Sir Chivalry,” I said shortly.

His eyes cut to mine. Ha. I knew his weakness.

“I would very much appreciate you not calling me that,” he said, his voice clipped.

My fingers traced the bottom of my glass. “I might abstain from doing so, if ...”

“If what?”

“If you tell me how your investigation is going.”

He turned to face me, and almost immediately, I regretted claiming the full force of his penetrating gaze. Those deep chestnut eyes seemed to see far beyond what they ought, drilling into mine with leg-trembling intensity.

Thank heavens I was seated.

“I think,” he said, voice low, “that I am already keeping too many of your secrets to consider sharing any of my own.”

My cheeks heated. What with the events of the last few days, I’d almost forgotten about my pursuit of the thief, my pistol .

I attempted to parry. “Or perhaps you simply have no leads to share.”

“I’d like to believe you hope for the opposite,” he said, “so that I might catch the thief and we could all move on. Or are you so determined to solve it on your own? Prove yourself?”

My chest filled with cold air. “No,” I said thinly. “No, that is not my intention at all. I only wish to help my friend.” I turned my shoulder away from him, spearing a bite of roast pheasant with my fork.

“Miss Travers, I . . .”

I could see movement from the corner of my eye as he shifted uncomfortably. I said nothing, chewing with determination. No matter what he’d said the other day, he did think I was like Jack. Or who he believed Jack to be, at least. Despite my refusing to tell him my name—or perhaps because of it—he still could not allow me to be my own person.

He sighed and sat back in his chair. “One of the pawnbrokers recognized the thief from your drawing.”

I straightened. This was an unexpected olive branch. “Oh?”

“Yes,” he said. “He knew him almost immediately. Said the drawing was ‘right useful.’”

“Did he now?” I tried not to grin too smugly. “What luck.”

Mr. Denning pressed on. “The broker said the thief comes into his shop occasionally, though he hasn’t seen him recently.”

That went along with what Mrs. Webb had said. Higgs seemed to be lying low after the robbery. But Mr. Denning hadn’t said his name. Did he not know it yet?

“And the thief’s name?” I edged, curious to see if I’d discovered something he hadn’t yet.

Mr. Denning did not speak, so I turned to look at him. He eyed me, something like suspicion building in his expression.

“You already know it,” he said suddenly.

I drew back my chin. “What?”

“You already know his name. You are simply trying to see how far I’ve gotten.”

I considered denying it. I was working for Elizabeth, after all, not for Bow Street. He hadn’t any right to my hard-earned information.

But something made me pause. I’d been assuming that I had to be the one to find the thief first so that if the letter had survived, I could recover it without anyone the wiser. Yet, did I really think Mr. Denning was the sort of man who would read a lady’s private correspondence?

Besides, he’d shown good faith by telling me what he knew. He certainly hadn’t needed to. I ought to reciprocate.

“Yes, I know his name,” I finally said. “Tobias Higgs. Though I learned it only today.”

He bent an inch closer, eyes slightly narrowed. “And I assume you would have passed on that critical piece of information to me even if we hadn’t been seated beside each other at a dinner party?”

He did not seem angry or upset. More ... resignedly amused.

“Of course,” I said, pretending offense. “I want the man caught as much as anyone.”

He leaned back, and I took a relieved breath, a bit too gulping for my taste.

“The pawnbroker had little other information for me,” he said. “I’d never heard of Higgs, and there was no record of his name at Bow Street.” Mr. Denning rubbed his chin and eyed me. “Any other useful tidbits you wish to pass on?”

I tried not to wince, imagining what he might say if I told him the truth. Oh, just that Higgs’s only known associate is Wily Greaves, the same man I trusted with nearly every detail of the case .

“No,” I said, trying for nonchalance. “But I do hope that next time, you won’t be so hasty to dismiss my work. My brother used to find me quite helpful, you know.”

He lifted one brow. “I don’t make it a habit to work with young ladies. Especially ones who constantly interrupt my investigation.”

I ought to be irritated with him. Except it did not seem that he truly meant what he’d said. There was an edge of respect to his words that I could not have anticipated.

“And here I thought we’d begun to trust one another, Mr. Denning,” I said lightly.

“Trust is a valuable thing, Miss Travers,” he responded. “One mustn’t give it away too easily.”

“Very well. I suppose I shall settle for you telling me your next step.” I took a sip of wine, eyeing him over my glass. If I knew what his next step was, perhaps I might know what mine should be.

He chuckled. “An excellent attempt, Miss Travers, but I won’t be sharing that with my competition.”

I splayed a hand across my silk bodice and fluttered my eyelashes. “How flattering that you consider me so, Mr. Denning.” If he thought me silly and vain, all the better.

He peered at me. “Does that ever work? Like your act with the pawnbroker the other day?”

“A girl must use all the skills at her disposal,” I replied. “You would be surprised how often I am underestimated.”

“Then it is fortunate I am a quick study.” Mr. Denning hadn’t smiled at me since before he’d been assigned this case, since before he’d learned who I was. But he smiled now, his mouth quirked into a charming half grin, his dark eyes glittering. “I’ll not be so foolish as to underestimate you in the future.”

My stomach took an alarming tumble.

I forced my eyes from his, my cheeks pricking with heat. A smile like Mr. Denning’s could get a girl into a world of trouble.

Thankfully, a footman came between us at that moment, allowing me to collect myself. He refilled the wine glass I’d been sipping from, though, strangely, Mr. Denning’s glass was still full. The footman noticed as well.

“Is the wine not to your liking, sir?” he asked Mr. Denning. “I can bring a different refreshment.”

Mr. Denning waved him off. “No, thank you.”

The footman nodded and moved on, leaving an interesting silence between Mr. Denning and myself. I sent Mr. Denning a sidelong glance, toying with my gloves in my lap. He took a bite of potato, not looking at me as he chewed.

“I do not drink while working,” he said eventually, his voice almost too steady. As if he’d offered this explanation many times before. “I prefer to have my wits about me.”

“I see,” I said, trying not to show how very intrigued I was. “Wits are rather hard to come by. Best not to frighten them off.”

“Indeed.” Amusement hid in his voice.

The lady to his left soon claimed his attention, and I could not help a sigh of relief. Every moment I spent speaking to him felt like an appraisal, like he weighed and measured every word I said. Our conversation had been both intimidating ... and exhilarating.

In truth, I’d enjoyed it. There, I could admit that much. I often felt somewhat lonely at these events, not quite fitting in with my middling social status and average looks. But with Mr. Denning, I hadn’t felt out of place. I’d felt rather in place , if such a state existed.

When dinner concluded, there was no separating of the genders. Instead, we all returned to the drawing room together, excitement building among the guests as the unveiling of The Woman in Red drew near. In the commotion, I slipped away from Mr. Denning, intent on avoiding him for the rest of the evening.

I looked about for Mama, but before I could spot her, Elizabeth appeared at my side.

“Verity,” she said, voice tremulous. “I need to speak with you.”

She pulled me with her to the outskirts of the group, and I watched her with growing concern. “Elizabeth, what is it? You’re making me nervous.”

She cleared her throat. “Oh, there is nothing to be anxious over.”

That did not help anything. “Please, tell me.”

“It’s silly,” she said. “Only I—well, I’ve decided that you needn’t pursue the case any further.”

I stared. “What?”

“Yes,” she said more firmly. “I’ve been rather foolish about it. Of course the thief wouldn’t have kept the letter, and really, there is nothing too bothersome in it anyway.”

I fought back all the words that leaped to my tongue. What of her worries and sleepless nights? What of her insistence that she could be utterly ruined by the contents of that letter? I took a deep breath. “Elizabeth, this doesn’t make any sense. Has something happened?”

She shook her head almost violently. “No, I’ve simply had more time to think. I would hate to waste your time.”

“But I—”

“Thank you all for coming tonight.” Sir Reginald’s voice boomed from across the room. He stood beside Lady Harwood, both of them beaming, the covered painting hanging above them.

Elizabeth and I turned to face them, though her words still rattled through my mind. I felt shaky. Call off the investigation? What did she mean by it?

“As the Bible teaches us,” Sir Reginald went on, “talent should never be hidden under a bushel. And so, we are determined to share this beautiful painting with anyone who crosses our threshold.” He gestured to the butler next to the mantel, who nodded and reached up to tug on the corner of the silk draping. It slipped away, eliciting a collective gasp from the watching guests.

The Woman in Red was beautiful. Stunning. Even from across the room, I could see the details that had so captured the attention of the art world—the subtle smile on her lips, the grace in the curve of her hands as she grasped a bundle of wildflowers in her lap, the titular red silk dress flowing in crimson lines to pool around the lady’s ankles.

The story behind The Woman in Red was more myth than truth, but everyone knew it. It was said that Romano had loved the woman he’d painted, and when she’d died tragically—falling from a seaside cliff during a storm—he had immediately sold the painting, too distraught to ever see his lover’s face again. He’d died soon after of a broken heart, if the rumor mills were to be believed. In the eighteen years since his death, the painting had passed through many hands, its story and significance building with every sale.

The painting itself was not much larger than my leather portfolio, but it held such power, such entrancing emotion. Because though the woman smiled, though the Italian countryside around her was bright and idyllic, there was a darker depth to her eyes that seemed to foreshadow the tragic turn her life would soon take.

“It is beautiful,” Elizabeth said, her voice quiet. “No matter how many times I see it, I am stunned anew.”

A chill raised the hair on my arms. Not because of her words but because the look in her eyes—the subtle shadow that spoke of a hidden agony—was far too similar to The Woman in Red .

“Elizabeth.” I took her arm. “You are not telling me the truth.”

She turned away but not before I caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Please, Verity, do as I say. You must stop investigating.” Then she slipped away and went to join her parents, a smile pasted on her face as she accepted the glowing compliments from other guests.

I could only stand there, dazed and absolutely certain that my friend was in terrible, terrible trouble.