“Cutting up the leaves?” That didn’t sound right.
“Yes. Into little pieces. Isn’t that how you arrange them?” Sally asked.
I had no idea. Girls who were raised like I was to work in a shop never had time to learn about flower arranging. But working in a bookshop had its rewards. Anything I wanted to learn was a hand’s reach away.
And I would look up lilies of the valley just as soon as I returned after a walk down Hyde Park Place. It was the only clue I had until Inspector Grantham gave me the details in Denis Lupton’s death or I heard more rumors about a Gutenberg Bible for sale in London.
After twelve years, it was time I solved my parents’ murder.
Chapter Ten
IT was sundown and the light was quickly fading from our street when the man came into my shop, tilting his bowler hat to keep the light out of his eyes. He wore a jacket and loose-fitting trousers of some cheap material, but his muddied boots looked new and well made.
I came out from behind the counter. “May I help you?”
“You wanted to meet me.” His deep voice was scratchy, as if from disuse, and he kept his head down so I couldn’t see more than his mouth and chin below the brim of his hat.
He had to be the Duke of Blackford’s man. “I do. I’m Georgia Fenchurch. And you are?”
“Sumner.” He took off his hat and held it in front of him by one hand so I couldn’t see his face. Then he held out the other hand, which I shook. My grip let me feel the well-made leather gloves that fit him like a second skin. His gloves and boots wouldn’t have looked out of place on the duke, but his clothes were the same as my neighbor the greengrocer wore. No one would give him a second look in our neighborhood, unless they were examining him closely the way I was.
“May I see your face?”
“Rather you didn’t.”
“And I’d rather I could recognize you from my foes if the need arises.”
Emma came out from the office and walked toward the man. As she did, he began to back up toward the door.
I held out a hand to delay him. “This is Emma Keyes, my assistant and a fellow Archivist Society member. You have nothing to fear from her.” The words slid from my mouth like they would if he were a skittish child.
“She might fear me.”
He lowered his hat then, and I’m ashamed to say I took a step back. One side of his face was normal, perhaps handsome, but the other was grotesquely scarred from his dented cheekbone to his puckered jaw. He’d kept his eye by sheer luck or the grace of providence. I wondered if his voice had been made raspy in the same battle.
Emma stepped forward, holding out her hand to the disfigured man. “I have no reason to fear you. But why would Georgia need to recognize you from her foes?”
“The Duke of Blackford hired me to guard Miss Fenchurch when she goes out at night.”
Emma turned to me then. “Why would the Duke of Blackford hire someone to guard you at night?”
Blast. I hadn’t planned to worry her or Phyllida. “There was an incident after I left Lady Westover’s the other night. The duke witnessed the event and came to my rescue.”
Her hands went to her waist and she tapped her foot. “When were you planning to tell me?”
When I finished crying over the ruin of my evening gown and all it represented. Happiness with the man I loved and all our dreams of our life together. I refused to admit my reasons in front of a man employed by the Duke of Blackford. “When I figured out which of the lords sent a pair of thugs to attack me.”
“Or abduct you, like Mr. Drake was abducted. Georgia, think. This case may be too dangerous to undertake.”
“Not with Mr. Sumner’s help.” I smiled at him, but I was still wary. “Did His Grace send you with something so I would know he truly sent you?”
Sumner grimaced, or perhaps he smiled. His face was so damaged I couldn’t tell one from the other. He reached into an inner coat pocket and produced a note on the duke’s letterhead.
This man, John Sumner, is in my employ and going about my business.
It was signed Gordon Ranleigh, Duke of Blackford.
I handed the letter back to him and he slipped it back into his inside pocket. “I don’t plan to go out tonight, so I’m afraid you won’t have anything to do. With this investigation, I doubt I’ll have to go out at night. Thank you for coming by, but there’s nothing for you to do here.”
He turned to my assistant. “Are you going out tonight, Miss Keyes?”
She favored him with one of her most charming smiles. “No. I’ll be at home all night.”
He stared at her with adoration for a moment before turning back to me. “His Grace told me to give you this. He expects both of you to attend.”
In his hand were engraved invitations to a masked ball to be held in several days. Not just any masked ball, but the crush the Duke and Duchess of Arlington held every year. All of society would be there, but in costumes and wearing masks, it would be difficult to tell one from another. Under the circumstances, no one would know we were interlopers.
“It appears we’ll have to go out one night with this investigation. I hope the duke will employ you that evening. Did he tell you why he wants both of us to attend?”
“No.”
“Did he suggest what costumes we’re to wear?”
“You’re to tell him when you know.”
“What will His Grace wear?”
“Don’t know. But he doesn’t want your costumes to match his.”
Presumably so no one would associate him with us. “Have you worked for the duke for long?”
“No.”
Sumner mustn’t like to talk. So far his answers had been short and barely informative. “So you don’t know if the duke attends this ball every year.”
“He told me he doesn’t. Too many silly people doing silly things.” His gravelly voice finally had enough expression to tell me he agreed with his employer. But when would Sumner have attended a ball? His wounded face would make him as ineligible as someone of my class if I weren’t going to the dance at the order of a duke to find a missing man.
“If I were a duke, I’d want everyone to know who I am, costume ball or not,” Emma said with all the assurance her twenty years gave her.
At thirty, I had some sympathy for the duke’s position. “It must be tiresome to have everyone know who you are every moment of your life, scrutinizing your every move. In our work, we prize anonymity.”
“Yes, but I’m not a duchess. If I were, I’d want to be the center of attention,” Emma insisted. “I’d be proud of my works.”
I turned to ask Mr. Sumner his opinion, but he was gazing at Emma and his rapturous thoughts were written in his eyes. Emma had won herself another devoted slave.
The bell over the shop door rang and fellow Archivist Society member Frances Atterby walked in muffled in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves so that only her eyes were visible. She huffed and puffed as she began to remove layers. “What a ghastly night. Such a cold breeze. At least it seems to be breaking up the fog. Thank you, Georgia,” she added as I took her scarf and gloves from her.