“Oh, my child, can’t you see? He’s not going to help you, he’s going to use you. Emma’s quite handy with a knife, but we must think about how you will protect yourself.”
*
I WAS MAKING my sixth slow passage around the edge of the winter-blighted park in Portman Square, cursing the tardiness of the anonymous letter writer, when the lady in green with a green parasol decorated with bows approached me at a steady pace. She was matronly, a hat topped with flowers and birds sat on hair liberally streaked with gray, and she was accompanied by a hatchet-faced young woman I took to be her companion or lady’s maid.
There were a few women strolling and plenty of children playing under the watchful eye of their nurses, but I was the only one in the park with a daffodil stuck over my left brow. The scent was already starting to fade from the flower and I knew it would soon droop. I’d set my hat back at a jaunty angle so the bloom could be seen, and as a result, I feared my straw boater would soon slide off my hair or pull a large chunk of my coiffure out of my scalp.
The woman slowed as she approached me. “I like your flower. One of the first harbingers of spring.”
“It cheered me no end.”
She came to a stop, the other woman hovering behind her. The fine fabric of her clothes and her well-fed, buxomly figure alone weren’t enough to tell me she was the wife of a duke. But when I added in her upper-class accent and the patience of her warmly dressed, well-shod companion, the signs said this was a member of the aristocracy. “Do you think spring is finally here?”
“I’ve been noticing buds on all the trees and there are hyacinths in the center of the park.” I wondered how long we’d be discussing the weather before she decided to trust me.
“Please show me. Helen, you may wait for me on that bench.”
We took a few steps into the park, the maid settling onto the bench, before I released the breath I’d been holding. “I’m Miss Georgia Peabody.”
“Mrs. Watkins.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Watkins.” I’d used a false identity. I was surprised she used something I could check as easily as the Merville family name.
“I expect a high level of discretion from associates of Sir Broderick duVene.”
“The Archivist Society prides itself on its silence. Which makes me wonder how you found out about us and our investigation.”
“The Archivist Society has performed a number of services for members of our class. If someone needs something . . . corrected, a few discreet inquiries will get them the name and address of Sir Broderick and the Archivist Society. Blackford told me about your inquiry. I need your silence because this blackmail has to stop without starting gossip.”
“Nicholas Drake is blackmailing you rather than your husband?”
She nodded. “I assume you don’t have children.” She lowered her voice more as we walked through the park. The children running past showed no interest in us as anything but an obstacle.
“No, ma’am.”
“The world believes I have four, but in truth, I have five.”
My surprise slowed my speech and my steps.
She gave me a sharp look. “Come now. You must have met women before who had to hide, ah, an unusual child.”
“Yes. Yes, I have. And I think it must be difficult for the mother to have to hide one child and show off the others.”
She turned soft brown eyes toward me, eyes growing moist as she spoke. “But that child can’t go out in society. He, and his entire family, would be ridiculed.”
I’d seen enough children in London born weak of limb or eye or brain. Sometimes their families kept them in the circle of their lives, teaching them, feeding them, loving them. Others were dumped on orphanages or locked away in madhouses. “Where is this child?”
“In a cottage on our estate, cared for by a childless couple. They’re very good to him. They can give him time we can’t with our busy lives and our trips to London.” She sniffed and looked around her. “We seem to have passed the hyacinths.”
We had. After we turned back, I asked, “How did Drake learn of this child?”
“The boy was near death last year. The woman wrote to me, thinking I should know. I foolishly kept the letter. It disappeared after an event last season.”
“How was the blackmail threat delivered?”
“In person. Here in the park. I let him think I had to raise the money from my housekeeping allowance, but in truth I told the duke. He gave me the money for Drake’s silence, but he blames me for the blackmail, the child, everything.” For a second, I thought she’d dissolve into tears. Blinking furiously, she pulled herself together as she glanced around to see if anyone was paying attention to us.
Everyone was too busy enjoying the day. Noise droned in the background as children shouted, nannies gossiped, and carriages were pulled by neighing, clopping horses. We could have been completely alone.
The duke was a coldhearted fathead for making his wife suffer the separation from her child, even if he was willing to overpay me for a volume for his antiquarian collection. And I was to blame today for her grief, because I had to dive into her pain. “Drake still has the letter?”
She nodded.
“And is still demanding money?”
“Money and invitations.”
That surprised me for a moment, but it made sense. The more places Drake was invited, the more places he could rob. “Has anyone seen him at an event in the past week?”
“Few social events have occurred lately. I haven’t received any demands for money, either.”
“Was the child born ten years ago, when you didn’t come to London for the season?”
“Yes. The duke said I was ill, but I was awaiting the birth of the child. Our other children were grown or nearly so, and the pregnancy was difficult. The doctor told us not to hold out much hope for a successful conclusion. I prayed he was wrong, and we’d be able to show off our little surprise. One look at the baby when he was born, and I knew he could never be part of a duke’s family. How I prayed for him to die.” She looked at me with sad eyes. “That sounds hard, doesn’t it?”
“I can’t judge what it’s like to be married to a duke.” I could, however, judge the duke, and I did.
“The couple who take care of him have been with us for a long time. I regret to say they take better care of him than I would, since they’re simple people and can love him.” She drew a shaky breath. “I visit them when we’re at the estate. He thinks of me as the pretty lady in the big house. The duke has never seen the boy—”
“His son,” I corrected.
She nodded. “His son, David, preferring to call the husband to his estate office if he needs to talk to him.”
I’d spent enough time with her sorrow. “What do you want the Archivist Society to do, Mrs. Watkins, or should I say, Lady Merville?”