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“The Pirate, by the Wizard of the North,” Lady Annica said.
“It would be a good idea for you to read the book, too, dear,” Grace Hawthorne said. “In the event someone should ask. I have an extra copy if you’d like.”
Georgiana nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
“Grace,” the woman corrected. “I shall have a footman deliver it to your home.”
A handsome woman with the bearing of a queen entered through a side door and clapped her hands. “Ah! We are in pursuit, eh? Well, come. ‘Oo is my client?”
Sarah nudged Georgiana toward the dressmaker’s platform. “Madame Marie, this is Mrs. Georgiana Huffington.”
The dressmaker circled Georgiana, her gaze sweeping up and down, assessing her figure. “Ah, yes. I know just the style for you, petite. And the correct color for you is violet. Any violet, but especially deep violet. Please say you never wear yellow.”
“Never again.” Georgiana vowed to go home and cull anything yellow from her wardrobe as she undressed to her corset and chemise.
Marie nodded and began taking Georgiana’s measurements with knotted string behind a short dressing screen. Barely a moment later, a pleasant-looking man entered the room and was introduced as Madame Marie’s husband, Mr. Francis Renquist. Gina explained that he had been a Bow Street Runner and was the group’s chief investigator. He’d been briefly informed of her dilemma.
He nodded acknowledgment to Georgiana and then chivalrously avoided looking at her. “I have a few questions before I can begin, Mrs. Huffington.”
“Ask anything, sir.”
He took a small pad of paper and a lead pencil from his waistcoat pocket and prepared to take notes. “Do you know of anyone, no matter how far-fetched, who might have any reason to kill your husbands?”
“None,” she answered quietly as Madame Marie continued to knot her string. “That is why these events are so bewildering.”
“Do you have any former suitors who might bear a grudge?”
“No. Between marriages and mourning, I have not been much in society.”
“Could it be possible that either of your husbands had enemies? Former lovers, mistresses, or rivals?”
“I … I do not believe so, sir, but I was not married to them long enough to become familiar with their personal affairs.”
“Had any of them been affianced before you?”
“I do not think so.”
“And you, Mrs. Huffington? Are there any men you jilted or who paid you court and who could be angry? Narrowing the field, so to speak, to have a second chance at you?”
Charles Hunter swept briefly though her mind, but he had snubbed her, not the other way around. She arched her eyebrow at the man. “I think I’d recall such a thing.”
He allowed a small smile to quirk the corners of his mouth. “Aye, you probably would. Well, then, shall we look at the money? Who, apart from you, stood to profit from your husbands’ deaths?”
“No one, I thought. My first husband made settlements for that possibility in the marriage contract, but I did not inherit the bulk of his wealth. Certainly not enough to murder for. And Mr. Huffington did not have any close relatives, though he did have a cousin twice removed who has made claims against his estate. He says that he was Mr. Huffington’s heir, but he did not come for the funeral or send condolences. Neither has he called in the year and a half since. Mr. Huffington’s friends, though, were all quite considerate.” A few had even offered to “ease her loneliness,” but none had paid her serious suit.
“Aside from that, I have just learned that my aunt’s second cousins have filed for conservatorship over me on the grounds that I am unstable due to the deaths of my husbands. I think they are simply making a grab for Aunt Caroline’s estate.”
Mr. Renquist frowned and his pencil flew across his paper as he made notes. Several of the ladies raised their eyebrows at her announcement and she knew they were wondering how she would handle such an occurance.
Madame Marie took a few more measurements and stood back with her hands on her hips.
“A lovely figure, Mrs. ‘Uffington. I believe we shall try the new lower waistline. Bien entendu! I will begin at once,” she said, bustling from the dressing room.
Georgiana turned to Lady Sarah. “Do I not have to choose a style from her books?”
Lady Sarah merely smiled. “Trust her, Georgiana. She will delight you.”
Finished with his notes, Mr. Renquist took a deep breath and continued. “That brings us to you, Mrs. Huffington. Is there anyone in your past who might have a reason to kill your husbands?”
She was prepared for that question since she’d asked it of herself many times. It was that very question that had sent her straight to Gina and the Wednesday League book club. “I have no relatives, which is the reason Aunt Caroline raised me. Though I called her ‘aunt’ we were not blood kin. She had no brothers or sisters, just her second cousins. The entailed lands reverted to the crown upon her father’s death, and the rest were solely hers. I shall learn her wishes for the final disposition of her estate once I have read her will. But she led me to believe that no one else had a right to make a claim on her estate.”
Mr. Renquist looked pained. Clearly, he would rather have someone to point a finger at than have her as the only logical killer. “I am bound to say, Mrs. Huffington, that it looks bad for you. Still, if there is something afoot, we shall uncover it. Are you willing to do your part?”
“Whatever you think reasonable.”
“Go about in society. Make note if anything odd occurs, or if anyone suspicious lurks near you. Should there be something out of the ordinary, or anything too similar to the circumstances leading to your previous marriages, come to me at once.”
She nodded. A quick glance at the other ladies reassured her that this was not an unusual request.
Mr. Renquist continued, “I will meet you here at your fittings. If you wish to see me sooner, send word to Marie and she will arrange it.” He gave a short bow and was gone.
Bemused, Georgiana stared at the closed door as she edged from behind the screen. I am bound to say, Mrs. Huffington, that it looks bad for you.
As Lord Wycliffe and Charles entered their box at the Theatre Royal, Wycliffe inclined his head to the ladies in the box across from them and Charles lifted one sardonic eyebrow. Perhaps it was the threads of distinguished gray at Wycliffe’s temples, or the fact that he was unmarried, considered good looking, and possessed of a title and position—whatever it was, Wycliffe did not lack for female attention and did not hesitate to reciprocate.
As if reading Charles’s mind, Wycliffe turned to him and smiled. “I say, Hunter! I always get more attention from the ladies when I’m in your company.”
“’Tis true,” Sir Harry Richardson said with a wide grin and a slap on Charles’s back. “Why, even the demireps love our Charlie.”
“Ah, there’s our pigeon,” Wycliffe said, inclining his head toward a box to their left.
Charles followed his line of vision and saw Hortense and Harriett Thayer, along with Mrs. Huffington, entertaining a number of men in their box. His brother James was there, too, accompanied by his bride, Gina—the perfect excuse to pay his respects.
“Do you really think that divine creature is capable of cold-blooded murder?” Richardson asked Wycliffe.
“Capable? Yes. From what I’ve heard, she is more than capable of anything she should choose to do. Morally inclined? That is another question entirely, and the one we must answer to the Secretary’s satisfaction.”
Charles cocked an eyebrow. “Is that possible?”
Wycliffe laughed. “Peel is a reasonable man, for all his innovative ideas about reform and establishing a metropolitan police force.”
He gave a sigh, knowing now that they’d be answering to the Home Secretary himself for all that the investigation was “unofficial.” Suddenly the case had taken on a more ominous tone. More urgent.
“What do your instincts tell you about the woman?” Richardson asked.
“I hardly know. We have not talked at length, but she is a congenial sort. Quite pleasant to look at, and she possesses an infectious laugh. She expressed an interest in travel.”
“She is not—”
“No, she has no immediate plans to leave the country. She mentioned that she has business to attend, then will consider it. We have another fortnight to find our answers, at a minimum.”
Wycliffe frowned. “Who is her solicitor?”
Charles had had enough time in the past two days to discover a good many facts about the infamous widow. “Goodman is her solicitor.”
“If we need to delay her in London, I will persuade him to hold up Mrs. Huffington’s business matters.”
Wycliffe could be very persuasive and Charles hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. His superior could have a very heavy hand on occasion.
Richardson nudged him with another glance at the ladies as the orchestra signaled an intermission. “Are you going to introduce us?”
Still watching Mrs. Huffington, Charles considered the question. She was airy tonight, dressed in a heavenly froth of willow green with a fluid overdress of translucent cream. Even from this distance, he could see the graceful column of her throat, the lush curve of her breasts and the sensual way her lips curved into a smile when she saw him across the distance.
To his dismay, he suddenly realized that he wanted her. Despite her rejection. Despite the intervening years and marriages. Despite that she could be a cold-blooded killer and may have contracted the murder of his best friend and his wounding, he still wanted her.
That thought disturbed him. She was an assignment. No more. She was a potentially murderous female who’d gotten away with two crimes, perhaps four if her aunt’s death had not been natural and Booth had been one of her casualties. She was intelligent, clever and forthright—a lethal combination in a woman. And because of those things, she could easily have stymied the authorities. However he dealt with her, he would have to keep on his guard.
He noted the eager light in Richardson’s eyes and the interested spark in Wycliffe’s expression and sighed. “Come on, then.”
Within moments, the introductions were performed and several conversations were struck up, leaving Charles free to watch. Hortense and Harriett quickly snagged Harry Richardson’s attention, and after a few quiet words with Mrs. Huffington, Wycliffe turned to greet Jamie and Gina. Seizing the opening Wycliffe had given him, Charles nodded to the widow as she raised her fan and snapped it open.
“You look flushed, Mrs. Huffington. Are you feeling well?”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Hunter. Just a bit warm.”
“I believe there is time for a breath of fresh air, if you’d like.”
“Thank you. That should be just the tonic I need.” She retrieved a cream cashmere shawl from the back of her chair and took his arm.
Charles was pleased to find that none of the others followed them. A few moments alone with Mrs. Huffington would seal their friendship and relax her suspicions. He couldn’t help noticing the heads that turned to watch them descend the double staircase to the rotunda and exit the building. Tongues would wag, he was certain, but gossip would work to his advantage, discouraging other potential suitors by signaling his own interest.
Once they were on the street, he draped the shawl over her shoulders against the cool night air and turned her toward the square. Covent Garden, alive with excitement until the wee hours, always had something interesting to offer.
“I never grow bored in London,” Mrs. Huffington said as if reading his mind.
“And yet you’ve spent most your life shut away in the countryside.”
She laughed and looked up at him, stopping his breath with her beauty. “Aunt Caroline was not comfortable in London after her accident. I might have made another decision.”
Ah, yes. Her disfigurement. “When did that occur?”
She shrugged and her shawl slipped down one creamy white shoulder. “Aunt Caroline said it happened the year before I was born. She did not like to speak of it, so I did not ask more. And as much as she dreaded London, the dear woman made certain I had my come-out. She so badly wanted to see me happily married that she brought me to town to husband-hunt.”
A task she had excelled at, evidently. “How gratifying you had no problem finding one. Or two. Still, ‘tis a pity she did not live to see you happily married.”
“She did. Twice, remember? It was only after my last fiancé’s tragic death that she lost heart for my future.”
He looked down at her to see if she was serious. They had touched on this subject before, but she had never admitted to having a fiancé. Perhaps he was making progress in gaining her trust. He decided not to pursue that particular subject just now since Booth’s death only angered him. “Did she believe you were happily married?”
“Though I scarcely knew the men, I was quick to assure her that I was more than content with the matches.”
“And were you in actuality?”
“I had no particular objection to them, and Aunt Caroline was so eager for my happiness that I could not disappoint her.”
“Is that why you married so quickly each time?”
“I married because she urged me to. I’d have been perfectly happy to wait for …”
“Wait for what, Mrs. Huffington?”
She sighed and shook her head. “For her death, sir. I would rather have stayed with her and eased her old age, just as she eased my childhood.”
“Is that why you returned to Kent after each of your husbands’ deaths?”
“Yes, and there was nowhere else to go. I could have stayed at Mr. Huffington’s estate, but I was quite alone and did not know anyone in Yorkshire. Aunt Caroline sent for me, and I was happy to go.”
“I must say that I find your equanimity refreshing,” he said. “Most women go on about marrying for love, and yet you managed to find contentment, brief though it was, with two men. And a fiancé?”
She laughed at his assessment. “I was not married long enough to be disappointed, Mr. Hunter. As for love …” She shrugged. “Perhaps that requires a certain fierceness of character that I do not possess. In regard to my … equanimity, I have a practical nature. And practicality tells me that marriages are seldom made for love. They are made for gain, position, consolidation, convenience or simply to produce an heir.”
“So you’ve never loved deeply?”
“Certainly I have. Lady Caroline. My darling spaniel. The memory of my mother and father.”
“But not a man?”
“Once I thought …” There was a long pause before she stopped and looked up at him. “No. Not a man.”
The moment stretched out as Charles wondered what it would be like to be loved by such a woman. If she loved, would she love fiercely?
“Flowers fer the missus?”
He turned to find a young girl staring up at him. She had a small wooden box filled with posies slung around her neck and was holding one made of violets and lily of the valley. Innocent, yet provocative, like Mrs. Huffington. He took a sixpence from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it to the child. She snatched it out of midair and gave him the posy before dashing off down a side street, not even offering change.
Basking in her brilliant smile and with a small bow, he presented the flowers to Mrs. Huffington.
She accepted them and lifted them to sample their fragrance. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. You are the first to ever give me flowers.”
A muzzle flashed. Instinctively, he pulled Mrs. Huffington into his arms before he dove for the ground. The deafening report of a pistol shattered the night as the bullet whistled past his left ear, and fury filled him.
Bloody hell! The flower girl had been sent to distract him.
Chapter Four
A shrill scream split the air in the echo of the gunshot even as the sound of running feet increased. Help arriving? Or pedestrians escaping the chaos?
Georgiana felt the reassuring weight of Charles Hunter across her, and the rise and fall of his chest against hers, and sighed with relief. He was breathing. He was alive. Thank God.
