She looked suspiciously at the boy, who was anxious to get away. “Why is the writing different this time?”
His tongue again passed over his lower lips, and he only very reluctantly met her gaze. “Well, it’s like this. The first one got spoiled and wet, and the gaffer had to write it out again. That’s all.”
There was nothing more she could say. She gave him a coin and watched as he almost ran from the building. Then she glanced again at the note. Certainly the spoiling of the original would explain the writing, but she still felt oddly uneasy about the change of signature. She breathed the fragrance of the rose. How beautiful it was, and how subdued the perfume of a single bloom after the lavishness of all those baskets. She couldn’t help thinking of how Rupert had been when he had kissed her and begged her to believe in his love. A single rose was so much more expressive and believable than an extravagant, gaudy multitude….
Shortly afterward, she went up to see Stella again, and she did so wondering what her reception would be this time, for after her walk earlier she had been greeted with decided coolness. Nadia Benckendorff had had something to do with the change in Stella, but what she had said or done was a mystery, for Stella refused to talk about it.
Entering the bedroom, Leonie took the rose to place it with all the others, then turned to look at the girl, only to find her cold, rather reproachful eyes already upon her. Leonie smiled. “How are you feeling now?”
“Much better. Thank you.”
The tone was as distant as before. “Have I said or done anything to offend you, Stella?”
“No.”
“There must be something—”
“There’s nothing at all, Miss Conyngham.”
Leonie stared at her. Miss Conyngham? She’d been “Leonie” practically from the beginning, and yet now, without warning or reason, she was being rejected and their relationship placed on a much more formal footing. Was she no longer to be regarded as a friend? Was there only room for Nadia Benckendorff?
“Stella, why are you doing this? You’re obviously angry with me about something, but how can I put it right if you won’t tell me what I’ve done?”
“I’m not angry with you at all.” Stella picked up a book and opened it, bringing the conversation to an end.
Leonie went out, pausing in the passageway. Something was going on, her every sense warned her of it, but what could it possibly be? What had Nadia Benckendorff put into the girl’s trusting head?
* * *
A little later that evening, Imogen sat alone in the great drawing room of Longhurst House, and she was both bored and angry. She had wanted Guy to escort her to the theater, but he had had a prior dinner engagement with Harry Fitzjohn and had declined to break it, even though she had pleaded with him. That had rankled, and things had rankled still more when she realized that she would have to spend the evening entirely alone. Edward was out on some undisclosed deviousness connected with his secret wager with Rupert, there were no forgotten invitations which she could use at the last moment, and now her footman had returned from Harley Street to tell her that Nadia was not at home and would not, therefore, be able to dine with her. It really was too bad! She vented her frustration upon the unfortunate cream muslin gown she was embroidering, jabbing the needle in and out as if it had mortally offended her.
The double doors opened and a footman came in. “Miss Benckendorff has called, my lady.”
She looked up in surprise. “Show her in immediately.”
“My lady.”
A moment later Nadia swept in, her white silk gown whispering and her long feather boa dragging over the polished floor behind her. Her golden hair was swept up beneath a gold brocade turban, and Dorothea’s rubies glittered at her throat. “Imogen,
darling
,” she cried. “I’m so glad to find you at home. I was afraid you would be out with Guy.”
“I would have been had he not decided to place Harry Fitzjohn first.” Imogen was disgruntled to see how beautiful Nadia was again.
“Harry Fitzjohn?”
“They’re dining together.”
“Oh.” Nadia’s smile faded a little. “At Guy’s house?”
“No, at Harry’s club, wherever that is. I was too annoyed with Guy to inquire. Oh, do sit down, Nadia, you make me feel quite uneasy standing there like that. Besides, you’re in the light and I can’t see what I’m doing.”
Nadia obeyed, but as she settled back and automatically arranged her skirts, her mind was racing. Guy wasn’t at home tonight? Would that make any difference to the plan? What if he hadn’t returned by the time Edward’s message arrived summoning him to the seminary?
Imogen went on embroidering for a moment, but then looked curiously at Nadia. “Is something wrong? You seem very preoccupied.”
“Wrong? No, nothing at all. Oh, it
is
good to find you at home, for I was sitting all alone at the embassy wondering what on earth I could do with myself this evening.”
Imogen was taken aback. “You were at the embassy?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because I sent a footman around earlier to invite you to dine, but he returned to say that you were out.”
Nadia gave a light laugh. “Yes, I was. I had something important to attend to. I must have returned after your fellow had left. Anyway, all’s well that ends well, and I’m here now.”
“True.” Imogen’s needle flashed in and out several times more. “I’m surprised that you are at the proverbial loose end as well tonight. Where’s Rupert?”
“He is also dining, with his mother and that ridiculous St. Julienne creature.”
“He’s taking to extremes his willingness to be the dutiful and obliging son, isn’t he? That must be the fourth time this week he’s dined at home like that.”
Nadia breathed in a little irritatedly. “I suppose it is,” she replied shortly, “but it isn’t the Jamaican who concerns me, it’s Leonie Conyngham. You should be concerned about her too, Imogen.”
“Guy isn’t interested in her.”
“You’re a fool if you believe that.”
Imogen bridled a little. “There’s no need to speak to me like that—”
“There’s every need, Imogen.” Nadia hesitated. “There’s a great deal you don’t know about what’s happening tonight.”
“What don’t I know?”
Nadia smiled. “If it all goes to plan, by this time tomorrow we will both be rid of Leonie Conyngham, once and for all….”
* * *
It was nearly nine o’clock and Stella was lying in bed, the bedclothes pulled right up to her chin as she feigned sleep. Leonie was sitting by the fire, reading. She hadn’t been able to reach past the barrier which Stella had placed between them, and she was no nearer finding out what it was all about. She felt very disturbed and uneasy, and that was why she was remaining in the bedroom rather than going down to the kitchens to give Katy and Joseph their usual lesson. She glanced at the clock, wondering if Rupert would indeed be outside at nine, and even as the thought crossed her mind, she heard the sound of a carriage approaching. It came to a halt before the seminary.
Leonie put her book down and went to the window, wiping away the mist to look down. Only the horses were in the light from the streetlamp; the carriage itself was in darkness. She hesitated. Was it so very much to ask that she allow him to speak to her? She glanced back at Stella, who was still sleeping soundly in the bed, then on impulse she took her mantle from the wardrobe and hurried out. The moment the door closed behind her, Stella flung back the bedclothes. She was fully dressed.
She hurried to the window, gazing down at the carriage. She saw Leonie emerge slowly from the front door and then pause, as if undecided. She also saw Edward Longhurst lean out of the carriage window away from Leonie, bending down to hand a piece of paper to a small boy waiting there. The boy ran away in the darkness, toward Curzon Street. Stella didn’t wait to see any more; she ran from the room, tears in her eyes. She had trusted Leonie, believing her to be perfect in every way, but she wasn’t, she wasn’t!
Leonie still hesitated on the doorstep. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t think what it was. Then suddenly she realized: the carriage was Edward Longhurst’s; she’d seen it from the window the night of the theater! As she stared, she saw him look cautiously out, wondering why she wasn’t coming any nearer. It was a trap! With a gasp, she turned back into the seminary, closing the door behind her and pushing the bolts across. She was just in time to see Stella’s cloaked figure hurrying stealthily from the foot of the stairs toward the school wing.
In the carriage, Edward cursed beneath his breath. Somehow she’d sensed it was a trap. Damn her to hell and back! For a moment he was undecided what to do. He’d been so confident of success, overconfident it seemed, for he’d already sent his message to Guy. It was too late to retrieve it now. He leaned his head back against the soft upholstery, his lips pressed together in a thin line, his blue eyes cold and angry. Then he leaned from the window and ordered the coachman to drive home to Longhurst House.
As he passed South Audley Street, he glanced out and saw another carriage waiting close to the alley leading from the seminary garden. It would wait in vain now, for Stella de Lacey would not be coming.
* * *
Stella had left the seminary the same way this time that she had done before, through the French windows in the dining room, and out into the snow-covered gardens. Her footprints were easy to follow, and Leonie hurried anxiously after them.
She emerged from the alley just in time to see Stella climbing into a waiting carriage. It drew quickly away in the direction of Curzon Street, and Leonie ran desperately after it, calling Stella’s name. She was out of breath when she reached the corner. The carriage was passing Longhurst House, and she saw that Edward Longhurst was at that very moment alighting from his own carriage. In that fraction of a second she saw how sharply he turned to stare after the passing vehicle. He knew who was in it! Stella’s flight was all part of the same trickery!
At that moment a hackney coach drove slowly along, and without hesitation Leonie stepped in its path to wave it to a halt. With a curse, the hackneyman reined his horse in. She ran to speak to him. “Are you for hire?”
“I was just going home—”
“I’ll pay you well. I must follow that coach.” She pointed after the vanishing vehicle, which was turning out of Curzon Street and was now driving south toward Piccadilly. Soon it would be impossible to find it.
The hackneyman gaped after it. “Follow that? With old Jupiter here? You must be jesting, miss.”
“I’m not jesting, it’s very important. Please help me.”
He took a deep, resigned breath. “All right, I’ll do my best.”
She climbed quickly inside, and the old vehicle moved off as fast as its ancient horse could pull it. In her anxiety about Stella, Leonie had for the moment forgotten Edward Longhurst. She didn’t know that he had seen her hail the hackney.
The other carriage drove east through the crush of Piccadilly, and from time to time the hackneyman lost sight of it, but he always managed somehow to find it again. Farther and farther toward the old city of London they went, and gradually the more nimble hackney closed the gap between the two vehicles, maneuvering in and out until it was almost directly behind.
They drove along the Haymarket and into the Strand. Soon Ludgate Hill and St. Paul’s Cathedral lay ahead. Leonie gazed out with mounting concern. Where on earth was Stella being taken? And who was taking her?
At last the other carriage turned from the busier streets, driving south into a narrow lane near Queenhithe. The lane led toward the river, and there were now warehouses on either side, towering above the hackney as Leonie looked anxiously out. Then she saw a notice fixed to a wall, advising that the ice was safe to cross. At last she realized where Stella was going: the frost fair.
The carriage carrying the girl at last came to a standstill, for the lane led between two warehouses and was too narrow for such a large vehicle to pass. The hackney halted a discreet distance away, where the shadows were very dark and it couldn’t easily be seen, and Leonie alighted. The noise of the fair was all around, although it was hidden from view by the crowding buildings. The flickering light of bonfires and torches reached far up into the night sky, and shone brightly through the narrow way where Stella was hurrying away with a man and woman Leonie didn’t recognize. She called out to the girl, but the noise of the fair drowned her voice.
Leonie looked urgently up at the hackneyman. “Please wait for me.”
“Miss, old Jupiter’s in no state to go anywhere for a while yet. I’ll wait, don’t you fret.”
She hurried after Stella then, and as she went between the warehouses, the confined space seemed to amplify the noise from the frozen river, making the mixture of voices and jangling music echo almost deafeningly. At last she emerged onto the wharf. The fair stretched over the uneven ice before her, a breathtaking sight lit by the dancing light of hundreds of torches. The ghostly shapes of icebound barges and ships loomed starkly into the night, and hundreds of people strolled among the many hastily erected booths and tents. Music seemed to come from everywhere, the notes of fiddles, drums, and penny whistles clashing into a single brash, cheerful noise which jarred the night. And all the while there was the laughter and shouting of people making merry.
She gazed in wonder at the incredible scene. There were swingboats, Punch and Judy shows, skittle alleys, a flat area where there was dancing and a little skating, there were wheels of fortune, printing presses, and numerous beer and gin tents, outside which ladies of doubtful virtue brazenly accosted any man who caught their eye. Leonie moved hesitantly to the very edge of the wharf. Where was Stella? She seemed to have vanished into thin air.
Leonie didn’t know how long she’d been searching. She’d looked everywhere; she’d been jostled, pushed, sworn at, and propositioned; and now she was frightened, and becoming increasingly worried about Stella’s safety in this rough, indecorous place. Tired and cold, she paused in the shadow of a barge, gazing helplessly over the milling, noisy crowds. The endless clamor seemed to echo in her aching head, and she felt close to tears.