Josephine
The following afternoon was Wednesday, the day the servants had free. Josephine found herself alone in the house with Sally, who quickly disappeared to her room to read her new Anne Mallory novel.
Anne had gone out with Felix a half-hour before. Hero had left soon thereafter, saying that he intended to search the rooms where Parker had lived. Josephine knew he had expected her to insist upon accompanying him, but when he had informed her of his plan, she had merely nodded absently and wished him luck finding the three red gems.
At two-thirty, she put on her bonnet and gloves and set out for a walk.
It was a warm, sunny day. When she arrived at her destination she found Lucy Colyer and Charlotte Atwater waiting for her in the perpetual funereal gloom of Mrs Blancheflower’s parlour.
“There you are, Josephine.” Lucy reached for the teapot. “We are anxious to hear your news.”
“I think you will find it very interesting.” Josephine sat down on the sofa and surveyed her two friends. “I apologize for the short notice.”
“Do not worry about that,” Charlotte said. “In your note, you claimed that there was a matter of great import that we had to discuss immediately.”
“Good heavens, it happened, didn’t it?” Lucy’s eyes lit with horrified expectation. “Just as I predicted. Your new employer took advantage of you. My poor, poor, Josephine. I did warn you.
Josephine thought about what Hero had done to her last night and the incredible sensations she had endured as a result. She suddenly felt quite warm.
“Calm yourself, Lucy,” she said and took a sip of tea. “I assure you Fiennes Tiffin has not perpetrated any grievous insult upon my person.”
“Oh.” Lucy’s face fell in acute disappointment, but she managed a weak smile. “I’m so relieved to hear that.”
Josephine put the cup down on the saucer. “I'm afraid that I cannot regale either of you with thrilling tales of my employer’s lechery, but I think that you will find what I have to say even more exciting. It should certainly prove to be a great deal more profitable.”
Hero
Hero stood in the centre of the small room that Parker had used as a parlour. There was something very wrong with this place.
When Lady Wilmington had given him the key an hour before, she had assured him that he would find Parker’s lodgings in the same condition that they had been in the day before, when he had been taken away to the asylum. She had made it clear that she had not yet had time to remove any of her grandson’s possessions or furnishings.
Hero had gone through each of the rooms with methodical precision. He had not found the red stones, but that was not what was making him uneasy. What bothered him was the appearance of these rooms.
On the surface, everything seemed entirely appropriate and unremarkable. The furnishings in the bedchamber, sitting room and kitchen were precisely what one would expect to see in lodgings that had been used by a fashionable young gentleman. The bookcase contained the works of the most popular poets and an assortment of the classics. The clothes in the wardrobe were in the latest style.
There was nothing unusual or out of the ordinary, Hero noted. And that was what was wrong. Because Parker was a most unusual and extraordinary villain.
Josephine
Josephine was amused by Lucy’s and Charlotte’s reaction to what she had just said. They stared at her in appalled astonishment.
“In short,” she concluded, “the gentlemen in the clubs have all concluded that Fiennes Tiffin has played a great joke upon Society. They believe that he hired me to serve as an extremely convenient mistress.”
“They have concluded that you are his mistress posing as his fiancée. And that he has arranged to have you live right under his roof so as to have you conveniently at hand. How utterly outrageous,” Lucy exclaimed.
Charlotte gave her a quelling frown. “Do try to remember that Josephine is not actually Tiffin’s mistress, Lucy. That is merely the rumour that is going around the clubs.”
“Yes, of course,” Lucy said hastily. She gave Josephine an apologetic if somewhat regretful grin. “Do go on.”
“As I was saying,” Josephine continued, “the wagers all involve the date that Tiffin will end his little charade and dismiss me.” She paused a beat to make certain she had their full attention. “I see no reason why we should not take advantage of this situation, to place our own bets.”
Comprehension appeared first in their eyes. It was followed almost at once by the first glimmers of wonder and hope.
“It would be a certainty,” Charlotte whispered, awed by the possibilities. “If Josephine could persuade Fiennes Tiffin to end their association on a specific day—”
“I do not think there will be any problem there,” Josephine assured them. “I believe that Fiennes Tiffin will cooperate on the matter of the exact date.”
“And we would be the only ones who knew that date,” Lucy breathed. “Why, we might each win a fortune.”
“It would be tempting to wager several thousand pounds,” Josephine said, “but I do not think that would be wise. A vast sum might make people suspicious. We do not want anyone questioning our bets.”
“How much, then?” Lucy demanded.
Josephine hesitated, thinking. “l expect that we could safely wager a total of seven or eight hundred pounds. I should think any amount under a thousand would be small enough to go unnoticed in the betting books. We will split the winnings three ways.”
“Certainly sounds like a fortune to me,” Lucy declared, entranced. She glanced meaningfully up at the ceiling. “It is a good deal more than I expect to see from Mrs. Blancheflower in her will, and I probably stand a greater chance of collecting it. I am starting to think my employer may outlive me.”
“But how would we arrange to place the bet?” Charlotte asked. “No lady can walk into one of those clubs in St. James and put a wager in the book.”
“I have considered the problem closely,” Josephine said, “and I believe that I have a plan that will work.”
“This is so exciting,” Charlotte said.
“I think the venture deserves to be celebrated with more than a cup of tea,” Lucy announced.
She rose from the sofa, opened a cupboard and took down a dusty decanter of sherry.
“One moment,” Charlotte said, some of her enthusiasm evaporating. “What happens if we lose the wager? We could not possibly cover our bets.”
“For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, use your head.” Lucy removed the cut glass top of the sherry decanter. “The only way we could lose is if Fiennes Tiffin were to actually marry Jo. Now, how likely do you think that is?”
Charlotte’s face cleared instantly. “Likely? It is inconceivable that a gentleman of his wealth and position would marry a paid companion. I don’t know what got into me to even suggest that we might lose.”
“Quite right,” Josephine said. With an effort of sheer will, she forced back the tears that threatened to fall. She managed a bright smile and raised her sherry glass. “To our wager, ladies.”
***
Half an hour later she set off for the mansion on Rain Street with a feeling that she was walking toward her own doom. It was all very well to drink to a rosy future free of financial worries and filled with the challenge of running her little bookshop, she thought. And no doubt someday, when her tears had dried, she would be able to enjoy the life she planned to create for herself. But first, she would have to deal with the pain of parting from Hero.
She emerged from the park and walked slowly along the street that would take her home. No, not home. This street leads back to your place of temporary employment. You do not have a home. But you will have one eventually. You are going to create it for yourself.
At the front door of the big house, she remembered that most of the staff was away for the day. She possessed a key and was perfectly capable of opening the door.
She let herself into the hall and removed her pelisse, gloves and bonnet.
What she needed was a cup of tea, she decided. She walked along the hall that led to the back of the house and went down the stone steps into the kitchens. She glanced at the door of the room through which she had overheard Zach extorting money from poor Sally. Only two days later the butler was dead.
She shuddered at the memory and moved on down the hall. The door to Sally’s chamber was open. She glanced inside, expecting to see the maid curled up with her novel.
The room was empty. Perhaps Sally had decided to go out for the day after all.
In the large kitchen, she prepared herself a tray and carried it upstairs into the library. There she poured herself some tea and went to stand at the window.
The house had been transformed in recent days. The task was not yet complete, but it was already a vastly different place than it had been on the day she had arrived. In spite of her sad mood, she took quiet satisfaction in what had been accomplished thus far.
The floors and woodwork gleamed from recent polishing. Rooms that had long been closed had been opened up and cleaned. Covers had been removed from the furnishings. The windows and once dark mirrors now sparkled on the walls, drawing the sunlight into spaces that had long been filled with gloom. On her instructions, the heavy drapes throughout the mansion had been tied back. There was hardly a speck of dust to be found anywhere.
The gardens were starting to look much more inviting, too, she noticed. She was pleased with the progress that had been made. The gravel paths were all neatly raked. The overgrowth was being methodically trimmed. Fresh planting beds were being repaired. The work on the fountain had begun.
She thought of how beautiful the view from the library would be in another couple of months. The flowers would be in full bloom. The herbs would be ready for the kitchens. The waters of the fountain would sparkle in the sunshine.
She wondered if Hero would think of her from time to time when he looked out this window.
She finished her tea and was about to turn away when she noticed the man in sturdy work clothes and a leather apron crouched over a flowerbed. She thought about the replacement tiles for the fountain. It would not harm to have a word with the gardener to make certain that the order had been placed.
Hurrying from the library, she let herself out into the garden.
“A moment, please,” she called as she walked swiftly toward the gardener. “I would like to have a word with you.”
The gardener grunted, but he did not lookup. He continued pulling weeds.
“Do you know whether or not the order for the fountain tiles was placed?” she asked, coming to a halt beside him.
The man grunted again.
She bent down slightly, watching as he yanked out another straggly green weed. “Did you hear me?”
Her heart almost stopped. His hands. The gardener wore no gloves. She could see his long, graceful fingers. A gold signet ring glinted on his left hand. She remembered the feel of that ring beneath the thin glove the killer had worn the night he had invited her to waltz with him.
She caught a trace of his unpleasant scent and straightened quickly. Her pulse was beating so frantically now that she wondered if he might hear it. She stepped back and clasped her hands together to still the fine tremors. She glanced quickly at the door at the back of the house. It seemed a million miles away.
The gardener rose to his feet and turned toward her.
Her first crazed thought was that he seemed far too handsome to be a ruthless killer. And then she saw his eyes and knew there was no doubt about his identity.
“I personally selected a sample of the tiles that I wish installed on the fountain,” she said crisply. She took another step back and gave him a thin, shiny smile. “We don’t want any mistakes, do we?”
The gardener produced a pistol from behind the leather apron and aimed it at her heart.
“No, Miss Langford,” he said. “We most certainly do not want any mistakes. You have caused me quite enough trouble as it is.”
Suddenly she remembered that Sally had not been in her room. Fear and a great fury raged through her.
“What have you done with the maid?” she asked tightly.
“She is quite safe.” He motioned toward the shed with the pistol. “See for yourself.”
Josephine crossed the short distance to the gardening shed, scarcely able to breathe through her terror, and opened the door.
Sally was inside on the floor, bound and gagged but evidently unharmed. Her eyes widened with desperation and panic when she saw Josephine. A sealed letter lay on the boards beside her.
“Your maid will stay alive so long as you cooperate with me,” Miss Langford,” Parker said casually. “But if you give me any difficulty whatsoever, I shall cut her throat before your very eyes.”
“Are you mad, sir?” Josephine asked without stopping to consider her words.
The question seemed to amuse him. “My grandmother seems to think so. She had me carried off to an asylum yesterday. And here I thought she doted on me. It is a sad day when one cannot even rely upon one’s relatives, isn’t it?”
“She was trying to save you.”
He shrugged. “Whatever her intentions, I was able to escape within a matter of hours. Why I was back here in London in time to proceed with my plans last night.”
“That was you I saw at the ball.”
He gave her a mocking bow. “It was indeed. You do have a very attractive neck, Miss Langford. ”
She would not let him unnerve her with such intimate talk, she vowed. “Why did you want Hero to believe that Roland Burnley was the killer?”
“So that the earl would relax his vigilance, of course. I felt it would be easier to snatch you and, later, him, if he let down his guard for a time.” He chuckled. “Besides, I rather enjoyed playing games with his lordship. Fiennes Tiffin prides himself on his logical mind, but his powers of reason are nothing compared to my own.”
“What is this all about?” Josephine asked in her most authoritative tone. Perhaps if she stalled for the time someone would return to the house, see her out here in the garden, and come out to investigate.
“All your questions will be answered eventually, Miss Langford. But first things first. Allow me to introduce myself.” Parker inclined his head in a graceful little bow, but the pistol in his hand never wavered. “You have the great honour of meeting England’s second Newton.”