The Deceptive Lady Darby (Lost Ladies of London 2)

Dr Taylor knew her identity. Why else would he call her my lady whilst wearing an arrogant grin? During the doctor’s visits to The Talbot Inn, Oliver must have mentioned her.

She sat on the edge of her bed and recalled the conversation she’d had with Dr Taylor. If she followed her own advice, then the strange incidents all came back to Lady Farleigh.

Believing the letters might hold more information, she lifted the board and retrieved them from their hiding place. After wiping away the cobwebs, she sat on the floor, opened the letters one by one and laid them out in front of her.

None of them were dated. None of them were signed.

That in itself posed two questions. How could they be certain Mr Watson sent them? What evidence did Christian have to suspect Mr Watson and his wife were lovers?

Whoever wrote the letters deliberately used vulgar words, sexually explicit language. So much so, her cheeks flamed as she scanned the pages. Dr Taylor had been pretty blunt when he’d suggested marriage. And doctors certainly knew graphic terminology when it came to discussing the anatomy.

Return to bed … lock your door … one never knows when the dreaded fever will strike.

Was the doctor mocking her or warning her?

Was his subtle hint about Reverend Wilmslow’s slip from the wheel of morality a clue?

She turned to the blue notebook.

One notable thing stood out. The writing in the ledger proved vastly different in style to the penmanship shown in the letters. She flicked through the pages of twenty or so names. Bar the odd few the rest were women. Married, unmarried, it didn’t matter. The ink had faded, and the writing was too small, illegible in places. In the back, were pages of addresses, mostly places in London: Holborn, Charing Cross, one in Bloomsbury.

Rose stood and moved to the window. She flicked back to the names and held the book up to the light.

“Good Lord.” The words burst from her lips. “Miss Charlotte Stoneway.” All four columns next to the name contained the figure of two hundred pounds. She tried to recall the name of the other woman who’d gone missing but to no avail.

Perhaps she should find the courage to speak to Christian. Together they might make sense of it all. And if she had any hope of helping him, she had to tackle the matter before Dr Taylor revealed her identity.

The first spots of rain hit the glass pane to draw her mind back to the present. Black clouds amassed overhead, and the light patter soon became a torrential downpour.

Her thoughts turned to Christian. She imagined him sheltering beneath a tree. A lonely, solitary figure whose shoulders sagged with the weight of his burden. Her heart went out to him. And yet here she was, adding to his pain by lying to him, keeping secrets.

It had to stop, for both their sakes.

She moved away from the window, gathered the letters together, placed them inside the book and went downstairs to wait for his return.

She’d paced back and forth outside his study for an hour before taking the book back to her room and going in search of Mrs Hibbet.

An afternoon spent entertaining the children during the storm, distracted her from the dreaded moment when she would tell Christian the truth. She ate an early dinner, tucked the children in their beds and still he wasn’t home.

“Happen he’s taken refuge from the storm.” Mrs Hibbet did not share her concern.

But Rose couldn’t settle.

How would it be when she returned to London, to live with her brother and parade the ballrooms with a fake smile and more lies to account for her absence? Would she think of Christian then?

“But the rain stopped an hour ago.” Indeed, daylight had given way to a clear sky littered with stars.

“The road to Abberton is a quagmire when the rain comes. But his lordship is capable of dealing with most things.”

Except for an unruly son and someone who sought to cause him untold misery?

Guilt flared again.

Another hour passed before Joseph’s cry rang through the corridor of the servants’ quarters. “His lordship’s home and has requested a hot bath.”

Mrs Hibbet set to work organising the household, dashing here and there barking orders. Never had Rose been party to the flurry of activity going on below stairs. Above stairs, the staff always conveyed an air of order and control.

Rose returned to her room, to wait while Christian bathed and ate his dinner in peace. Curiosity burned. Where had he been? What had kept him in the village for most of the day?