No. Running her fingers along that spot again, she was sure she felt something inside, but when she opened the garment, once again she saw nothing.
Frustrated and impatient, she was about to dash to the kitchen in search of a knife to slit the material open when she spotted the seam. The craftsmanship was impeccable, the seam so tiny as to be rendered almost invisible. She could see where Schweitzer & Davidson had acquired its reputation. Reaching inside the tiny pocket, she pulled out a scrap of wrinkled paper. Holding it near the candle on the desk, she smoothed out the creases.
There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the words hastily scrawled in what was unmistakably John’s handwriting. She read Toulon and a date, March twenty something. And after the date a name: Wentword or Went with? Only the last phrase was clear: Madame Loinger, Calais.
Who was Madame Loinger? A lover? Lucia bit her lip. Perhaps she should read through those love letters after all. But what about Calais and Toulon? John in France? Why would he be in France with a war on?
She sank into the desk chair and dropped her head in her hands. She wasn’t an expert on the political situation but, being the daughter of a politician and engaged to another, she knew something about Napoleon Bonaparte. Some members of the government feared the war with France was not going well, that Old Boney might even be bold enough to attempt invasion.
Reginald thought the whole notion ridiculous. Even Bonaparte couldn’t be that foolish. Her father, on the other hand, was more circumspect. Once when he hadn’t known she was listening, she’d heard him remark that it was damned unfortunate Pitt was running the country at a time like this. If Fox were in office, he’d see to Bonaparte’s defeat, by God. She raised her head. One thing was certain. She had to show Alex this note. This was hard proof that John was no longer in England. The date written after Toulon was shortly after John’s departure from London. Toulon must have been John’s true destination. Her heart began to thud. And if her brother was in France, he might be in grave danger. He could have been caught by French government officials who questioned his presence there. He might be rotting away this very minute in some French prison. Lucia’s breathing hitched. Dear God! Did they still guillotine aristocrats over there? She had no idea. Perhaps her father—no, he’d tell her to stay out of it.
And Reginald was a lost cause. But—
Alex had lived on the Continent, in France, for a time.
Alex. Alex would know what to do. Alex would save John.
Lucia raced back to her room, tore off the waistcoat, and pulled her rose-colored gown over her chemise. She didn’t have time to fuss with a petticoat, but she was glad she hadn’t removed her silk stockings earlier. She shoved her feet into her slippers.
Stuffing John’s note into her reticule, Lucia shrugged into her cloak and had her hand on her bedroom doorknob when she froze. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
She pursed her lips. It was barely twelve o’clock; late, but not exactly the middle of the night. The ton would still be about, going to their various clubs, balls, the theater. It was so early, Alex himself probably wouldn’t be at home. She just prayed his mistress wouldn’t be there instead.
“No,” she said to herself, dismissing the idea immediately. Men installed their mistresses in separate residences and visited them when they wished. She didn’t even want to consider that a visit to his mistress could be the reason Selbourne had left the Winterbourne dinner party early. But Lucia supposed if he wasn’t at home, she’d just have to wait for him. Of course, it would be social suicide if she was seen on St. James’s at this hour, any hour really, but there was no hope for it.
Alex wasn’t going to like it. Or, more correctly, he wasn’t going to like that she’d ignored his order to stay out of the investigation. Men liked to feel they were in charge. Usually it was simply easier to play along. But she couldn’t afford to humor male vanity tonight. And surely Alex would see that this note was more important than any silly dictate he’d given her? Surely he’d see the need for her urgency? He couldn’t possibly fault her this time.
It was easier than she’d anticipated to sneak out of her parents’ house. Almost too easy, she thought as she tiptoed down the dark stairs of the town house and slipped out. Keeping the hood of her cloak close about her face, she ran the short distance to Bruton Street.
Though her escape had been simple, she wasn’t out of danger yet. Carriages streamed by, and Lucia couldn’t afford to be recognized. The night shadows closed in, and her heart drummed in her ears. She snatched a look behind her and quickened her step.
It wasn’t only the gossip she feared. Even elegant Berkeley Square wasn’t safe from pickpockets and ruffians. Fear rising like bile in her throat, Lucia remembered that the Prince of Wales and his brother the Duke of York had been robbed on Hay Hill, just off Berkeley Square, a few years before. If the Prince of Wales wasn’t safe, what hope did she have? She heard the clatter of a carriage behind her and whipped around, almost collapsing in relief when she saw it was a hack. She waved frantically and the hack slowed, then stopped. She almost tripped in her haste to be inside.
Lucia pulled the door closed and looked up when the jarvey opened the hatch. “Where to, miss?”
It was a moment before his words registered. Her relief at being safe turned to disgust as the stench in the cab overpowered her. She coughed and pulled a handkerchief from her reticule. The perfumed linen masked the stench, but she scooted forward so less of her touched the seats. They were sticky and damp. She dared not look too closely.
“Ahem!” the driver said. “Do you want a ride, miss, or to sit there gaping?”
“Ah, yes.” She wiped her hand—wet from God knew what—on her cloak. “Take me to the Earl of Selbourne’s town house. Immediately, please.” Lucia peeked at the jarvey. She’d sounded confident and experienced, hadn’t she? The driver would never guess she’d only been in a hackney once, years before.
“What’s the direction, luv?” the jarvey asked impatiently.
“Direction?” She frowned and let the handkerchief drop away from her nose a bit. “You don’t know?”
The jarvey rolled his eyes. “This lord, that lord. They’re all the same. Live in big fancy houses. Which one you want, miss?”
“Ah . . .” Her plan was sinking around her, and she struggled to find a means to buoy it. She had no idea precisely where Selbourne lived and couldn’t exactly ask anyone who did at this hour. Well, the driver could take her to St. James’s and somehow she’d figure it out. A hazy plan, but she wasn’t sunk yet.
“It’s on St. James’s Street. Drive there, and I’ll instruct you further.”
The driver made no move to shut the hatch. “If you don’t mind me asking, luv, do you really think you ought to be going into that part of town?” He nodded at her, eyes sharp in his round face. “A lady like yerself, I mean.”
Lucia swallowed, her uncertainties threatening to tip the lifeboat she’d latched on to. She knew exactly what the jarvey meant. A lady of the ton was not— under any circumstances—seen on St. James’s or thereabouts. To enter that male preserve was to risk social ostracism. An outcast. Forever.
Lucia straightened. Well, she was prepared to take that risk, if it came to it, and she certainly was not going to be lectured by a hackney driver.
“Sir, I appreciate your concern.” Her voice was frosty, the tone she used when a dancing partner misplaced his hands one too many times for coincidence. “I must insist you drive on. The hour is getting late.”
