“It seems that way, yes.” Alexander swallowed hard, finally taking the chair Ripley had set out for him. His chest heaved with a sigh as he considered the implications of this discovery. “What next do you suggest? Have you discovered her place of residence?”
Ripley licked his thumb and began searching through a drawer. He extracted a small note, upon which he had written an address.
“She works as a charwoman in a public house down in Bromley. I have seen her with my own eyes, Your Grace. She is every bit as beautiful as they claimed your mother was, tall with dark hair and blue eyes.”
Alexander recalled all the other women they had interviewed at the London house. A series of dark-haired women he and Ripley had vainly hoped would be her – Isadore. But their efforts hadn’t been in vain. She was real, and alive, and only a few hours’ travel away.
“I see the look in your eye,” Ripley said. “You want to go there immediately and meet her.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” Alexander rose out of his seat. “I have waited two years for answers, and I should not wait a second more. You would counsel patience at a time like this?”
“This moment, once it passes, will never come again. My research suggests that Isadore Bell works in Bromley, yes, but who is to say whether she will believe you once you presenther with the facts? Allow me a few days to construct a body of evidence that cannot be questioned. You should not hurry to her directly, Your Grace. I have served as the intermediary between you and all the other Isadore Bells we have looked for. Allow me to contact your real sister with the delicate touch required in a situation such as this.”
Considering Ripley’s offer, Alexander calmed himself and nodded. “If you request more time, then I will allow it,” he said. “This moment must be faultless, and discreet, and you are correct. We should strike when the time is right.”
Unfortunately, time was not working in Alexander’s favor.
The moment he stepped out into Richmond, he could feel the eyes of all passersby fix on him with intent. This was not an unusual occurrence. The return of the young Duke of Langley to London often attracted the attention of anxioustonmothers. But Alexander had been back in London for a week, and the surprise of his arrival had already come and gone.
Something else had happened to provoke such fervent stares. And it didn’t take long before Alexander was apprised of the situation in full.
Returning home, he took coffee in his study while reading the day’s mail – and not five minutes later, he discovered the story inThe Morning Post. There had been no missing his own name, printed in bold, beside that of Miss Margaret Pembroke.
He leaned back in his chair, slamming the broadsheet down on the desk in front of him. An angry sigh shot out of him as he slammed the desk with his fist.
“I take it this is a bad time?”
Alexander froze, having been absorbed by his anger that he hadn’t heard Bastian enter beside the butler. They appeared in the doorway to the study, and the sheepish look Bastian sported told Alexander that he had readThe Morning Posttoo and had likely come to discuss it.
“Why are you in London?” Alexander asked, rising from his seat. He dismissed the butler with a wave. “You made no mention of coming down to London while we were in Salisbury last.”
“I did not come to bother you, despite appearances.” Bastian took off his hat and shrugged, interrupting himself to say goodbye to the butler. “No, Father has asked a favor of me, you see. One of his friends has a daughter who is seeking a husband, and he has sent me to meet her at their home in Whitechapel. I heard from Stockton you were in town when we met at White’s yesterday evening, and then this morning I read – as I assume you did – the story of your most stormy night.”
Bastian nodded to the crumpled broadsheet on Alexander’s desk.
“Is there any truth to it? Ah, but that’s a ridiculous question, isn’t it? Those writers are callous creatures who have been known to bend the truth. And after what happened between you and theMiss Pembroke at the Assembly Rooms,” he laughed, “it seems highly unlikely that you would even consider?—”
“Margaret Pembroke was at Somerstead Hall alone with me,” Alexander confessed. “That detail, at least, is founded in fact.”
Bastian froze, lips parting in surprise. “Right then.”
“But this drivel they have written is beyond the pale.” Alexander flipped open the newspaper again, stabbing it with his finger. “Anintimate liaison at the ancestral seat of Somerton. A lover’s spat at the Salisbury Assembly Rooms, that turned into amidnight reconciliation of the most intimate degree...?” He closed it again and looked around, aghast. “It is complete nonsense. Nothing untoward occurred between Margaret and me. My driver found her stranded in a storm. It was only logical to bring her to Somerstead Hall and save her life.”
“Do you suspect Miss Pembroke herself brought the story to the press?” Bastian suggested with a frown, coming to sit on the opposite side of the desk. He leaned over to open the drink’s cart and grabbed a bottle of brandy.
Alexander glanced up and paused to think. “I had not considered such a thing until you mentioned it. But it seems a foolish tactic on her part, don’t you think? When last I spoke to Miss Pembroke, she admitted she was returning to London to accept an offer of marriage. No... She would not sabotage herself in this manner.”
And beyond what was logical, Alexander didn’t believe Margaret was the type of woman who would betray him like this. Bastian’s hand appeared in the periphery of his vision with a drink, and Alexander downed it, despite it still being early.
“I do not want to believe that there is a snake among my staff – but excepting Carlisle and the woman who hosted Miss Pembroke in Wiltshire, no one else knew of her house stay. Neither of them had any reason to contact the press. Carlisle would not embroil us in a scandal, and Margaret’s friend, Lady Jane...”
“Lady Jane? I have an aunt who is quite close with her. She is a most social and polarizing woman,” Bastian said when Alexander trailed off, taking a sip from his brandy. “Perhaps she thought that she could trap you and Miss Pembroke in a marriage to save the young girl. It would not be the first time such a thing has happened.”
Alexander shook his head softly, warmth creeping up his neck from the drink. The acrid taste of the brandy had coated his mouth, a pleasant but temporary distraction from the thoughts whirling in his head.
Under normal circumstances, his feature in the scandal sheets would have been laughable. But Alexander couldn’t afford to have the wholetonwatching him to see how the scandal with Margaret would progress. He had come to London in hopes of following up on Ripley’s note, far from the watchful eye of Carlisle, where he could settle into his usual routine and continue his investigation without scrutiny. And with thisnewest development – with an actual, living sibling waiting for him in Bromley – the shadow of such a scandal could have devastating consequences. Isadore would meet him and consider him a rake. Thetonwould see his bastard sister and paint her with the same brush.
Until this mess with Margaret was resolved —if iteverwas —Ripley's latest information would have to wait. Alexander closed his eyes to suppress his rising frustration – at the writers atThe Morning Post, at Margaret, at himself.
