The secret of the ladys.., p.1
The Secret of the Lady's Maid, page 1
Darcie Wilde is the author of:
The Secret of the Lady’s Maid
The Secret of the Lost Pearls
A Counterfeit Suitor
A Lady Compromised
And Dangerous to Know
A Purely Private Matter
A Useful Woman
The Secret of the Lady’s Maid
DARCIE WILDE
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE - A Bad Business
CHAPTER 1 - Market Day
CHAPTER 2 - Sordid Companions
CHAPTER 3 - Unfortunate Possibilities
CHAPTER 4 - This Troubling Work
CHAPTER 5 - Causes and Consequences
CHAPTER 6 - A Private Meeting
CHAPTER 7 - Family Matters
CHAPTER 8 - A Question of Responsibility
CHAPTER 9 - The Contents of a Single Room
CHAPTER 10 - The Boundaries of Friendship
CHAPTER 11 - The Best Laid Plans
CHAPTER 12 - Leading Questions
CHAPTER 13 - A Private Consultation
CHAPTER 14 - An Introduction to the Peacemaker
CHAPTER 15 - Doubtful Companions
CHAPTER 16 - A Family Portrait
CHAPTER 17 - The Other Side of the Story
CHAPTER 18 - Plans Discussed over Dinner
CHAPTER 19 - A Proposal
CHAPTER 20 - Unwelcome Revelations
CHAPTER 21 - A Guest at the Breakfast Table
CHAPTER 22 - A Quiet Walk in the Park
CHAPTER 23 - An Uncomfortable Conversation
CHAPTER 24 - Turning the Tables
CHAPTER 25 - The Results of a Sudden Shock
CHAPTER 26 - The Beauty
CHAPTER 27 - A Strange Confluence of Events
CHAPTER 28 - A Private Business Matter
CHAPTER 29 - A Quiet Drink with Friends
CHAPTER 30 - The Maid’s Point of View
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32 - Conversation after Working Hours
CHAPTER 33 - Unprecedented Acts
CHAPTER 34 - The Morning After
CHAPTER 35 - The Means of Escape
CHAPTER 36 - The Consequences of Eavesdropping
CHAPTER 37 - The Comfort of Siblings
CHAPTER 38 - Followers
CHAPTER 39 - Reclaiming Personal Property
CHAPTER 40 - On the Hunt
CHAPTER 41 - The Peacemaker
CHAPTER 42 - A Few Pointed Questions
CHAPTER 43 - A Small Matter of Money
CHAPTER 44 - Desperate Measures
CHAPTER 45 - Never Truly Passed
CHAPTER 46 - The Cause of Contradictions
CHAPTER 47 - The Evening’s Unwelcome Revelations
CHAPTER 48 - Declarations
CHAPTER 49 - A Sleepless Night
CHAPTER 50 - Home Truths
CHAPTER 51 - The Effects of Desperation
CHAPTER 52 - Causes, and Repercussions, of Death
CHAPTER 53 - Difficult Conclusions
CHAPTER 54 - Polite Fictions
EPILOGUE - Futures, Imperfect
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2024 by Sarah Zettel
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023944254
The K with book logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM. Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3803-5
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: January 2024
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3802-8 (e-book)
PROLOGUE
A Bad Business
“. . . then it must be treason; and see it I must, by all that’s good or by all that’s bad—”
Edgeworth, Maria, Belinda
London
February 1820
Adam Harkness stood in the shadow of a slouching, half-timbered house. The tiny alley around him—which went by the name of Cato Street—was dark and quiet. The noise from the nearby pubs and gin shops oozed between its close-packed buildings, but no sound rose from the alley itself. Its few soot-smudged houses had all been tightly shuttered against the raw February night. It was easy to imagine the folk inside tucked up in their quilts and sound asleep.
He’d had some luck for his vigil. The moon was near full, and the sky unusually clear, which meant he had a fair bit of light to see by. But it also meant it was unusually cold and the needle-sharp February air pressed hard against his skin. Adam shifted his weight slightly to try to keep his feet from going numb, but kept his attention on the stable across the way.
A flickering lantern showed through the hayloft’s crooked shutters. Every few seconds, a passing shadow blotted out the faint light. That told Adam that unlike the rest of the alley, somebody remained awake in that loft. In fact, if he’d counted correctly, roughly twenty somebodys were busy as bees in there.
But busy with what? There’s the question.
They’d each arrived singly. They were all men, but other than that, they’d been a ragged, varied bunch. One wore a cobbler’s leather apron. One was a Black gentleman dressed in a frock coat who could have been a clergyman or a schoolmaster. One wore a coat so tattered it hardly deserved the name.
They’d scuttled down the street with their collars turned up and their hats pulled low. When they stepped up to the stable door, they looked about carefully before slipping inside.
Left to himself, Adam might have decided they were a group of petty thieves and pickpockets. But according to his superiors at Bow Street—the cobbler, the schoolmaster, the tattered man, and all the rest in that shuttered loft—were bent on nothing less than high treason.
Just this morning, Adam had been called into John Townsend’s opulent private office, along with Stephen Lavender, Sam Tauton, and Sampson Goutier. Goutier was the only patrol captain present. He was an expert navigator of the tangled world that was London after dark, and the only reason he had not yet been made a principal officer was that Parliament only authorized eight such men to serve at a time.
John Townsend’s agitation was made plain by the way he had paced for a full moment behind his broad desk before speaking a single a word.
These men intend to murder the entire Privy Council when they sit down to dinner in Grosvenor Street, he’d said. His Grace, the Earl of Harrowby, Lord President of the Privy Council, was stopped in Hyde Park by a man calling himself Hiden. This Hiden gave His Grace a full outline of their plot.
And His Grace believed this fantasy? Goutier had asked incredulously.
His Grace had good reason to believe it, snapped Townsend. It is now for us to act on the matter.
How could these men even know about a ministerial dinner? asked Lavender. He was a narrow man with a long face and strict ideas about law and order. He and Adam had butted heads more than once.
It’s published in the papers, said Townsend. One of their number saw the notice.
Surely, said Adam, the first thing to do is make sure that this Hiden is telling the truth. Where can we find him?
But apparently, His Grace had neglected to ask that. Hiden had delivered his warning, and disappeared. He thought, however, that Hiden could be one of the cowmen who pastured their animals on the green.
The argument over how to proceed lasted half an hour. Goutier and Sam Tauton agreed with Adam that they needed to find Hiden and make sure this report was accurate. Lavender, on the other hand, argued that they couldn’t waste the time.
If we hesitate, we could wake up to a revolution in the streets. We need to arrest these men at once. It’ll be safer all around.
Townsend had agreed with Lavender, but Adam stood his ground.
If it turns out this report is a mistake, or madness, Bow Street will look like fools, he said. And when the newspapers get hold of it, they will mock His Grace, and us, for jumping at shadows.
The argument worked, at least in part. Townsend saw it as his duty to protect Bow Street’s reputation as well as the king’s peace. So, he reluctantly agreed to allow Adam to find out what he could. However, he also declared no men would be spared for the mission. Adam was entirely on his own.
Now, standing in the cold and the dark, Adam had to admit something was happening in that hayloft. But if it was some dread and murderous conspiracy, the participants were remarkably sloppy. The man he’d sent to the stable door to test the waters had walked right in, and that was over two hours ago. Adam had heard no sounds of a struggle, or other commotion.
In fact, all he heard now was the rhythmic call of the watch. “Two of the clock and all’s well! Two of the clock and all’s well!”
Christ, I hope it is. Adam let his breath out slowly. The vapor rose in front of his eyes, shining silver in the moonlight.
The plan was not anywhere near as strong as he’d have liked, but they had no time to come up with anything better. The ministerial dinner was in two days. At least, it would have been if it had not already been canceled. This particular turn of events, however, had not been reported to the newspapers.
The watchman’s call faded away. Adam waited, measuring time by the beating of his heart, the shadows passing this way and that in the hayloft and the slow deadening of all sensation in his toes and fingertips.
At last, the stable door dragged itself open. Adam willed himself to stillness. His eyes had adapted well enough to the dark that he could make out the shadow of a tall, lean man as he slipped from the darkness. The man glanced at the sky to gauge the weather. Then, he hunched his back against the knife-edged wind that sliced through the alley and scurried away.
Adam gave himself a count of thirty to see if anyone else would emerge to follow this man, but the stable door remained closed. Upstairs, the erratic shadows moved back and forth, just as before. No shout rose.
Adam pulled his hat brim lower, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and set off after the tall man. Out on the main street, he passed the doorway where Goutier kept watch, and turned his collar up. That was the signal they’d agreed to. All was indeed well. He would meet them back at Bow Street.
Townsend had not authorized any men to assist Adam in his vigil. Goutier and Townsend had insisted on coming along anyway. At least, if they were asked, they could truthfully say they had never gone into the alley.
The further the tall man walked from Cato Street, the easier he moved. By the time he’d gone a quarter of a mile, his conspirator’s scuttle had changed to the easy, swinging gait of a man without a care in the world.
When the man reached the Dappled Mare carriage house, he rapped on the door. After a long moment, that door opened and a boy emerged carrying a lantern. The man handed the boy a few coins and sent him running toward the stables. Some moments later, an enclosed carriage drawn by a pair of matched chestnuts was driven up to the door. The tall man climbed inside, but left the carriage door open.
Adam took a last look about himself. Satisfied that he was not followed, he crossed the cobbles, climbed into the carriage, and latched the door. The warmth from the foot stove enfolded him like a blessing. The tall man pounded on the roof. As soon as the carriage lumbered forward, he drew off his slouching hat and cast it aside.
“Well, Mr. Harkness.” Sanderson Faulks combed his fingers through his fair hair. “I believe I must thank you for a most entertaining evening. When I write my memoirs—which I hasten to assure you will not be published until long after I have ceased to breathe—this will take a prominent place.”
Adam grinned. He’d made Faulks’s acquaintance several years ago. Since then, the man had given him some good help during more than one investigation. Faulks was a confirmed member of the dandy set, and made his living buying and selling art for London’s upper crust. He also dabbled in money lending and was a merciless card sharp, and was the first person Adam had thought of for this errand.
Why me? Faulks had asked.
Because I trust you. Because you are deeply observant, but nobody in the neighborhood is likely to know you. He remembered how Faulks’s smile had altered ever so slightly, as if to warn him not to make assumptions.
If this lot are habitual criminals, they might spot a Bow Street man, Adam told him. And last, but not least, I am asking you because if anyone finds out you went into that stable tonight, Townsend can’t sack you for it.
“So, what did you see?” Adam asked.
Faulks returned a thin smile. “If the most honorable magistrates at Bow Street believe that hayloft houses a dangerous nest of radicals, they are entirely mistaken. What I saw was a half-deluded, half-desperate congregation of lost men. I walked in without challenge. I kept myself to a corner of the room for several fatiguing hours, and not one of ’em so much as asked my business. I had one confide to me that he only came to these ‘meetings’ because there was always something to eat.”
Relief filled Adam, but it was not enough to entirely ease his suspicions. Why had the Earl of Harrowby been willing to believe that this gathering represented a real danger? Had they missed something?
“Were they armed?” Adam asked.
“After a fashion. There were a handful of pikes, cutlasses, and other such dangerous antiques. I had a look at one of their guns and would wager it would be as likely to blow up in the owner’s hands as it would to fire. Still, if not opposed too firmly, they might pose some sort of danger to the residents of the alley.”
“Did they talk at all about their plans?”
“One fellow, Thistlewood, did. He was what passed as their ringleader. He assured the rest that they could easily storm Grosvenor Street and murder the cabinet. At the same time, parties of their men would also steal cannon from various armories and militia posts, and throw up a series of barricades around the town. After this, they would form a provisional government, burn all the paper money, and distribute the gold in the Bank of London to the poor.”
“With twenty men?” said Adam.
“Well, that point was somewhat in dispute. Thistlewood insisted that this gathering was only one small part of the larger rebellion. He said that another man, by the name of Edwards, had assured him there were tens of thousands ready to rise up all across London.”
“Was Edwards in the hayloft?”
“No,” said Faulks. “Nor did anyone seem to expect him. I don’t know that it signifies, but it struck me as an additional oddity.”
Adam nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Faulks. I am in your debt.”
“What will you do now?”
“I’ll report back to Mr. Birnie and Mr. Townsend. With any luck, what you’ve observed will be enough to soothe the fears of His Grace and the Privy Council. Then, we can round these men up quietly, charge them with being a public nuisance on a cold night, and be done with it.”
“And if you can’t?” Mr. Faulks inquired.
“Then God help those half-desperate, half-deluded men,” said Adam. “Because the charge on their heads will be high treason, and every last one of them will finish up dead.”
CHAPTER 1
Market Day
“I . . . have nothing worse than folly to conceal: that’s bad enough—”
Edgeworth, Maria, Belinda
London
April, 1820
“Oh, not again,” muttered Alice Littlefield as the fresh round of raindrops pattered down onto the market cobbles. “I was sure we were done for the day!”
“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid,” sighed Rosalind. All around them, the market’s patrons put up their hoods or scuttled for shelter. Barrowkeepers and stall merchants hurried to pull canvas and oil cloths over their goods.
Thankfully, Rosalind and Alice stood under the bookseller’s awning. Alice had spent the past several minutes engaged in a spirited attempt to convince Mr. Fraiser to reduce the price on his somewhat battered copy of History of a Six Weeks Tour by sixpence.
Rosalind’s decision to accompany Alice and Amelia on the morning’s errands had been largely impulse. London’s glittering social season would begin in another fortnight, and Rosalind was finding herself increasingly wrapped up in her role as what Alice termed a “discreet social consultant” for London’s haut ton.
As a young woman, Rosalind had expected adulthood to bring her a good marriage. This would naturally be followed by a pleasing domestic existence as wife, hostess, and mother. But when her father abandoned their family, all those expectations shattered. With the help of her godmother, Rosalind had cobbled together a kind of existence as what society termed “a useful woman”—one who helped out her more fortunate friends by arranging their social lives, dealing with their correspondence and helping run their households.
Most such ladies endured a depressed and dependent life. But Rosalind discovered she possessed a particular talent for assisting ladies in serious trouble, even when that trouble involved theft, blackmail, or murder. What had begun as a haphazard means for an unmarried woman to eke out an existence had turned into a living.
