Page 15

JULY 21, 1821

“Miss Lily, I ain’t sure about this. Your mama is going to have words with me.” Nancy was plaintive, her voice husky with age as she clutched her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Her eyes darted over the cobbled street, searching for anyone who might witness them approaching the widow’s door. “The talk belowstairs is that Lady Slight is a bit of a fusty luggs!”

“A WHAT?”

Nancy scowled, her wrinkles settling into deep lines as she mumbled under her breath.

Lily frowned in confusion. “FUSTY LUGGS?”

The old nursemaid huffed, her breath fogging in the cool morning air, before replying with obvious reluctance, “A mean-tempered trollop.”

Lily’s eyes widened in feigned surprise. “Never say there is gossip amongst the servants!”

Nancy leaned toward her, cupping her ear. “Hey?”

Lily tossed her an impish smile and turned back to raise the brass knocker, its lion’s head gleaming dully in the pale light. She brought it down with a determined rap, the solid clank echoing behind the grand Georgian façade. She needed to be quick about this before her family noted her absence.

Lady Slight’s rake-thin butler opened the door, his dark livery immaculate, though the set of his stooped shoulders suggested disappointment was a daily burden. He swept his gaze over Lily, pausing a fraction too long on her pelisse, then rotated his head with stiff elegance to take in old Nancy, with her wind-frayed hair and drooping mobcap. His lips curled in contempt.

“May I help you, miss?”

Straightening to her full height, Lily adopted the haughty tone she had heard Mama use with tradesmen or minor gentry. She offered him one of her calling cards, holding it as though it carried the weight of Parliament.

“Miss Abbott to see Lady Slight.”

The butler’s nostrils flared as he read the card, the skin of his jaw twitching ever so slightly. “Lord Moreland’s daughter?”

“Indeed. Show me in.” Lily kept her chin high. The butler’s cold eyes flickered, just for a breath, and she knew she had him.

“Follow me.”

Lily grabbed Nancy lightly by the arm and swept in behind him, ignoring the disapproving sound the older woman made. The black-and-white tiled floor clicked underfoot as the butler’s long legs devoured the hall at a pace that forced Lily to half-skip to keep up while simultaneously tugging Nancy along. The house smelled faintly of dried lavender and beeswax, immaculate in fragrance as it was in appearance.

He stopped and opened a door without flourish. “Lord Moreland’s daughter, Miss Abbott.”

Lily swept in behind him, slightly breathless from attempting to keep up while navigating Nancy, who now stood panting with exertion. Coming to a stop, Lily found herself in a small gilded parlor.

Every surface in the room was an art of embellishment. The walls and furnishings had been overtaken by intricately painted floral patterns and Grecian deities frolicking through clouds and columns. Nymphs and gods leapt across the ceiling medallions, and even the wainscoting bore the delicate brushstrokes of vines and lyres. On the smooth vertical face of the mantelpiece was a frieze of Romans going about their business—one stooped at a market stall, another gestured expansively, while a musician strummed a curved-stringed lyre with a vaguely smug expression. The gold detailing glinted in the candlelight, and Lily caught herself gaping, her eyes tracing the rococo grandeur that marched across every available inch of the space.

She barely registered Lady Slight’s presence until a sudden movement drew her gaze down from the frieze. The redheaded viscountess was already seated, perched in a regal armchair of silk damask framed with gilt scrollwork. Her expression was one of clear irritation and her posture one of unrepentant display. Lily’s gaze landed, before she could stop it, on the lady’s bosom, which was heaving above the edge of a fashionably scandalous bodice.

She forced her eyes upward. How in the world is she breathing in such tight stays? The widow’s chest was so elevated, it seemed nearly to obstruct her view.

Dropping a curtsy, Lily opened her mouth and forged ahead before her courage deserted her. “I have come to speak to you about Mr. Ridley—Lord Filminster!”

The widow frowned. Her coiffure shifted as she tilted her head, the red curls gleaming like a lacquered wig in the candlelight. “Lord Filminster?”

“The baron is dead. Mr. Ridley is likely to be accused of his murder. You and your servants are the only ones who can clear Mr. Ridley—Lord Filminster. You must inform the authorities that he was here in your home last night before he is arrested and taken to the Tower. The runner says that he must have an alibi as swiftly as possible. You must send for the coroner, who is Mr. Grimes, and he is the one you must inform straightaway of Mr. Ridley’s presence here!”

Lady Slight’s jaw dropped open in evident amazement. Lily realized she might have said too much, too quickly. Her wretched babbling had struck again, delivered with the velocity of cannon fire when talking to someone who was not familiar with her verbosity. Leaning back on her heels, Lily commanded herself to breathe.

Several moments passed, during which Lady Slight slowly closed her mouth and appeared to be gathering her wits. The ticking of the ornate mantel clock filled the silence, its delicate chime marking time like a judgment.

“Mr. Ridley is to be accused of murder?”

Lily nodded, keeping her lips firmly together.

“And you wish me to speak to the authorities to clear his name?”