“But then you might not have had the opportunity to apprehend the conspirators,” J. J. pointed out with infallible logic. She turned to me and to Stoker. “Poor Mornaday was at a loss once you disappeared from the club. There were records connecting Archibond with the warehouse in Whitechapel, but it took more than a day to put the pieces together, and by that time you had escaped him and he had fled. Mornaday and I could not unravel the next bit of the plot until we compared what we knew and were able to anticipate Archibond’s last desperate gambit—luring you here.” She smiled in obvious satisfaction. “Whilst Mornaday was haring around town in pursuit of Archibond, I was following you. I suspected you were the key to the whole scheme, as much as Mornaday tried to keep your name out of it. And when I recognized you at the club, I knew I had only to go to Bishop’s Folly anytime I wanted to pick up your trail.”
I gave her an even stare. “And you know the purpose of the plot.”
She nodded. “I do. They meant to use a series of scandals to throw this lot off the throne and install you in their place.”
“You are no respecter of institutions,” I commented mildly. “And yet you are willing to protect them. You have not written about this in your newspaper. An ambitious reporter, sitting quietly on the story of the century. It beggars belief.”
She curled her hands into fists. “I am ambitious, and I mean to make a name for myself,” she vowed. “But I will not do it that way, not with that sort of destruction. The cost would be too high. The world is not ready for such anarchy.”
“You are a royalist after all,” I said softly.
“I am a pragmatist,” she corrected. “I want to write stories that will do real good, accomplish some purposeful change. Like speaking with the women who live in Whitechapel,” she said with a nod towards Stoker.
“I will arrange it,” he promised.
“And you will keep my secret?” I asked.
She gave me an assessing look. “Let me be a part of your adventures whenever possible, and I will keep it to the grave, Miss Speedwell,” she said, extending her hand to shake mine.
“That is a bargain, Miss Butterworth.”
* * *
• • •
Stoker remained in Pennybaker’s care for more than a fortnight before he was permitted to leave. I stayed with him, sleeping in my narrow elephant-bedecked bed next to his in the night nursery. I left him only once—to retrieve clothing from Bishop’s Folly and make our excuses to the earl. I sketched a vague story about an accident, and his lordship, distracted by the new arrival of a set of cameos of polished Vesuvian lava, made suitable noises of sympathy and told us to take as long as we needed before returning. I was delighted to find Lady Wellie on the mend, and took tea with her before I left.
“Well,” she said, eyeing my sling disapprovingly, “I see you have been up to mischief whilst I have been incommoded.”
“A bit,” I conceded. Over tea from her Wedgwood crocodile service, I told her the whole story, including our harrowing adventure with Eddy and his secret return to Scotland.
“I know,” she said calmly.
I blinked, pausing in the act of dolloping a bit of strawberry jam on a muffin.
“You do?”
She smiled, her old bird-of-prey smile that never changed. “My dear child, I have had regular visits from most members of the family.”
She did not need to specify which family. My heart beat faster, thudding dully against my ribs as I put the spoon aside with careful hands.
“Was—”
“Your father? No. But the Princess of Wales came. And Eddy.” She gave me a close look. “You liked him, didn’t you?”
“I did. In spite of myself. There is an unexpected sweetness to him.”
She paused, nodding gravely. Her gaze drifted and her expression was inscrutable.
She poured out a fresh cup of tea, stirring with deliberate calm. “By the way, you might return my diary when you have a moment. That is how you and Stoker discovered my state of mind, is it not?”
I did not bother to deny it. “We were concerned, and Archibond played upon those worries expertly.”
“As he did my own,” she said. “The anonymous note and the cuttings were his, planting that monstrous suggestion.”
“It was unkind of him,” I began.
“Unkind! It was diabolical,” she said with real venom. “But once the idea had been raised, I saw how easily our enemies might make political capital of it, true or not.”
“He is not responsible, you know,” I told her firmly. “Eddy could never have committed the murders in Whitechapel.”
A flicker of emotion crossed her face. In another, I might have called it guilt. But I was entirely certain Lady Wellie was unacquainted with such a feeling.
“I did not believe it,” she told me. “Not really. But all possibilities, no matter how distasteful, must be investigated, if only to rule them out. I did not believe it.”
I might have believed her if she had not repeated herself. For whatever reason—ill health, fatigue, distraction—she had permitted her imagination to get the better of her, doubting a man she had known since birth, whose every flaw and virtue were as familiar to her as her own face. She would not forgive herself easily, and she would never forget.
I did not have the heart to prod her further. I returned my attention to my muffin and she said suddenly, her eyes bright, “I am glad you had a chance to spend time with him.”
“So am I.
“You might have told us of your suspicions before the princess appealed to us to retrieve the jewel. It would have saved a great deal of trouble.”
She put her cup into the saucer, rattling it only a little. “Do not think I am unaware of how badly I mishandled matters this time. That Archibond should—” She broke off, composing herself after a moment. “I have decided to take a sabbatical. The weather is not good for my neuralgia, and I need the sun. I am leaving next week for Egypt.”
“You will be missed,” I told her.
“Yes, well, it will give me a chance to complete my recovery and contemplate my sins,” she said crisply.
“It does not matter now,” I said. “It is finished.”
Her smile was pitying. “My dear child, it is never finished. Our enemies are cunning and careful. And they are legion.”
“And this time they have lost,” I assured her. “Mornaday and Sir Hugo will never reveal my patrimony.”
“And that reporter?” she asked, her lips thinning with displeasure.