“It did move very slowly,” Chase said.
Kevin gave him a look of forbearance. “Which meant it stopped if it hit a chair or a person. Imagine it with a steam engine. An automaton stops working if the mechanism unwinds, which happens fairly quickly. A steam engine works quite differently.”
Nicholas started laughing. “I think you must find it and do as your father wants. Please invite me to the demonstration. I am seeing that little butler crashing about the library like a marauder in high blood.”
“I think a better site would be among those urns, not a library.” Kevin set his glass down. “Let us go. The two of you can further distract me from my brooding by losing lots of money to me at cards.”
Nicholas looked at Chase, with mock astonishment. “Was it your plan to distract him from brooding? What an odd thing for him to suggest.”
“Not me. You? Nor is he given to brooding.” He opened the door. “You are too suspicious, Kevin.”
Kevin crossed the threshold, shaking his head and sighing.
* * *
Due to her early morning errands the next day, Minerva did not read the newspaper until afternoon. The day had turned fair, so she brought it outside to the small garden and sat on a stone bench. Her quick scan of the advertisements stopped abruptly when she saw her own name.
Desire information on Margaret Finley, widow of Algernon, of Dorset County. To report or inquire, write to John Smith, care of Montgomery Stationers, Montagu Street.
Chase Radnor must have inserted that query in the paper. The scoundrel was inquiring into her past, and her story. She had thought the solicitor satisfied, but remembered Sanders referring to perhaps firming up the particulars. She had not thought he meant the ones about Margaret Finley!
After swallowing her dismay, she noted that two other notices, with two other names, followed the one regarding her.
Her mind immediately lined up who if anyone could respond to the notice. Beth and Jeremy, of course. No one else, since she had never been Minerva Hepplewhite while living in Dorset. She had become Minerva Hepplewhite while they journeyed to London. The only possible connection between the two names might be the hired coachman who took them from her home in Dorset and brought them to the coaching inn where they found transportation. If he had dallied at the inn he might have heard her new name used. It had been five years ago, however, and she doubted anyone would remember something hardly worthy of note to begin with.
The kitchen door opened and Beth came out to her. “Elise Turner is here.”
“Send her out to me.”
“I still think it is I who should go with you.”
Beth renewed a contentious conversation from the night before.
“I need you here in case Mrs. Drable sends anyone else to us. I can hardly ask Elise to do that.” Minerva did not want to hurt or insult Beth with the real reason she preferred Elise. Her young friend would simply be more plausible entering shops and examining lace cuffs.
“Jeremy could do it.”
“If women come looking for a business run by women, it would hardly do to have their first meeting be with a man.”
Beth pursed her lips. “I hope you don’t expect me to only open doors and such with this Office of Inquiries, or sit at that desk listening to possible patrons. I want to have some of the fun too.”
“There will be many times when only you will do, Beth. Times when I can only depend on someone I trust with my life.”
Flattered and a little chagrined, Beth returned to the door and opened it to allow Elise entry to the garden.
Minerva had asked Elise to wear her best dress, so she might see just how good that dress might be. Examining the blue muslin now approaching, she mentally added her own fawn pelisse and dark blue bonnet.
She bade Elise sit with her. “Are you currently engaged in any employment?”
“Mrs. Drable tries, but so far nothing, not even another short-term hire.”
“I have something that should last a few days. I will bring it to Mrs. Drable if, after hearing about it, you are interested. First I need to see if you have the temperament.”
“I’m considered very even tempered, if that is what you mean.”
“Not entirely. In this assignment you will have to act. You must be someone other than you are. I want to see if you can do that. I’ll ask you to show a mood or emotion, and you try to do it.”
Elise nodded, but her puckered brow indicated she thought this very odd.
“Good. First, I want you to show sadness.”
Elise thought about that. Then she closed her eyes. When she opened them she threw back her head and began wailing. Loudly. Her moans and cries rang through the garden.
Minerva veered back, startled. Beth threw open the kitchen door. A head poked out the upper window of the neighboring house. Jeremy came running through the garden. Elise continued wailing so loud the whole street must have heard. Minerva half expected the girl to tear her hair and rend her clothing.
Minerva grasped Elise’s shoulder. “Not like that.”
Elise quieted. “You said sad.”
“Yes, but not grieving sad. Disappointed sad.” She waved for Jeremy to go back to the carriage house. Beth closed the kitchen door. “Let’s try this instead. Pretend you are a lady of high breeding and I am a shop owner. Ask me if I have any better muslin than you have seen.”
“Am I rich?”
“Fairly so.”
“Am I conceited?”
“No. You are nice.”
Elise thought about it. She smiled vaguely. Kindly, but a bit patronizing. It was not the smile one gives an equal. Her eyes sparkled with good humor, but also expectations of deference. “These muslins are quite nice, but do you have anything better? With primrose sprigs, perhaps?”
Minerva was impressed at how well she transformed herself. Elise Turner was a natural actress. She would do very well.
“I will speak with Mrs. Drable.”
Chapter Eleven
Chase dismounted in front of the inn. Beside him Nicholas did the same. A groom took both of their horses to be rested, watered, and fed.
“I’m glad we rode,” Nicholas said while they entered the coaching inn. “It has been both faster and more leisurely, since we make these stops. I think at this one some food is in order.”
Chase was hungry too, and he accompanied Nicholas into the large public room. A busy crowd filled the inn, with the tables occupied by the people traveling in the stagecoach having its horses changed in the yard.
Nicholas led the way over to a counter where the publican dispensed beer. “They should leave soon.”
“I don’t mind standing a while.” A couple of hours on a horse and his body begged for some stretching.
They bought pints and lounged against the counter while they watched the quick movements and quicker eating of the patrons.
“I called at the Home Office,” Nicholas said. “I asked Peel what theories were being considered about Uncle’s fall. I received much attention and deference, but no information. Perhaps they are not looking into it at all.”
“While we are at Melton Park I will take a better look at that parapet. My examination after the funeral was necessarily quick and cursory, but perhaps more can be determined.”