I don’t believe you,” Poppy said firmly, looking back and forth between her mother and stepfather. “I want to see her bedchamber. I want proof that she’s not locked away somewhere in this house.”
Langham laid a hand on her shoulder, silently signaling his support.
“Are you calling your mother a liar?” But instead of sounding outraged, Short sounded bored.
When Poppy didn’t answer, only held her stepfather’s gaze, the man sighed.
“The rooms she shared with Mr. Lovell is on the second floor, third on the right,” Short said with a wave of his hand toward the upper floors. “You are welcome to search the rest of the house, but I can assure you she is not here.”
It occurred to Langham then, though he would never put the idea in Poppy’s head before she got there on her own, that it was entirely possible that Violet had been killed by the same person who had killed her husband. If so, then their search for her in this house was doomed to be fruitless. But at the very least they might be able to find some clue as to whether she’d left on her own or against her will.
Beside him, Poppy said in an undertone, “Let’s go look. Even if she isn’t here, we may be able to find something that points to Lovell’s killer.”
With a nod, he followed her as she swept past her mother and stepfather and up the stairs toward the upper floors of the house.
“If he has any proof of his illegal activities in the house,” Langham said in a low voice once they were out of earshot, “then they aren’t kept up here.”
Poppy shot him a surprised look, and he gave her a wry smile. “I suspect you are accustomed to being the cleverest person in whatever room you happen to be in. Never fear, you still are. Indeed, it’s one of the things I like best about you.”
Then, realizing he’d said more than he intended, he pressed forward to the door Short had said was Violet’s and turned the handle.
It was, as Short had indicated, empty.
“I don’t know why I’m disappointed,” Poppy said with a tremor in her voice. “He told us she wasn’t here.”
“We’ll find her,” Langham said, squeezing her hand. “I promise you.”
Langham stepped into the attached dressing room while Poppy explored Violet’s bedchamber. Opening drawer after drawer, then cabinet after cabinet, he noted that however Poppy might dislike Lovell, it didn’t seem that he’d stinted his wife on her clothing allowance. There were rows and rows of gowns in the wardrobes, and the drawers held any number of stockings and underthings. The last wardrobe, however, was nearly empty of gowns.
“There’s no valise or trunk here,” he said to Poppy as he crossed back into the bedchamber. “And you’ll have to check for yourself, but it looks to me as if there are some gowns missing. I would say that in this instance your stepfather was telling the truth. Your sister has left. Whether of her own volition or not, we can’t know yet.”
“But why would she leave?” Poppy asked, frustration heavy in her voice. “If she has run, then it will only serve to make her look more guilty in the eyes of the law.”
“She may have thought it was her only option,” Langham said with a shrug. “It’s not as if she can count on her father for help. He’s the one who gave her name to the authorities in the first place.”
“But she has me,” Poppy protested, and it was impossible to miss the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Though how she could possibly have guessed I would come, I don’t know. I’m just as responsible for this mess as anyone. If I hadn’t run away and left her here to take my place—”
“—you would have been trapped in marriage to that cretin Lovell,” Langham said, stepping forward to brush a tear from her cheek. “You cannot blame yourself for thinking your sister would be safer under her own father’s roof than you were.”
“I should have stayed,” Poppy repeated, pulling away from him. “I should have protected her. I was the eldest. She was my responsibility.”
Langham watched helplessly as Poppy stalked into the dressing room. He followed as she opened the door on the far side, which led into another dressing chamber, this one presumably Lovell’s.
Going through to the bedroom beyond, Poppy opened the draperies there just as she had those in Violet’s room. Whereas the other bedchamber had been light and airy, this one, decorated in claret-colored fabrics and with darkly patterned paper on the walls, felt heavy and oppressive.
“The décor rather makes one want to check under the bed for monsters doesn’t it?” Langham asked.
As if in silent agreement, they each took a bedside table to search. Pulling open the drawer of the one nearest the window, Langham began pulling out various bits and bobs. A comb, a volume of Catullus with a leaf serving as a bookmark, a tin of lemon drops. In the back of the drawer—whether it was hidden there by chance or purpose he could not say—he found a book of pornographic drawings.
Flipping through the well-thumbed pages—he would not think about that just now—Langham noted with clinical detachment that it was neither the most lurid collection of erotic images he’d ever seen nor the tamest. He considered putting the book back in the drawer and forgetting about it. But he knew Poppy would not thank him for shielding her from it.
“Why would Lovell have a bagful of earbobs?” the lady mused aloud as Langham walked round the bed to stand beside her.
“Let me see,” he said, leaning forward to look at the velvet bag she held in one hand and the several odd earrings in the palm of the other. Realization struck him, and much as he disliked it, this was apparently the day for revealing to Poppy just how much worse men were than she’d even guessed. “I suspect they are trophies of a sort.”
“Trophies?” Poppy’s nose wrinkled adorably.
“Some men keep lists of the women they bed,” Langham said, feeling shame for the entirety of his sex, “but it isn’t unheard of that one would ask for a piece of jewelry or an item of clothing.”
Poppy dropped the jewels back into the bag as if they were made of hot coals. She turned to him with wide eyes, an unasked question in them.
“No,” he said, feeling his ears redden. “I’ve never seen the need. And despite what you may think of me, the number of my conquests isn’t so great that I’m in danger of forgetting their names.”
“I never said a thing,” she said primly before turning back to the drawer where she’d found the bag. “What’s that book in your hand?”
“Oh, just a volume of artistic prints,” he said truthfully as he slipped the book into his pocket. After the earbobs discussion, now was not the time to launch into another example of men’s debauchery.
She didn’t press him and was soon distracted by something in the drawer she searched. “I’ve found something,” she said, excitement in her voice. “There’s a page wedged into the back of the cabinet.”
Then, with a cry of triumph, she pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Breathlessly, she pressed it open, and together they scanned the words that had been written in a neat copperplate hand.
“It’s a list in some sort of code,” Poppy said finally. “And there are numbers that look like monetary amounts to the right of each, as well as dates.”
* * *
“What the hell was Lovell playing at?” Langham said, turning the note over but finding nothing of consequence on the back. “And why the secrecy?”
Poppy scanned the column of nonsense words for any hint of what they might mean. “You did mention that some men keep lists of their lovers.”
“Unless the identities of his paramours are a state secret,” Langham said with a raised brow, “then I fail to see why he would feel the need to encrypt their names.”
“Good point,” she said, frowning down at the unintelligible words. “And though I have no experience with such matters, some of these costs seem rather exorbitant for ladies of the night.”
She heard Langham choke on a surprised laugh and frowned at him. “I’m hardly a green girl. I know about such things.”
“My apologies,” he said mildly. “I’ll try not to make assumptions in the future.”
“See that you do,” Poppy said with a sniff. It was bad enough having to paw through the detritus of Alistair Lovell’s life without having the man who’d just kissed her breathless presume she was as innocent as a newborn babe. She had lived on her own in London for two full years, after all. She’d learned some things.
“You don’t recognize the hand, do you?” Langham asked, wisely changing the subject. “I certainly do not.”
Poppy shook her head. “It isn’t my sister’s or my mother’s. And I saw Lovell and Lord Short’s writing so infrequently I couldn’t say with any certainty whether it’s either of theirs.”
Then, reaching toward a stack of books piled on the bedside table, she picked up a volume of poetry and flipped open the front cover. As she’d hoped, Lovell had inscribed his name and the date of acquisition on the flyleaf.
“Look,” she said, showing the inscription to Langham, whose eyes widened at seeing the title. “It matches,” she said before he could remark upon the book’s contents.
“So, Lovell wrote the list,” Langham said glancing at the page again. “I was rather good at ciphers as a youth. Perhaps I’ll be able to unravel it once we’re back at the abbey.”
“I too am quite good at codes,” Poppy said, remembering the hours she’d spent with Lady Kate and Caro, decrypting the letters sent to The London Gazette by the XYZ Killer after they’d covered the case in their column.
“Ah. Of course,” he said, his eyes meeting hers with a glint of challenge. “Then the prize goes to whoever can untangle it first.”
Poppy swallowed, feeling the color rise in her cheeks. “What is this prize?”
Langham took a step closer to her, “I shall have to think on it,” he said softly. “Perhaps a kiss?”
The sound of voices in Violet’s bedchamber, however, had them breaking apart.
Langham took the note and folded it back into its original shape and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat, while Poppy quickly replaced the bag of earrings inside the drawer.
When Lord and Lady Short burst into the room, Poppy and Langham were standing innocently before the window, the duke pointing to something in the distance. “Stannings’s estate is just over that hillock. You can see the roof of his stables just there.”
“We said you could search Violet’s bedchamber,” said Short in a tight voice. “Not Lovell’s. But of course you would have no respect for the dead, would you, Poppy? You never liked the man from the moment he came to work for me.”
Glaring at her stepfather, Poppy refused to be cowed by him. “No, I never did. But then I’ve never been fond of men who use their strength to prey upon those who are weaker than they are. But you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, stepfather?”
Lord Short, whose forehead was shiny with perspiration, shook his head. “My dear daughter, I was only trying to see that you were cared for. You were hardly going to attract a suitable husband on your own, what with your managing ways.”
Poppy felt Langham slip an arm about her waist. “She is well cared for now, Lord Short,” the duke said as he escorted her toward the door. “And I must assume that your other daughter was also managing if you found it necessary to wed her to Lovell after Poppy left.”
“I had promised him Poppy’s hand,” Short said tightly as the butler ushered them over the threshold. “You understand what it is to give your word, Langham. I had to make good on that promise after Poppy ran off.”
Langham stopped in the doorway and turned back to look sharply at Lord Short. “You make it sound as if you owed the man, Short.”
The look that her stepfather directed toward Langham was simmering with hatred, and suddenly Poppy was convinced the duke had hit on the truth. The thought that her sister had been traded to Lovell by her own father made Poppy feel ill.
“Come my dear,” Langham said from beside her, “let us get you away from here.”
They were nearing the entry hall when they heard the butler speaking to someone. As they turned the corner, Poppy saw it was Sir Geoffrey Stannings and her heart sank. There was no way he would interpret Violet’s disappearance as anything but an attempt to flee justice.
Violet, where are you?
“Langham, Miss Delamere,” the magistrate said with a sober nod. “I take it you have come to see Mrs. Lovell? I hope she is ready to speak with me at last. I have delayed the coroner’s inquest for as long as I can but justice cannot wait forever.”
Perhaps having felt Poppy stiffen beside him, Langham spoke up before she could do so. “Stannings, Miss Delamere, as you can imagine, is overset. We’ll leave you to your work.”
And without another word, he ushered her from the house and into the waiting curricle.
Once they were under way, Poppy said, “Thank you. I do not think I could have borne speaking to him about Violet’s disappearance.”
Moving to hold the reins in one hand, he gripped her left in his right. “Stannings might be one of my oldest friends, but I am hardly going to put you in the position of informing him your sister may have fled. He can do his own damned investigating.”
“And if he determines she has run away?” Poppy asked, concentrating on the warmth of his hand clasping hers, trying not to let her alarm overwhelm her.
“One calamity at a time, Poppy,” he said gently. “One calamity at a time.”
