An Honorable Affair

Chapter One

Did you see Henrietta Spatterton’s turban? Lady Belmont said indignantly as the carriage pulled away from the brightly lit portals of the Russian Embassy.

Penelope Langham directed a glance of mingled amusement and indulgence at her aunt. Black with gold plumes? Yes, Aunt Sophy. How could I not have seen it?

A monstrosity that made Henrietta look like a gilded ostrich!

I certainly am glad you chose the lavender lace cap. Only think how you would have felt had you bought the turban you described to me last week. Black with gold feathers, was it not, Aunt Sophy?

Yes. I had my heart set on it, until that clever girl at Balena’s Hat Shoppe told me I should always wear lavender or mauve with my silver-blond hair. I daresay she knew that Henrietta planned… Lady Belmont’s voice trailed off. She peered uncertainly into her niece’s face, then laughed. "You’re an abominable tease, Penelope! You knew all along that I could have scratched Henrietta’s eyes out for wearing the turban I wanted!"

You look very fetching in lavender, Aunt Sophy, Penelope said soothingly.

She clung to the leather strap suspended from the ceiling of the coach as they turned rather sharply into Oxford Street, then into Davies Street, with the rumble of a second carriage following close behind them. It appears Hunter made a wager against Lady Margaret’s coachman again, she said, laughter dancing in her voice.

The wretch! And I don’t know why you should be laughing, Penelope! Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you raise your brows when I lose a few pennies at silver-loo. Yet when our groom gambles with our very lives, you— Oh, for heaven’s sake, Penelope! Tell him to slow down, Lady Belmont cried as they rattled on at such a pace that the well-sprung carriage swayed precariously.

Penelope blinked but said nothing. A few pennies! She had seen her aunt lose as much as a hundred pounds in one night.

She turned and opened the small panel behind her just as the carriage swung into Berkeley Square, its familiar outline illuminated by the hazy glow of numerous gas lanterns. Before she could relay Lady Belmont’s message, however, Hunter slowed down on his own accord, then stopped.

There be summat amiss! he shouted. I can see Belmont House lit up from top to bottom, Miss Penelope, an’ there be a crowd like we had the two-headed leddy of Bartholomew Fair sittin’ on our steps!

"Thank you, Hunter. But that’s no reason not to take us home. Proceed, if you please." Penelope shut the panel and braced herself for bumps and jolts as Hunter whipped up the horses for the home stretch.

Lady Belmont scooted to the edge of her seat and peeked out the window. Hunter had indeed described the scene in front of her house correctly. If anything, the crowd she saw in the light of the gas lanterns was even thicker than that at Bartholomew Fair.

I hope the house isn’t on fire! the plump little lady wailed. Dawson warned me that the chimney in the kitchen needed sweeping! Oh, whatever could be the matter?

Aunt Sophy, Penelope said gently, we’ve arrived, and see, the house is still standing. If you let go of the door, Hunter can open it and let down the steps for you.

Lady Belmont almost tumbled from the carriage in her haste and was immediately engulfed in a voluble if unintelligible stream of explanations from Sweetings, her dresser, and from the housekeeper Mrs. Dawson, as they accompanied their mistress into the house.

Before Penelope stepped down, she surveyed the throng of shouting men and women. Her aunt’s servants were milling around, as were dozens more from the neighboring houses. Something was, indeed, amiss. Penelope took a deep breath and, beckoning her aunt’s butler to follow her, brushed through the shouting, gesticulating crowd.

In the relative calm of the foyer she faced the old retainer. Sit down, Dawson, she said after one glance at his pale, gaunt face and his trembling hands. Tell me what happened.

Dawson tottered to the nearest of several ladder-backed chairs flanking the entrance hall. He sat down heavily. It’s the opals, Miss Penelope, he said, his thin, old-man’s voice quavering more than usual. The Belmont Opals are gone!

A picture of her aunt replacing the opal necklace and tiara in a velvet-lined box, then taking out her diamonds, flashed through Penelope’s mind. Nonsense, Dawson, she said bracingly. I saw the opals myself less than four hours ago.

Dawson shook his head. The opals are gone! They were stolen. I tell you, Miss Penelope— Stiffly the butler got to his feet when a burly individual dressed in a gray frieze coat and a wide-brimmed hat came stomping into the foyer.

This, ah, gentleman here is a Bow Street runner, Miss Penelope. I sent for him, Dawson said apologetically.

Dare’s the name. Theobald Dare, miss. The runner snatched off his hat and bowed. If ye would kindly direct me to the Dowager Countess of Belmont, miss? It’s my dooty to take a statement.

If Penelope still maintained doubts about the theft of the opal necklace and tiara, they were swept aside by a piercing shriek dwindling to a wail from above.

Pray excuse me, she said to the Bow Street runner, who had pulled from his coat pocket a much-thumbed occurrence book and the stub of a thick pencil. I fear Lady Belmont won’t be able to see you now.

As Penelope rushed up the two flights of highly glossed oak stairs, she reflected that eight years ago when she first arrived at her aunt’s house, she might have felt a thrill of excitement at the sight of a Bow Street runner, for then her first thought would have been for the possibility of an adventure—a burglar hunt. Now, at the ripe age of three-and-twenty, she could only think of the shock her aunt’s frail nerves must have sustained when she found her opals missing.

Slipping off her evening cape and handing it to Nancy, her own maid who had joined the housekeeper and dresser in Lady Belmont’s bedroom, Penelope stepped briskly to the daybed at the foot of the wide four-poster bed where her aunt reclined against a multitude of silken cushions. Sweetings, waving sal volatile and still crying out incoherent explanations, hovered over Lady Belmont.

Take the smelling salts away, Sweetings, Penelope ordered. My aunt is not unconscious. For a moment she studied Sophy’s pale face, the tightly closed eyes, and the compressed lips. Do you have the headache, Aunt Sophy?

When Lady Belmont nodded, Penelope turned to her maid. Open the windows, please, Nancy, and then take Sweetings to the servants’ hall for a cup of tea. To the housekeeper she said, Mrs. Dawson, please send up some tea for Lady Belmont as well. The Bohea, I think.

When Penelope was finally alone with her aunt, she splashed lavender water on a handkerchief and dabbed it against Lady Belmont’s forehead and temples.

Dear Penelope, the dowager countess murmured. You always know just what to do when I suffer one of my spasms.

Yes, indeed, Auntie. But don’t tell Sweetings so, for I fear she takes it as a slight on her own capable ministrations. Now, Aunt Sophy, do you feel up to talking or would you rather wait until you’ve had a dish of Bohea to sustain you?

Recalling her loss, Sophy let out another wail. My necklace! My tiara! Oh, Henry, she cried, gazing through tear-filled eyes at a large portrait on the silk-hung wall opposite her four-poster bed. Whatever shall I do?

Predictably, Sophy’s late husband, the Sixth Earl of Belmont, vouchsafed no reply. He stared down haughtily from his high position where he guarded the safe hidden behind the ornate picture frame.

The safe is closed, Aunt Sophy, Penelope said. Are you certain—

The opals weren’t in the safe! I told Sweetings to leave them out until I’d returned and taken off the diamonds. Overcome by her emotions, Lady Belmont fell back against the cushions and covered her face with her hands. Her plump shoulders encased in lavender satin shook, and tears trickled through her diamond-covered fingers.

Penelope was relieved when a knock on the door heralded the arrival of the tea tray, sparing her the necessity of an immediate reply. Careless, negligent, and foolish were the least objectionable comments that popped into her mind, but while she went through the ritual of measuring and pouring and stirring, Penelope’s equanimity returned.

There’s a Bow Street runner downstairs, Aunt Sophy, she said. No doubt you’ll have the opals restored to you within a day or so.

Taking her aunt’s cup, she moved back to the daybed. Sit up now, Auntie, and drink your tea before it cools. Then you must see the runner and give him a description of the necklace and the tiara. His name is Theobald Dare. A singularly appropriate name for one who plans to challenge our wretched thief, don’t you think?

Lady Belmont, however, was past the state when Penelope could coax or cajole her. With streaming eyes the elderly lady looked up at her niece. My dearest Henry gave me the opals! she wailed. He personally traveled to Hungary when he heard that some impoverished count had put them up for sale, and he snatched them right from under the Emperor Francis’s nose.

Heart-rending sobs made her next words unintelligible, and Penelope understood only the end of her aunt’s disclosure, —the very finest and largest opals, from the Dubnyk mine!

Yes, I know, dear, Penelope said, perching herself on the edge of the daybed and patting her aunt’s soft, plump hands while at the same time holding the fragrant Bohea temptingly close to her aunt’s nose.

Sophy, crying harder and working herself into a fine state of hysterics, pushed away the tea. Sweetings! she cried. I want Sweetings! I must have my elixir!

Penelope’s eyes grew troubled. She prayed that distress over the theft wouldn’t make her aunt dependent on Dr. Wise’s prescriptions once again. Aunt Sophy had done so well these past two months or longer and had stayed away from the noxious stuff dispensed by the doctor.

My opals! I need my medicine, Penelope! Please!

Penelope set the teacup onto a glass-topped table nearby. She stepped into Lady Belmont’s dressing room and opened a small, lacquered cabinet. Standing on tiptoe, she could see at the back of the upper shelf an innocuous-looking brown medicine bottle. Dr. Wise’s elixir. Laudanum.

After eight years with her aunt, Penelope should have been accustomed to Sophy’s weakness, but she wasn’t. Her insides still twisted into a painful knot at sight of the medicine that promised escape from trouble and worry.

Hesitantly Penelope’s hand closed around the bottle. It might be best if she gave her aunt a small dose now. Sweetings, unfortunately, could not be trusted to put her foot down and say no if Lady Belmont asked for more than was good for her.

Penelope measured a few drops of the liquid into a spoon, then returned to the bedchamber. Take your medicine, Auntie, she said calmly. I shall attend to the Bow Street runner for you.

Lady Belmont’s sobs ceased. Yes, she said. I must take my medicine, mustn’t I? My nerves are overset and my poor head is bursting. She peered shortsightedly at the spoon. You measured wrong again, Penelope, she complained. "Dr. Wise said that a lady of my sensibilities must take at least a full spoon."

This is enough, Aunt Sophy. It’ll make you quite sleepy, you’ll see. Penelope met her aunt’s distraught gaze steadily, and after a while Sophy swallowed the small dose, then lay back against the cushions.

Sweetings, much restored as Penelope saw by the usual dour look the dresser bestowed on her, returned shortly. Mayhap you’d best see to matters downstairs now, Miss Langham, the woman said, watching with jealous eyes when Lady Belmont reached for her niece’s hand.

Miss Langham, Sweetings thought angrily, might look like a lady with her beautiful face and dainty figure, but when all was said and done, she was still the same brazen hussy who had come to Belmont House clad in the trousers and shirt worn by Turkish women.

Permitting herself a disdainful sniff, Sweetings stalked to the walnut bureau under the window and pulled open a drawer. She took out a frothy pink nightcap, shaking out the ruffles with loving care while she reflected on Penelope’s unorthodox arrival eight years ago.

Sweetings had predicted then—and it was horribly confirmed now, wasn’t it?—that no good would come from the young hoyden whose parents had irresponsibly allowed her to travel with them among heathens and then had contracted typhoid fever in Constantinople. Mr. and Mrs. Langham had lived only long enough to arrange for a passage home for their daughter and to write a letter consigning the girl to her aunt’s care.

Sweetings sniffed again as she picked up a white and pink bed jacket before approaching the daybed. Well, she’d never call her Miss Penelope as the other servants affectionately did. She shot a sour look at the young lady who still held her aunt’s hand clasped in hers.

That Bow Street runner has called everyone to the servants’ hall, Miss Langham. Asking questions about where we was and what we did. I doubt not as he’ll have everyone up in arms in no time at all, the dresser pointed out with great satisfaction.

Thank you, Sweetings. If you’re sure you can manage alone, I’ll go down and see what I can do. But my aunt, I fear, is rather drowsy from a dose of Dr. Wise’s elixir. If you need help, please call.

Penelope received no reply. After another look at her sleepy aunt, she patted the plump fingers, then left the room. The corridor was dim and cool. Goose bumps formed on her bare arms and shoulders, reminding her that she still wore her ball gown of gossamer Indian silk.

Mayhap it’s my conscience that makes me shiver!

Penelope stepped briskly along the woven runner to her room where Nancy had left a small lamp burning. The delicate French clock on her dressing table showed it was past three o’clock, and in the large, round mirror behind it, Penelope saw her eyes staring back at her—wide and apprehensive; more black than brown.

She spun away from the mirror. After one longing glance at her bed, Penelope changed into a simple frock with a matching spencer, then descended to the nether regions of Lady Belmont’s spacious London home.

She was responsible. She was in charge—as she had been for the past six years.

The moment she parted the green baize curtains in the rear of the entranceway and opened the door to the back stairs, her ears were assailed by a great din of shouts and shrieks. Steeling herself against mayhem, Penelope started down the flight of plain wooden stairs lit by lanterns affixed to the whitewashed walls.

She heard a shout, followed by a crash as though a chair had been tossed across a room, but her steps did not falter. The heels of her dainty shoes tapped steadily along the tiled basement passage.

Penelope ignored the doors on her right leading into the various kitchens, sculleries, and storerooms; she passed the first doors on her left leading to the Dawsons’ and the French chef’s quarters, and advanced toward the ruckus behind a set of sturdy double doors. With a firm push she flung them wide open to reveal the servants’ hall before her.

Ten men and women were seated or standing around the long refectory table, but their yelling and shrieking was loud enough for a gathering of twice their number. To add to the din, some of the men signaled outrage by hammering their fists on the scrubbed tabletop. Two of the women were crying.

Penelope stood quite still just inside the open doors and a little to the left of Mr. Theobald Dare, the Bow Street runner, who had his back to her and was shouting as loud as Lady Belmont’s staff. Rachel, the upstairs maid, saw Penelope first. She broke off in midscream, nudging Ben, the first footman who had jumped up and looked as though he were about to lunge at the Bow Street runner.

Suddenly they all fell silent and rose. Only Mr. Dare’s shout of my dooty to take a statement! boomed and echoed in the long chamber. Then he, too, was still. Penelope walked to the head of the table, where Ben quickly placed a chair for her between the Dawsons.

Pray be seated, Penelope said, and when the Bow Street runner had squeezed his bulk into one of the vacant chairs at the foot of the table, she looked sternly from one disgruntled servant’s face to the other. It is late. In three hours you are supposed to start your tasks. Let us hear what Mr. Dare requires. After all, he is here to recover Lady Belmont’s opals. Then you may all go to bed, and I don’t think Lady Belmont would mind if you slept an hour late.

Penelope received shy smiles and grateful nods from most of the staff, but the first footman scowled and jumped to his feet again. Miss Penelope, Ben said in a rumbling voice, "this here runner as much as told us that we stole them jewels, and I tell you, Miss Penelope, we didn’t do it! He should be out in Seven Dials lookin’ for the thief!"

I understand, Ben, Penelope said soothingly, but no doubt Mr. Dare wishes to know where you all were in case one of you heard or saw something pertinent to his investigation.

That’s what I said, miss. The runner nodded importantly. I must have the pertinent facts, I told them. But they ain’t even all here, he grumbled. I asked the butler—all in the course of my dooty, miss—that the three missing persons be summonsed. But did he do so? Not he! Mr. Dawson refused to obey an officer of the law, miss!

Penelope quickly surveyed the tired faces around the table. Sands, our coachman, hasn’t been able to leave his bed for several days, Mr. Dare. He suffers from arthritis. Miss Sweetings is sitting with Lady Belmont, and the only other person missing is Miriam, our scullery maid. The girl is thirteen, Mr. Dare. She works very hard and needs all the sleep she can get. As does everyone else.

Again her eyes skimmed around the table. She nodded. You may all go now. Dawson, I’ll speak to the staff later in the library. Please see that a fire is lit by nine o’clock.

The Bow Street runner opened his mouth to protest but, encountering Penelope’s quelling stare, prudently changed his mind.

And now, Mr. Dare, Penelope said when the door had shut behind Hunter, the last to leave the servants’ hall, "you may tell me what you require, and I shall see to it that you have everyone’s statement by noon tomorrow, or rather, she added with a pointed look at the large clock affixed to the wall, today."

It is my dooty also to have a statement from you and her ladyship, the runner said stubbornly. And I must search the premises. It is—

Your duty, said Penelope, rising to her feet. I quite understand, and you shall do so when you return at noon.

Mr. Dare could do no less than rise as well, and before he knew it, he was firmly and inexorably led to the back door and ushered outside even while he was explaining what pertinent facts should be contained in the servants’ statements.

With a sigh of relief, Penelope bolted and locked the back door. It was so dashed difficult to show a calm front at all times. How close she herself had come to screaming with impatience at the runner’s officiousness. Or banging her fists on a hard surface. But she had long outgrown such childish behavior. Hadn’t she?

No, I haven’t.

She had made a good pretense of it, though, Penelope thought as she went up to her bedroom. She didn’t bother to disrobe but lay down on her bed atop the soft quilt. In a few hours, after she had interviewed the staff, life would flow once again along its usual, calm channels, she told herself. Soon the opals would be restored to her aunt, and then Sophy again could reduce the amount of laudanum she took and be her cheerful old self.

Sophronia Belmont, like her younger brother, Penelope’s papa, was easygoing, a bit of a gambler, just a mite irresponsible, and above all so very likable and charming. She had opened her home to her orphaned niece and had showered her with kindness and affection.

Why, then, am I so ungrateful? Why are there still moments when I wish I need not behave like a lady?

Penelope’s thoughts became muddled as she finally drifted off to sleep. She awakened to the rich, sweet smell of hot chocolate. A cup rattled in its saucer, then Nancy’s cheerful humming drifted past and came closer again as the little maid moved about, clanking the hot water jug and opening drawers and doors.

Reluctantly Penelope opened her eyes. It was morning, a bright, sunny May morning, and she must ready herself to interrogate her aunt’s faithful staff.

At nine o’clock, Penelope entered the book-lined room tucked away between the Chinese drawing room and the card room on the first floor. At eleven o’clock, she finished writing out the last statement, that of little Miriam, the scullery maid, who was shaking and crying as though she were facing the hangman and his noose instead of her dear Miss Penelope.

Thank you, Miriam. Now I only require your signature, and then you may go. Penelope blotted the page before turning it around and beckoning the young girl closer to the desk.

With an unsteady hand, Miriam produced an X and a large inkblot on Lady Belmont’s finest crested writing paper.

Penelope tried to look stern, but her eyes twinkled at Miriam’s woebegone little face. It’s all in the line of our civic ‘dooty,’ child.

Miriam’s crimson face confirmed that the other servants had regaled her with a good imitation of Mr. Dare’s bluster. Encouraged, Penelope pressed, Why are you so afraid that you seem to have forgotten how to write your name? Come now, you wouldn’t want that Bow Street runner to think he can intimidate the Belmont staff!

Miriam said nothing, and after a while Penelope continued gently, You are afraid, Miriam. What is it? Don’t you trust me? Take your time, child, and read the document. There’s nothing in it that would confine you to Newgate.

The girl tossed her head