A Crimson Warning

17

“Lady Glover’s?” Ivy asked. “I don’t know. I—”

“No discussion.” I took her by the arm and led her—dragged her, really—to the Glovers’ house, only a short walk from my own. The butler admitted us at once, and we followed him through six jewel-toned drawing rooms before reaching his mistress.

“Emily! What do you think of it?” She spread her arms and looked around the room. “It was inspired by you, of course. Only a quick redecoration as of yet. I’ll have it done more thoroughly when we’re back in the country shooting grouse, or whatever dreadful bird is on the wing in August.”

She’d done a credible job turning the chamber from French contemporary to medieval fantasy. A suit of armor stood in one corner, and in the one opposite was a display of horse armor, complete with rider on top. Lances, swords, and an assortment of shields hung from one wall, while the other three were covered with fine tapestries. All of the furniture was heavy and dark. Candelabras on the large table in the center of the room provided the only light save that coming through the windows, which she’d somehow managed to replace with panels of stained glass.

“How did you do this in so little time?” I asked.

“Money makes all things possible,” she said. “What do you think, Mrs. Brandon?”

“I … I…,” Ivy faltered in search of words. “It’s extraordinary. I feel as if I’m in the keep of some Scottish castle.”

“Oh dear,” Lady Glover said. “I was aiming for fifteenth-century France. But it’s a start.”

“How does Mr. Foster like it?” I asked.

“He’s not yet seen it,” she said. “I’ve been keeping him in the Egyptian room, even if he does fancy himself a courtly knight. It’s still my favorite.”

“And your husband?” Ivy asked. “Which is his favorite?”

“His dreadful smoking room,” she said. “Which has been in dire need of refurbishment since approximately 1817. I think he refuses to update it just to ensure I won’t disturb him in his little sanctuary. He knows I can’t bear to spend a moment there as it is.”

“You must know I’ve come to you with the same question I have every day,” I said.

“And today, at last, I have a positive response for you,” she said, pulling a rolled paper from her décolletage. I stifled a laugh and took it from Lady Glover as Ivy did her best to hide her embarrassment.

“We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.” Across the bottom of the page, just as before, was an ominous swish of red paint.

“It’s As You Like It,” Lady Glover said. “I admit to having to undertake quite a search to find the quote. I didn’t expect something from the comedies, you see.”

“No, why would you have?” I frowned. “I wish he’d given some indication of whether he received the reply you’d sent to his first note.”

“Well, of course he received it,” Lady Glover said. “I saw him collect it from my stoop.”

“And you didn’t see fit to share this information with me?” Frustration was replacing my feeling of discomfort.

She fluttered her eyelashes. “A lady must have some secrets.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well, I suppose I must admit—but only to you—that he didn’t come for it himself. He sent a servant of some sort.”

“Was he in livery?” I asked.

“No.” She sighed and leaned forward. “Truth be told, he was rather scruffy for a manservant.”

“How do you know he wasn’t some beggar off the street?” Ivy asked.

“Well, he wasn’t that filthy. At least, not quite.”

“I don’t suppose you had someone follow him?” I asked.

“I followed him myself,” she said. “It was quite an adventure. At least I’d thought it would be. But he went nowhere interesting—just into the back door of Claridge’s Hotel.”

“How is that not interesting?” I asked.

“Because he was summarily ejected not two minutes later,” she said. “And then went towards the East End. I stopped following at that point. The neighborhood was appalling and I quite feared for my own safety.”

I wondered if he had gone to Mr. Majors’s match factory.

“Was there anything that stood out about his appearance?” I asked.

“He must have been in a fight recently,” she said. “He was rather banged up, though the injuries did not look fresh.”

I would have bet anything it was Dobson.

“And you still think he’s the servant to a gentleman?” Ivy asked.

“Dear girl, I never said my correspondent was a gentleman! Do you want tea, either of you?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I do think the man sending these notes is a gentleman. Who else would have such ready knowledge of Shakespeare?”

“An actor, Lady Emily,” she said. “He’d have a far better command of the Bard’s work than any half-interested gentleman with a perfunctory education.”

“I suppose you would know more about actors than us,” Ivy said, then turned bright red. “I’m so sorry … I wasn’t meaning to insult you. I just thought that, in the current circumstances, your background as—”

“Don’t upset yourself,” Lady Glover said. “I’ve never received such a bungled apology in all my life. You can’t be anything but sincere.”

“I assure you, I am,” Ivy said.

“My experience on the stage has certainly enhanced my view of this entire situation,” Lady Glover said. “The stories I could tell you!”

Ivy leaned forward, her eyes wide. She was no longer embarrassed. The red had faded away and she looked well and truly captivated.

“What was it like?” she asked.

“That, my dear, will have to be a story for another day,” Lady Glover said. “For now, I want to focus on this man and his ill-bred servants.”

“You think he has more than one such person at his disposal?” I asked, my suspicions growing again.

“Why wouldn’t he?” she asked, waving her hands dismissively. “Particularly if he’s an actor. He’d have any number of unsavory acquaintances at his disposal.”

“Surely you don’t think ill of stage people?” Ivy asked.

“Not at all,” Lady Glover said. “But there are hangers-on to be considered. People in unfortunate circumstances who seek to advance themselves on the stage, when in fact they have no talent, no beauty, and no chance at success.”

“But surely even a person like that wouldn’t be so scruffy as the man you followed?” I asked.

“He may have been in costume, Lady Emily,” she said. “You must consider every possibility.”

“She’s not at all what I expected,” Ivy said as I walked her home. “Which is not to say she’s the sort of woman with whom we should be cavorting. But I do like her—much more than I ought.”

“I had no idea you were so interested in the stage,” I said, checking my reticule to make sure the note was still in it. I’d asked Lady Glover for it so I might show it to Colin. She acquiesced to my request, but only on the condition that he return it to her himself.

“I’ve always quite fancied it,” Ivy said. “I would love to play Juliet.”

“Would you?” I asked. “How is it that you’ve never shared this with me before?”

“I think I was afraid to admit it out loud.”

“Perhaps we should stage an entertainment.”

“Don’t even think of it,” she said. “Robert would be horrified.”

“No, he wouldn’t, not if we did it at home and only for our friends. It would be perfectly acceptable.”

“But what if I really liked it, Emily? And wanted to do it again?”

“Afraid of being consumed by the urge to act, are you?”

“Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper, looking around furiously as if she were afraid someone might have heard.

“I shan’t harass you about it now, but I think we should consider it for Christmas.”

“I’m not listening,” she said. “I noticed there was yellow sealing wax on Lady Glover’s note.”

“Well done for changing the subject,” I said. “You’re right.”

“It’s identical to that which Winifred has,” she said. “I wonder if in the end, Lady Glover will prove the more acceptable acquaintance?”

“That, Ivy, would be an irony I’d love to see.”

2 July 1893

Belgrave Square, London

I’m desperately excited for the ball at Devonshire House tonight. We all need a break from the hideous tension—the Lloyds, the latest to be marked with paint, have refused to show themselves in public since their steps were splashed red and are showing signs of distress. One of their parlor maids has left without giving notice, saying that she couldn’t bear to be in the house. Apparently her mistress is on edge to the point of madness. No one has the slightest clue what the family is so desperate to keep hidden, but speculating about it are topics number one through ten at every social gathering these days.

I wonder how I would react if I received a warning in crimson? Would I become a recluse? Or would I have the courage to admit what I’ve done? I’m already excessively fond of Lady Glover, despite the many misgivings I have regarding her character, and hope I would use her as a model. She wouldn’t apologize for her sins. She’d be proud of them.

I don’t think I have it in me to be like her, wish though I might for the strength.

Tonight I’m going to do my best to avoid all unpleasant thoughts. A certain young lady will be at the ball tonight, and she’s already promised Mr. Barnes her first dance. I’m hoping it will be the first of many. It would be an excellent match for them both.