The Theft Before Christmas Read online

  She didn't look at her husband, who belonged to no gentlemen's clubs. "Then I daresay my father is acquainted with him."

  "Had you explained to your visitors about the significance of the Michelangelo?" Jack asked.

  "Yes. I waited until all those I had invited were present, and then I showed it to all of them. It is an awesome sight to see it on that table framed by a glowing fire. It's almost like a celestial experience."

  "Yes, I can see where it would be," she said.

  Jack came to stand in front of their monarch. "At what point, then, did you discover it missing?"

  "Oh, it wasn't I who discovered it. Lady Hertford noticed it was gone just after the commotion."

  Ah, ha!

  Jack's brows lowered. "What commotion would that be?"

  "Silly me," the Regent said. "I forgot to tell you the most telling piece of information. There was a decided distraction when the statue was taken."

  "What kind of distraction?" Daphne asked.

  "I would wager my cherished house the distraction was contrived so the odious thief could take the Michelangelo, but my servants swear no one else entered or left the chamber after the distraction. You see, they must open the door for each new entrant."

  Just as they did for Daphne and Jack today.

  "Pray, Your Highness, could you elaborate on this distraction?" Jack asked.

  "Did I not tell you?"

  "No, Your Majesty," Daphne answered.

  "Harriette Wilson came storming in here."

  Everyone in the kingdom knew that Harriette Wilson was the most famous courtesan in all of England. Daphne had never heard of a woman of Miss Wilson's wicked reputation ever being permitted in the same chamber with respectable women—unless one considered Theatre Royal Drury Lane a chamber.

  "But doesn't everyone have to show the royal summons in order to gain entrance?" Jack asked.

  The Regent nodded. "She did. We have since discovered her invitation to be a forgery."

  Daphne placed her palms up. "It sounds to me as if we know who took the statue."

  "But," the Regent answered, "all eyes were on her every minute she was here. I can vouch for the fact she could not have taken it."

  "The thief obviously put Miss Wilson up to her stunt," Jack said, "counting on her serving as a diversion while he took the statue."

  The Regent shook his head. "I know it seems logical that it happened like that, but it didn’t. As I said, the servants on the other side of the door swear no one either entered or left the chamber during the time Harriette Wilson was within."

  "For curiosity's sake," Daphne said, "how did you get rid of her?" She wondered how he knew what Harriette Wilson looked like, but then realized one couldn’t go to the theatre without peering curiously into the box where she and her equally debauched sisters sat as if they were royal personages. Their kind of notoriety spread quicker than horse piss—as her Papa would say (much to Mama's consternation).

  "First, I told her she was not welcome. Then I asked the closest footman to escort her not only from the chamber, but to see that she was thrown out of my house. It was a complete outrage!"

  "Indeed it was," Daphne agreed.

  Jack looked at the Regent. "Would you say that while she was in this chamber, all eyes were on her?"

  "With certainty. Everyone in the chamber admitted to immediately recognizing her. You will own, she's notorious."

  They nodded their agreement.

  "In fact," the Regent added, "all activity stopped the instant she entered the chamber and strode toward me, an insipid smile on her face. I swear I had never met the woman before. I glared angrily at the audacious woman."

  "And when she left, no one left right after?"

  He shook his head. "In fact, not more than a few seconds after she left, Lady Hertford started screaming that the Michelangelo was gone."

  "The first thing I did was to tell my footmen not to let anyone leave the room until a proper search was conducted."

  "Everyone looked high and low, but it was hopeless."

  Daphne's gaze fanned across the chamber, searching for any place that could conceal a small statue. Nothing looked very promising. All the chairs and sofas were on slender legs, and nothing could be concealed beneath them.

  She rose and strode to the windows. The walls in which they were encased were about a foot thick. She had seen some of these that concealed shutters in a slender compartment.

  She examined the thick walls surrounding each window in the chamber, but no concealed cupboards were found.

  There was one heavily ornamented cabinet against the south wall. "I suppose you have already looked behind each of those doors and drawers?'

  The Regent nodded morosely.

  "Is there perhaps a closet where someone could have been concealed?" Jack asked.

  Good idea. Why hadn't she thought of that?

  "Not in this chamber," the Regent replied.

  Then she thought of something. "Had any ladies attending been presented yesterday?" She knew that ladies' prevailing fashions of soft, close-fitting dresses would never allow for concealment of any kind. (How could they when even a lady's undergarments were so easily viewed beneath the wispy fabrics of today's frocks?) However, the dresses ladies wore to be presented at court adopted fashions of the last century, when the voluminous skirts could have concealed a school room of dwarfs.

  He shook his head sadly.

  "What was Miss Wilson wearing?" she asked.

  The Regent frowned. "Very little. It was quite scandalous."

  "Why would your servants allow such a woman. . ." Daphne's query was cut off by Jack's deep scowl and shake of his head.

  "I am ashamed to say there have been times in the past when some women of that sort may have gained entrance. . ." The Prince Regent could not make eye contact.

  "But you'd never before met Harriette Wilson?" Daphne asked.

  He shrugged.

  Jack eyed him somberly. "Can you direct us to her house?"

  Chapter 3

  It was nearly dark when Daphne and Jack finally returned to their carriage awaiting in front of Carlton House. “It’s prodigiously late to be goin’ on to Addersley Priory,” Andy told them.

  Unlike the other coachmen and grooms Jack had observed, their young man was given to expressing his opinions. Daphne rather mothered the lad since she had plucked him from his own family in Portsmouth several months earlier. “I’m afraid we’re not going to Addersley just yet,” Jack explained.

  “You will be happy to know,” Daphne told Andy as he handed her into the carriage, “that we’re to be undertaking another clandestine investigation.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “For His Majesty?”

  Jack scowled at her.

  “Darling, you know how clever Andy is with this sort of thing.”

  “I do, but you also told the Regent our investigation would be in the strictest secrecy.”

  She frowned. “Andy doesn’t count. He’s an integral partner in all we do.”

  Jack knew better than to waste his breath.

  “Where to, Gov’nah?” Andy asked.

  “Do you know where St. James Street is?” Jack asked, knowing full well the boy studied maps like Turner studied landscapes. He put into Andy's hand the scrap of paper which bore Miss Wilson’s address.

  “As well as I know me own name.”

  Once they were on their way to St. James, Jack turned to his wife. “Why did you look so shocked when I asked the Regent for Miss Wilson’s direction?”

  “I had a mental lapse. I cannot in my wildest imagination ever picturing you going to an establishment like that woman’s. You’re far too moral.”

  “I would hardly say that. It’s just that I have a high regard for honesty.” One who broke marriage vows was not one he could admire.

  “And integrity.” She scooted closer, and he could smell her fresh spearmint scent. He settled his arm across her slender shoulders and dropped a soft kiss into the
mass of her unruly hair—which he quite loved. Just as much as he loved her spectacles.

  Within a few minutes, their coach pulled up in front of the stately white-stone house where the famed courtesan resided. “You, madam, are not to come with me.” He moved to leave the carriage.

  “I am too coming!”

  He spun toward her and glowered. “I will not have my wife in the same room with a woman of that sort.”

  “Don’t be silly. You know what a good interrogator I am. And it’s not as if I’m a maiden.” She moved toward the door, her hand seductively snaking along his thigh.

  His hand clamped her wrist. “I won’t allow you to step one foot inside that woman’s house.”

  She sighed. “You’re being very obtuse. I know you’re brilliant at getting information about troop movements and weaponry and things of a military nature, but I happen to know how to extract information from women.”

  “You know nothing of that sort of woman.” He prayed she did not reverse that question for he wasn’t that innocent or that noble. Before he married.

  She coiled her fingers around his forearm. “I won’t have you going in there with that sort of woman!”

  They would be there all night if he didn’t break the stalemate. “Very well, but I don’t like it one bit.” Why was it his wife always seemed to get her way?

  This section of St. James was home to some of the wealthiest courtesans in the Capital, and it happened to be close to the most prestigious of the gentleman’s clubs. Which was no coincidence.

  “I pray she’s in,” Daphne said as they climbed the steps to the front door.

  “There’s light at the window.”

  “Which is good.”

  He rapped at the door.

  When a liveried servant answered it seconds later, he almost laughed aloud at the pretentiousness. He’d been told Harriette Wilson and her debauched sisters, whose father was a Swiss clockmaker, had been mistresses to titled men before their fifteenth birthdays. Which begged the question. . . had they been instructed reading, writing, and pleasuring at their mother’s knee?

  He must put aside his own judgment and try to treat the amoral woman with a modicum of respect if he hoped to get any information from her. “Captain Dryden and Lady Daphne Dryden to see your mistress,” Jack said.

  The man looked taken aback at having a respectable female member of the aristocracy at Miss Wilson’s door.

  “Pray, come to the drawing room while I tell my mistress the nature of your business. Which is?”

  “The Prince Regent has sent us,” Daphne interjected.

  His powdered wig askance, the servant’s eyes widened. “If you will just follow me.”

  Jack knew nothing about décor, but it seemed to him Miss Wilson may have gone a bit overboard with gilt looking glasses on every wall as well as a profusion of gilded furniture which, like the Regent’s, was in the French mode. He’d wager hers wasn’t nearly as costly as the Regent’s, but Jack was incapable of telling one from the other.

  The scarlet draperies in the drawing room were drawn. At least the woman was sensible to guard the privacy of her visitors. The sofa upon which he and Daphne sat was also covered in scarlet fabric. Was it silk? Daphne might know, but then Daphne was not much more interested than he in matters of what was fashionable—even if she had been born into one of the most fashionable families in the English aristocracy

  He hated that this courtesan who’d seen more undressed men that the Dragoon’s tailor lived in a nicer house than his Daphne.

  A moment later, Harriette Wilson strode into the chamber. Like all those in the Regent’s saloon the night before had, Jack easily recognized her. Not only was she a fixture in her box at Drury Lane, but she was also widely caricatured by Cruikshank.

  Like his own wife, Miss Wilson was taller than average. He was grateful the brown-haired strumpet’s dress wasn’t indecent. Its fabric was very sheer, and its bodice was very low, but nothing of too personal a nature was on display. He stood and slightly bowed. “Good of you to see us, Miss Wilson.”

  Daphne also stood, and even though he knew nothing of fashion, a quick glance from one woman to the other confirmed that the fallen woman dressed much finer than his aristocratic wife. He was going to make Daphne get a new dress as soon as Christmas was over. Better yet, he would have the duchess select one for his wife, for Daphne’s sister was said to be an arbitrator of good taste. But then he recalled the duchess had selected an entire new wardrobe for Daphne's trousseau. It was just like his wife to prefer her old things.

  Daphne flashed a smile at their hostess and curtsied. “I am Lady Daphne Dryden.”

  Miss Wilson elevated a brown brow and returned the curtsey. “I am honored, my lady.”

  The three of them continued standing, eying each other awkwardly until Miss Wilson finally said, “Pray, let us all sit.”

  “Hopkins tells me that you’ve come from the Regent?” Miss Wilson began, eying Jack, who was still in uniform, as she took a seat on a second sofa that was much like the one Jack and Daphne had been sitting on. “I suppose you’ve spoken with him today?”

  Jack nodded, but before he could say anything, she continued.

  “Did he tell you how rudely I was treated?”

  Before Jack could respond, Daphne answered, even though she wasn’t the one being addressed by Miss Wilson. “I must agree, Miss Wilson. It was very insensitive of him. After all, you had a royal invitation.”

  The courtesan warmed to Daphne, directing a smile at her as she nodded enthusiastically.

  “Pray, Miss Wilson,” Daphne continued, “did you know the invitation was a forgery?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “But you must have suspected,” Jack said.

  Now their hostess returned her attention to him—which made him deuced uncomfortable because she ran her eye over him top to bottom as if he were a filly at Tattersall’s. “Had the invitation been for a later hour in the night, I would not have questioned it, if you understand my meaning, Captain?” Her gaze raked over him once again.

  “I am particularly interested in how you obtained the invitation.” He’d be damned if he’d address this. . .harlot as politely as Daphne had.

  She shrugged. “I know not who sent it.”

  “How was it sent?” Daphne asked.

  “It was delivered. After the first message.”

  “What first message?” he asked.

  “The day before I received. . . what you say is a forgery, I received a note telling me that if I would appear at a Carlton House fete – with a proper invitation—I would receive £500.”

  Daphne’s mouth gaped open. “Who was the note from?”

  Miss Wilson shrugged. “I know not.”

  “Then what made you believe the sender would make good on his promise?” Jack asked.

  “There was a £100 note enclosed, with the promise of £400 more upon completion of my task.”

  Daphne pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “Have you received the other £400 yet?”

  “No, but it’s been just one day.”

  How stupid could one woman be, Jack thought. “Who delivered the notes?”

  “I asked the same question of Hopkins when he brought the first one to me, but you know how men are. . .” This she addressed to Daphne. “They have no ability to observe things as we do.”

  Daphne nodded. “I completely agree.”

  “Then what did Hopkins manage to convey to you?” Jack demanded.

  She shrugged. “He said it was a liveried servant who may have been a mute because he did not say a single word.”

  Jack eyed her suspiciously “What of the servant’s conveyance?”

  “Hopkins said he did not see one.”

  Daphne smiled upon her. “Pray, what color was the man’s livery?”

  Miss Wilson glared at Jack. “Do you see what I mean? You would never have thought to ask about colors, now would you? It takes a woman to look for things of
that nature.”

  Jack was quite sure had he the time, he would have questioned her about the color of the servant’s livery.

  Miss Wilson shrugged. “Alas, I forgot to ask. Allow me to ring for Hopkins.” She got up and pulled the bell, and her servant came straight away.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “What color was the livery of the man who delivered those two letters to me?”

  “’Twas a blue, but I’m not good at saying what kind of blue it was—though it weren’t light.”

  “Was it as dark as a naval uniform?” Jack asked.

  The man shook his head. “Not that dark, either.”

  “Was it the kind of color that brings to mind royalty?” Daphne asked.

  He nodded happily. “That it were.”

  “I believe it may have been what we call royal blue,” Daphne said to their hostess. “Like for the House of Bourbon.”

  "Pray, Miss Wilson, did you perchance keep the letter?"

  "A woman in my position keeps all her letters, Captain. One never knows when their value may rise."

  "We would be ever so appreciative if you could show it to us," Daphne said.

  Miss Wilson called back her servant. "Have Annette give you my little wooden box, Hopkins. She'll know which one."

  A moment later, he returned with a locked box. She extracted a key from around her neck and opened it. It was crammed with letters. She took two off the top and handed them to Daphne. "Here they are, my lady."

  Jack came to peer over his wife's shoulder. Each was on a single piece of paper, a high-quality velum with no crest, and the writing was neat and easy to read. Both were just as she had represented them to be.

  He had hoped some clue on the page would help him identify the thief, but there was nothing.

  Miss Wilson put them back into the box, locked it, and instructed her servant to return it to her maid. “Is there anything else you wish to know?” she asked Daphne and Jack.

  Jack shook his head.

  "Then I wish to ask a question. For what purpose was I used last night?"

  She was trying to demonstrate her ignorance, but he wasn't believing. "I am not at liberty to say. The Regent has asked that everything concerning last night remain secret."