Page 65 of The Marriage Method

Nell privately acknowledged her point. “Will she help us?”

“Reluctantly, but yes. Whatever power Miss Corvus holds over her hasn’t diminished. Lady Belwood is still wary of anything to do with the Academy. She’ll oblige us, if only to get us out the door the sooner.” Effie stood. “Shall we go?”

“By all means.” Nell rose, retrieving her cane.

Effie cast it a glance. She was unable to disguise the flash of guilt in her eyes.

Nell didn’t give her a chance to indulge it. She’d wasted enough time on her injury in this life. All those months recovering under the care of questionable physicians, and all the regret-filled years that followed. It was in the past now, and they were here, firmly in the present, with far more important things to occupy their minds.

“Do you mind if we stop at the post office first?” Nell asked. “I’ve a sampler to send to Miss Corvus.”

“If you like.” Effie collected her black silk parasol. It was as stylish as it was lethal, boasting a tip constructed of razor-sharp steel. “Is it about Miss Brent?”

“It is.”

“You said she was special?”

“Unusually intelligent, the matron at the workhouse tells me. As well as being a talented mimic.” Nell followed Effie to the bedroom door. “The matron claims Miss Brent can duplicate any accent she hears to flawless effect.”

“Intriguing.”

“I thought so. And she’s proved resourceful, too. She escaped from the brothel on her own, and scratched the bully boy on the way out. He’ll bear a scar.”

Effie’s mouth curved with satisfaction as she set her hand on the doorknob. “Striking a blow for all womankind. I like this Miss Brent already.”

“Do you think Mr. Royce will be able to locate her?”

“If he can’t,” Effie said, “then no one can.”

• • • • •

The Belwoods’ tall, white stucco town house in Brook Street was at the heart of fashionable Mayfair. On Nell and Effie’s arrival, a liveried footman admitted them into a lavish drawing room decorated in shades of apple-green silk and antique gold brocade. Massive gilt-framed portraits of generations of grand-looking lords and ladies in powdered wigs and lace adorned the walls, an oil-and-canvas testament to the Belwoods’ esteemed pedigree.

They had not been waiting long when Lady Belwood swept into the room. She was a handsome blond woman of passing middle age, attractively plump and impeccably dressed in a striped-silk afternoon gown with a box-pleated hem. An anxious line marred her fair brow as she crossed the thick carpet. “Mrs. Royce,” she said. “I was not expecting you.”

Nell stood, along with Effie, from the velvet-tufted settee. She stared at Lady Belwood, feeling the oddest sense of recognition. Nell had never met the woman before. Of that she was certain. Yet, there was something strangely familiar about her. The austere beauty in the turn of her countenance, perhaps. Or the peculiar way she had of swishing her skirts behind her as she came to meet them. The twinge in Nell’s breast told her that she’d seen it before. That she knew that face. That figure. That impatiently sashaying walk.

“Lady Belwood,” Effie said, dropping a flawless curtsy. “May I present my friend, Mrs. Quincey?”

Lady Belwood turned her attention to Nell for the first time. She gave her a civil nod. “Mrs. Quincey.”

“My lady.” Nell curtsied as elegantly as she’d been taught to do in the deportment classes she’d taken at the Academy as a girl.

“Mrs. Quincey is the wife of Mr. Miles Quincey, editor of the London Courant,” Effie said. “You’re familiar with their gossip column, I presume?”

Lady Belwood motioned for them to resume their seats. “I read it on occasion,” she said, taking a chair across from them. She arranged the folds of her skirt. “You will forgive me, Mrs. Quincey, but you have caught me unaware. As Mrs. Royce knows, my receiving hours don’t begin until one o’clock.”

“I thought it best not to risk involving any of your other callers in the business we’ve come to discuss,” Effie said.

Lady Belwood tensed. “Business? What business?”

Effie smiled. “We were hoping you might tell us more about Lord Amstead’s house party next month.”

“What about it?” Lady Belwood asked.

“When it takes place, for one,” Effie said.

“Saturday next,” Lady Belwood replied. “The third of September.”