Page 10 of Cousin Conundrum

Steven looked up. “Me what?”

“What is a gentleman like you doing working for the Crown’s secret division?”

“Oh.” Steven wished he hadn’t pried into Fletcher’s circumstances, for he had no desire to share his. “I am, ah, working off my family’s debt to the Crown.”

Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “I assume we mean a debt of honor.”

As his only other choices were to ignore the question or to lie, Steven nodded.

“But not your debt. You said, ‘your family’s.’”

Steven attempted for a coldness he hoped would end the other man’s questioning. “My father’s and brother’s.”

“Hm,” Fletcher murmured and returned to reading.

Steven dropped his gaze to his list, then cleared his throat. “Look here. I have tallied everywhere the Peacock’s victims say they were when he struck.”

“Yes. We did so as well. There is nothing common to all the cases.”

“There is not,” Steven agreed. He tapped his list. “We see only the shadows, though, as you said. We have incomplete information. There are cases where the valuables may not have been discovered missing immediately. There are undoubtedly others where every stop made on an outing was not recalled by the ladies or their staff. Regardless, one location is mentioned more than the others. Madame Dentelle, a modiste.”

Fletcher looked up again, his frown thoughtful.

“And then there are the broken windows,” Steven added, encouraged when Fletcher didn’t immediately dismiss his words.

“The Peacock does not break windows.”

“No, but three of his victims reported broken windows. Two the month before being robbed, and one two weeks prior.”

“Three? We are speaking of sixteen robberies. Three hardly signifies.”

“Three who thought to mention as much.” The more he thought on the windows, the more Steven warmed to the idea. “And think about this, how many wealthy homes suffer broken windows a year? Even three seems too great a coincidence.”

“Put that way, it does seem significant, but of what?”

Steven’s excitement dimmed. “I am not certain.” He rallied to say, “But I do believe we should visit this Madame Dentelle.”

“We? I thought you were meant to remain unseen.”

“I am meant to remain unrecognized.” Steven stood, rolling back cramped shoulders. “My wife does not patronize Madame Dentelle.” Because Steven could not afford for Louisa to do so, though she had visited in the company of her younger sister, Miss Caroline Bingley, on rare occasion. Unavoidable, as Miss Bingley often resided with them. “You can enter first, if you like, to ensure there are no ladies inside, but the hour is early for visits to the modiste.”

Fletcher offered a sudden grin. “Anything to get out of this room, eh?”

Steven could only grin back.

Soon enough, they rode through London’s streets, two unremarkable gentlemen on unremarkable mounts. Tradesmen and women dotted the lanes down which they walked their horses, but, as Steven predicted, the hour was early still for the ladies and gentlemen of his set. By the time they arrived at Madame Dentelle’s, Steven had no fear he’d been seen by anyone who might know him, let alone recall him.

They gave a couple halfpennies to a lad who scurried up with an offer to mind their mounts, and, in what Steven felt to be an overabundance of caution, Fletcher entered first. He appeared a few moments later, gesturing Steven in.

The shop proved stuffed with all manner of cloth, lace, beads, ribbons, and the like. Moreover, not only deserted of patronesses at that pre-noon hour, but of a single person other than the two of them. Steven cast Fletcher an enquiring look.

“I called out and was answered from behind that curtain.” Fletcher pointed to a doorway which led into the back of the shop. “I was told to wait.”

Steven nodded. Fletcher began to walk about, even examining a bit of fabric here, or lace there. Steven took up a position before the counter. He doubted he could afford to accidentally spoil any of Madame Dentelle’s wares. Behind the curtain, faint movement could be heard.

The entire place reeked of overly floral perfume, making Steven worry the scent would stick. What would Louisa make of that? Several minutes passed, during which he tried to breathe as little as possible. Finally, turning to where Fletcher examined a row of dyed ostrich feathers, Steven asked, “Did you identify yourself?”

“I did.”