I reflected uneasily upon the Lieutenant's character. He was playful enough — and so unprincipled, I feared — as to regard the effect of fancy dress as a devilish good joke. I had no proof that he was the spectral impostor; however, and determined to halt the progress of my thoughts, in turning from the Lieutenant to his batman. Certainly one of the two had removed the maid's locket from her things, possibly because it contained his likeness. But which?

The batman, Jack Lewis, was of a station far closer to the maid's own. I considered that smart Cockney fellow, of the glad eye and shameless insolence, and decided he was the most likely to take a Creole girl strolling in Covent Garden. He was more likely than the Lieutenant, as well, to buy her a locket — and commit the indiscretion of placing his miniature inside.

And then a thought occurred to me. Jack Lewis need not have been the murderer of the Earl (who can hardly have been known to him), to be the thief of the pendant. Sorrowing at her death, the batman might readily have retrieved the girl's things from Lizzy Scratch, and then grown fearful at the sight of the bauble containing his likeness. Were it discovered, he was as good as hanged — or so he might have feared. And thus he secreted it somewhere about his person, and said nothing of its existence.

I must endeavour to find out whether I am right or no, at the nearest opportunity.

Which task to undertake first? Lord Harold Trowbridge, Rosie Ketch, or the batman, Jack Lewis? Since I should prefer the murderer to be Isobel's despicable foe before all others, it seemed best to assault his defences first; but I should need a greater weapon than our slight acquaintance if I were to breast the ramparts of Wilborough House. I bethought myself of Eliza, rose of a sudden from the brealcfast table, and sought my bonnet and cloak.

ELIZA, COMTESSE DE FEUILLIDE, IS MY BROTHER HENRY'S wife. She is also my cousin, being my father's sister's child, although reputedly not the daughter of my aunt's husband.[36] All that is to say that Eliza was conceived in adulterous love, and my cousin has made it her metier from the day of her birth — being an accomplished flirt, a charming adventuress, one of the chief ornaments of Versailles before the fall of Marie Antoinette, and a cheat of the guillotine where her first husband, the Comte de Feuillide, was not. That sad gentleman's demise before the public executioner in 1794 left my bright Eliza returned to England and free to marry Henry some three years later. Though she is nearly ten years older than my favourite brother, and his union with her has been the subject of much unease in the family, I think them not unsuited. I rejoice, in fact, that my cousin is sobered somewhat by her Austen ties; and that Henry possesses in his wife so lively a wit to challenge his own.

And she is undoubtedly useful, in knowing everyone, and being welcome everywhere.

I arrived at No. 24 Upper Berkeley Street — but a few steps from Scargrave House's door — with a spirit for adventure and a desire to encompass Eliza in my schemes. Fortune was with me — my brother was out and Eliza at liberty. Her maid Manon showed me to the sitting-room, where the petite comtesse was tucked up before a brisk fire, her writing things at hand, and her little dog, Pug, established in her lap.

“My dearest Jane!” my cousin cried, thrusting the dog to the floor and standing in haste. “I had not an idea you were in London! Have you eloped with some dashing young man, and come to me for protection?”

“Having heard of the affair of Harris Bigg-Wither, you cannot believe it possible,” I said, smiling. “I am sworn off men for a twelvemonth at least, having failed to attract the men I like, and behaved infamously to the ones I abhor.”

“You should have been wasted upon such a poor pup,” Eliza rejoined dismissively; “and had you asked my advice, I should certainly have counseled you the same. But I suppose your family is mortified? They always are,” she finished cheerfully, “when women think for themselves. Well! How are we to celebrate such a meeting?”

“I was hoping to prevail upon you, Eliza,” I said, “to accompany me on a matter of some delicacy.”

“Delicate affairs being my chief occupation,” she observed, her eyes sparkling with interest.

“It concerns the Duke of Wilborough,” I continued, “or rather, his brother.”

“Trowbridge? Good Lord, you haven't set your cap at that fellow, my dear? I'm as fond as the next of dangerous rogues; I was quite susceptible to them, at one time. But Lord Harold is too much of the real thing.”

“I think him quite the most evil man I have ever met.”

“And with reason.” Eliza fluttered her many-ringed fingers in my direction. “There are those who say he was the financial ruin of Sir Hugh Carmichael, and that he seduced his wife; in any case, she was sent away to family in Wales until the child was born, and poor Sir Hugh shot himself in the middle of Pall Mall not two months ago. A scandalous business. But how do you come to know Lord Harold Trowbridge?”

“I shall tell you in the carriage,” I said, “for time is of the essence.”

“But, my dear Jane — I must think what to wear. For this old thing cannot do for the Duke of Wilborough's residence. No, indeed.” Dismayed, she surveyed her short-sleeved gown, of pumpkin-coloured silk overlaid with bronze braid, and cut as always in the latest fashion. At forty-one, cousin Eliza has not cast off her youth, and to judge from her effect on most gentlemen, her care is well rewarded. She cast a swift glance in the mirror and hurried towards the door; Pug at her heels. “I shall not be a moment, Jane. Manon!”

Chapter 16

The Barrister Seeks Counsel

1 January 1803, cont.

WILBOROUGH HOUSE SITS IN ST. JAMES SQUARE, IN ALL the glory of grey stone and the lustre of its ancient name.[37] That Eliza was acquainted with the Duchess of Wilborough, I had long known — it was my chief purpose in her recruitment, for her card, which bore still her French title of Comtesse de Feuillide, should readily gain acceptance where my own poor Miss Austen should languish in the entry-hall bowl. It was as I predicted — the austere fellows guarding either side of the door in livery and white wigs surveyed the grandeur of Eliza's emerald-green gown, tasselled turban, and ermine stole; bowed with a certain contained respect, and returned promptly to inform us that the Duchess was at home.

No one could resist Eliza. She was possessed, always, of the latest intelligence regarding one's acquaintance.

We were ushered up a broad stair and through lofty rooms done up in the fashion of Europe. Painted murals of fat cupids and slender nymphs adorned the ceilings, the walls were sheathed in boiserie, and precious Sevres vases filled every corner.

“Frightfully stuffy, my dear, like the Duchess's mind,” Eliza confided, and I expelled my breath in relief. She, at least, was not overawed.

Through enfiladed drawing-rooms, past set after set of tall doors that opened noiselessly at our approach — a score of footmen alone must be required for the delivery of the Duchess's callers; what she demands for a small dinner party, I cannot imagine. At last we were shown into an intimate lady's parlour, all gilt and white and silk-strewn chairs of the uncomfortable sort deemed necessary for the preservation of one's posture, and faced the Duchess of Wilborough herself. A little woman, of pinched and imperious countenance, who smiled creak-lly at the sight of Eliza.

“My dear,” the Duchess said, extending a limp hand, “so good of you to cheer a friend in her solitude.”