And he’d discovered that there was indeed a Lady Miranda Grey, aged three and twenty, daughter of Sir Anthony, but that neither had been seen in years. Sir Anthony had run through the family fortune after the death of his wife, and was rumoured to have decamped to the continent like a filthy coward, or quietly put a bullet through his brain. What remained of the family goods had been sold at auction years ago, but the daughter had not been present. There was no known family, although one would have expected to hear of an aunt or female relative of some kind to step forward and claim the girl. The name Lady Dawson did not appear in any of the accompanying records, nor was it familiar to those questioned.
He looked imperiously at the stationer in front of him and tried to hide any hopes that he might feel for the outcome of the visit. His title was enough to send the clerk scurrying to get the storeowner, who fell over himself in an effort to win what he’d hoped would be a lucrative order.
‘How can we help you, your Grace?’
‘I am recently married and will need a wide variety of things. Announcements. Engraved cards for my wife. Some writing paper for her, I think. With a monogram. And a watermark. The family crest. Can you manage that?’
‘Of course, your Grace.’ The man was fairly drooling at the prospect.
‘I’ve seen some fine work recently, letters posted to my late mother, and am looking for the purveyors of the papers in question. Would you be able to identify things you’ve supplied to others, so that I might know I have found the correct store? I’ve tried several, but have been unsuccessful.’
‘Would it not have been easier simply to ask the senders of the letters to give you direction?’
Marcus responded with a look so cold that the man was immediately sorry he had asked.
‘But of course, if it is my work, I would recognise it. Perhaps … if I could see the letters?’
Marcus fanned the pack of blackmail notes on the counter before him.
His eyebrows arched. ‘All the same signature and ink, and all different papers.’
Marcus said, ‘The contents of the notes need not interest you. It is the paper I am wondering about.’
The man cleared his throat. ‘The words, of course, do not concern me. But I find the ink interesting. Not a particularly good brand for the paper. And the writer could have done with a new quill. May I?’ He reached for the letters.
Marcus nodded.
The man held them up to the light. ‘Three different watermarks. I know these two. They are clients of mine. The third is from a shop in Bond Street, but I recognise the coat of arms of the client. The fourth?’ He shrugged. ‘It does not match the others. It is a good grade, but a common paper, available in most of the shops in London. As it happens, I recognise the pressed monogram, which has been rubbed flat here at the top of the page. The writer seems to have been trying to disguise the origin of the paper. This was sold by our shop to a cit. A factory owner, I believe.’ He laid the papers back on the desk. ‘Is this sufficient information, your Grace? I would do nothing to jeopardise the privacy of my customers.’
Marcus smiled in a slow, expansive way that hinted of gold to come. ‘Of course. I would not want anyone jeopardising my own. Should I choose to shop here, I would want to know that my business remained secret.’ He fanned the letters, then stacked them and folded them, making them disappear into the pocket of his greatcoat. ‘But I am curious on one point. Do these customers live in the vicinity of your shop?’
The man shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, they don’t. Not frequent customers. If you give me a moment, I could perhaps find addresses for them. If you care for references?’
Marcus smiled more warmly. The man had hit on a more convincing lie than he had been able to create. ‘References. That would be most helpful. And while you are gone, if I might see a sample book, I will begin making my selections.’
He left the shop, having placed an order for more paper than he and his new duchess could use in several years of industrious writing.
And a map of east London and outlying villages, where the homes of three minor lords and a cit lay within a three-mile radius of each other. It was not much. There was no guarantee. But it gave him a place to look for the mysterious Cecily 101.
Chapter Nine
The staff stood before her, terrified. Clearly, they had heard the contretemps below stairs, and were all hoping that the next sacking would be someone other than themselves.
She tried to return a gaze that was cool and indifferent. ‘By now, you all know the fate of Mrs Clopton. This will, of course, cause a certain amount of disarray below stairs, but …’ she paused to run a hand along the woodwork and wipe the smudge into her handkerchief ‘. I care more for the state of things above stairs, and doubt that anything I’ve done could create greater disorder than was here already.’ She smiled. ‘My difficulties with the previous housekeeper were based solely on the errors in the accounts and the state of the house. I assume that these problems are now solved. If I am mistaken, I wish that you will come to me and that we can reach a solution. I will be replacing Mrs Clopton shortly, and we will manage as best we can until that point. In the mean time …’ she presented a list of tasks ‘… I would have you begin in the entryway and continue through the house, with a thorough cleaning. I’ve written the procedure I would have you follow and a few of the cleaning formulas I wish you to use.’ The looks of wariness on the faces of the maids were replaced by a grudging respect.
‘And since it has been so very long since things have been done properly, I believe more help will be needed. Jenny?’ She gestured to the chief parlour maid. ‘Do you know anyone in the village in need of work? Older sisters? Aunts?’
Jenny allowed as how she might know a few girls and was sent to the village to fetch them. The rest of the women were divided into teams and began conquering the tasks on the list in each of the reception rooms. Once things were underway, Miranda felt it safe to retire to the study and hope that she could find some means to pay the expenses she was about to incur.
She sat down at the desk. Her husband’s desk, she thought nervously, then willed herself to relax. The chair was imposing but comfortable. Fit for a duke. She let an imagined sense of power envelope her, and pressed her hands flat against the mahogany surface in front of her, surveying the room. It was cleaner than the rest of the house. Perhaps Mrs Clopton was unable to defy the duke in such an obvious way. The desk was clear of paper, the ink well filled, the pens clean and of good quality. It was an orderly and comfortable workspace. Her husband must spend much time here, when he was on the estate.
On an impulse, she reached for a drawer pull, expecting to find it locked. It slid open easily, and she peered inside. Resting at the top of a stack of papers, as though hurriedly discarded, was a sheet of paper covered with notes.
The hand was clear and firm, not rushed. Miranda had heard that it was possible to tell the soul of the writer by the way he formed his letters. If so, her new husband was—she studied the paper—strong. Decisive. There was no trace in the writing of the anger she’d seen in him.
She read the words. There was a short list of supplies—for the estate or the tenants, she knew not. Neat rows of figures, totalled accurately and without hesitation. And nearer the bottom of the page a reminder to call on the vicar first thing in the morning. She smiled and traced the line. He’d written it the night she’d arrived. And below it was a single word: MIRANDA?
She could almost hear it, as though he were there, speaking to her. And how strange, because the tone she imagined was not one she’d heard from him in life. The voice she imagined was soft and inviting, and full of promise.
A soft cough from the direction