The Debutante's Code, page 14
Did Uncle Bertie expect her to get near enough to the maquette to see if the code was in plain sight on it somewhere, or would he try to view it himself?
“You will come, won’t you?”
Should I ask Lord Bickford about the statuette? If he’s proud of it, he might show it to me and talk about it long enough that I might get a good look. Or would it be better to leave it and not draw attention to myself by asking after it? If we do manage to get it out of the house, the detectives are sure to ask if anyone has shown any undue interest in the piece.
“Juliette, I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I said. What are you woolgathering about?”
“Pardon?”
Agatha laughed and gripped Juliette’s forearms. “What is the matter with you? You’ve been distracted all night.” A stricken look came over her face. “Oh, how silly of me, of course you have. You must be so disappointed that your parents had to leave, but they’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Here I’ve been blathering on without even asking how your first dance went or anything.”
“I’m the one who should apologize. I’ve a few things on my mind, it’s true, but there’s no excuse for not paying attention. You said something about the opera?”
“I beg your pardon, ladies. May we sit with you?”
Duke von Lowe himself had approached their table without notice. He bowed, clicking his heels together. He wore his military uniform rather than a costume. He looked distinguished, and from close up, Juliette had to admit, very handsome. His fair hair gleamed in the lamplight, and humor lurked in his blue eyes.
Agatha gave little notice to the duke, instead patting her hair and smoothing her dress while smiling at his companion, the dashing Viscount Coatsworth.
“Yes, of course.” Agatha scooted her chair to the side to allow them to take the other seats at the little table.
“May we get you something to drink? Perhaps something to nibble on?” Coatsworth asked before he sat.
“No, thank you.” Juliette touched her punch cup, still full. “We’re well looked after.”
Though Agatha made room for Coatsworth beside her, he opted for the chair next to Juliette. Agatha’s shoulders drooped, and she sent Juliette a questioning look.
“You look very fetching this evening, ladies. A water sprite and a Tudor aristocrat. Excellent choices.” The viscount leaned close, and if Juliette hadn’t shifted in her seat, he would have brushed her shoulder with his.
The duke settled next to Agatha. “It is good to see you again, Fraulein Montgomery. Lady Juliette, we have not yet had the introductions.” He raised his brows toward Agatha.
“Oh, of course. Juliette, this is Duke Heinrich von Lowe. Your Grace, may I present Lady Juliette Thorndike.” Agatha hurried through the introduction. “Lady Juliette and I are the best of friends. We were at school together.”
The duke looked from Juliette to Agatha, an appreciative look in his eyes. “Lady Juliette, I was sorry to hear your parents were made to travel. I had been looking forward to meeting your father. I was told he is a man of varied interests and very congenial. I hope he will return to London before I must depart for my own country.” His speech was precise, with the distinct pronunciation of middle Europe. Juliette had heard the accent and inflection for years in Switzerland and had no trouble following along.
“I’m pleased to meet you. I hope your stay in England has been pleasant.” She sipped her punch not because she was thirsty, but to have something to do with her hands. Now that she was out of the ballroom, she wished she hadn’t left. What if Bertie needed her and she was trapped in the refreshment room?
“Your costume is most becoming, Lady Juliette. One would think you had stepped out of a painting.”
She touched her lace collar. “Thank you.”
“Not just any painting, but one that could hang on the wall in one of my castles. You should have your portrait painted in that dress. I met a painter last evening at a dinner given by the Duke of Haverly. A Herr Hamish Sinclair. A relative of the duke’s, I understand. According to the Dowager Duchess of Haverly, Sinclair has painted the portraits of the most influential members of the nobility that England boasts. Have you met Herr Sinclair?”
Juliette shook her head. “No, but the dowager has mentioned him.”
Coatsworth, as if he believed von Lowe had monopolized enough of the ladies’ attention, again leaned close to Juliette.
“How fortunate that you have brought up your chaperone. I noticed you only danced the first set. Is that your preference, or has no one had the courage to ask for another? If it is that you lack offers, I present myself as the solution to this terrible wrong. You must allow me to lead you out. Where is the dowager so I may ask permission?”
Juliette tightened her grip on her cup. What should she do? Agatha clearly had first call on Coatsworth, and it was a breach of friendship to pay too much attention to a friend’s quarry. Not that Juliette had any designs on Coatsworth’s affection. But it would be rude, wouldn’t it, to refuse his gallantly delivered request?
“Ah, Coatsworth, you are beating me to the prize. I had intended to ask Lady Juliette for a dance myself.” The duke gave a rueful, playful glare. “But, I shall happily turn my attentions to Fraulein Montgomery. Fraulein, would you do me the honor?”
Anxiety made Juliette’s corset feel unbearably tight. She had not consented to a dance, and yet here she was being led out of the refreshment room by the viscount. Waves of unhappiness rolled over her, sent by Agatha. Juliette glanced back over her shoulder, bunching her brows and hunching her shoulders to silently plead her case with Agatha.
Her friend’s mouth twisted in a “what else can we do?” expression. She shrugged and put her hand on the duke’s arm, her dress tinkling as she rose.
They entered the ballroom once more, and Juliette breathed a sigh. With the French doors now open, the room was no longer unbearably stuffy. Which was just as well, since even more people had arrived.
There were costumes of all kinds, but the most eye catching was a woman dressed as a Russian empress. She wore a high-piled white wig, elaborately curled, topped by wafting ostrich feathers of bright blue. Her dress had a stomacher, wide panniers, and much lace and ornament.
But most striking was that a brace of Borzoi hounds preceded her on leashes. The lean, needle-nosed dogs stalked the ballroom, their tongues lolling and their eyes bright. People made way for the woman, who had rather strong features and a sizeable beauty mark on her right cheek. As she passed Juliette and the viscount, she muttered something to the dogs in … Russian?
“Quite a cosmopolitan guest list, is it not? I heard some members of the Russian ambassador’s household might attend tonight.” The viscount watched the feathers wend their way above the crowd. He led Juliette onto the floor, and they took their places in the lines of dancers.
Juliette tried to concentrate on the steps and her partner, but each time she turned toward the French doors, she spotted the maquette. It was almost as if the little statue mocked her. It was within reach, but it might as well have been in the West Indies for all she could do about it.
“What do I have to do in order to keep your attention?” Coatsworth asked as they met and promenaded down the room.
She focused on his face. “I do apologize. I am somewhat distracted.”
“I asked you to dance so that I might put to you a question.”
They parted for the next movement of the dance, and her heart hitched. A question? She neither wanted nor sought the viscount’s attention, for she would do nothing to hurt Agatha, who was clearly besotted by the handsome young man. What could he possibly wish to ask her?
When they rejoined, he bent his head close to hers and whispered, “Does Miss Montgomery enjoy riding?”
Juliette faltered, nearly missing her turn to pirouette. “Agatha?” He wanted to ask about Agatha? Relief made her light-headed. “Yes, she does.”
His grin split his face and reached his eyes. “Splendid. Does she ride well enough to hunt, or is she more of a trot-around-the-park rider?”
“She’s no Dick Turpin on Black Bess, but she can acquit herself well.”
“And you? Are you an equestrienne as well?”
“I love to ride, especially over fences.”
“Thank you for the information.” He grinned conspiratorially. “Perhaps we shall have to arrange something.”
Juliette’s spirits lifted. Coatsworth was still interested in Agatha, and there might be a social engagement that involved riding in their future.
But as she spied the maquette on its plinth there in plain sight, her chest tightened. Bertie stood mere feet away, speaking with Lord Bickford. Together they approached Donatello’s replica in miniature, and Bickford nodded. Bertie reached out, but Bickford put his hand on Bertie’s arm.
Drat. That was the moment. Uncle Bertie could have examined the piece, gathered the string of code, and they would have accomplished tonight’s mission. The dance steps whirled her away, and she lost sight of them both.
The music ended, and she was just making her curtsy to the viscount when a shout erupted, quickly drowned by the barking of large dogs. A tray crashed to the floor, and women screamed.
The viscount took Juliette’s hand and tugged her behind him, putting himself between her and whatever danger had invaded the party. People pushed and shoved, moving back from the happening, and like twin bolts of gray lightning, the Russian woman’s dogs shot across the ballroom, chasing a hissing, yowling black cat.
The menagerie skidded through the musicians. Chairs scraped, sheets of music flew, men scrambled, and odd squeaks and wails came from the pianoforte as the pianist climbed atop the instrument to avoid the onrush.
The dogs’ nails clicked and clattered on the polished dance floor. The cat, seeking escape, careened around the corner of the room where the chaperones sat. The matrons flapped and scuttled like hens discovering a fox in the coop, their lorgnettes, fans, reticules, and quizzing glasses tossed away in their haste to escape.
Footmen took off in pursuit of the animals, but the agile cat darted here and there, and in a burst of inspiration, latched onto the drapes, climbing at great speed to the pelmet, where it crouched, hissing and puffing up its fur. The dogs leapt and barked, slavering and showing their teeth, but the feline was out of reach.
Juliette peeked over Coatsworth’s shoulder, stifling laughter. The Russian woman was gesticulating and shouting in Russian, but the dogs paid her no heed. Footmen darted here and there, trying to grasp the trailing ends of the leads but wary of the snapping fangs.
What a debacle. Lady Bickford had subsided into a chair, with her women friends fanning her with handkerchiefs and plying her with smelling salts. A servant with a broom shooed the dogs toward the open French doors, but the canines were adamant they were not leaving without their feline friend.
Juliette scanned the room, wondering what Uncle Bertie was making of the debacle.
He was nowhere to be seen.
Her eyes flew to the statue, and she rounded Coatsworth to check on it.
It was gone.
“Are you quizzing me for a reaction? Because if so, I don’t find the humor.”
“As I live and breathe, I’m telling the truth.” Cadogan tossed the note on Daniel’s desk. “I was waiting outside Lord and Lady Bickford’s house, cuz I had been hired for the evening to take Mr. and Mrs. Albright to a party there. This gent come running out, all panting and wild eyed, and said to fetch a policeman. Another piece of art has been stolen. Someone went for a night watchman, but one of the toffs from the party came out with a note, looking for a driver to fetch an officer from Bow Street. I stirred up Lola and Sprite and trotted here quick as I could. Figured you’d still be working. You’re always working.”
“Was it another painting?” Daniel reached for the note, opening the stiff, heavy paper. This surely was no coincidence.
“No, a statue. Some little saint or something.” Cadogan’s cheeks were red, and he edged toward the stove in the middle of the room to hold his hands to the warmth.
Daniel glanced at the scrawled summons, stood, and reached for his cloak, truncheon, and hat. He had been going over the papers and reports the office staff had compiled when they’d organized the contents of the art dealer’s office. The detectives’ room had been empty and dark save the single lamp on his desk, all the other officers having gone home for the night.
He liked the solitude and peace while he worked.
The search of Turner and Rathbone had brought forth a mountain of paperwork. There were piles of correspondence, invoices for a new office chair, whale oil for the lamps, and lumber for packing crates. There were ledgers for payroll and the rent on the building and profit and loss statements. What was conspicuously absent was any form of inventory. Not from the past month, year, or even decade.
Mr. Rickets, when consulted, said of course there were inventory sheets. They were kept in a green file box until the end of the year, when they were taken across the street to the bookbinder’s for binding together. The completed inventory books were kept on the shelves above Mr. Selby’s desk.
But the shelf was bare. Someone had taken every book, and the green file box was nowhere to be found either.
Daniel was no nearer discovering who had stolen the Lotto painting than when he’d begun.
And now another piece of fine art had gone missing?
He climbed into Cadogan’s cab with a feeling of déjà vu.
The neighborhood Cadogan drove to was less prestigious than Eaton Square, but still respectable. The houses were not as tall, the streets not as wide, but inside the Bickford residence, the few guests who remained were attired even more lavishly than at Montgomery’s. There were … costumes … of all descriptions.
A fancy-dress ball.
Lord Bickford rushed toward him, his coattails flapping. A small man with gray hair, he made little movements with his lips, even when he wasn’t talking. “Oh dear. Oh dear. My statue. It’s gone. Just vanished. How could this happen?” He throttled his hands.
“Someone find Lord Bickford a chair,” Daniel ordered. “Before he faints.”
Hands reached out and guided the host to a seat.
Daniel took a count. A bare dozen people remained. “Is this the entire guest list?”
“Oh, no. When folks heard the police had been sent for, they started leaking out the house like water. Nobody wanted to be detained for hours like last time.”
“I need a complete list of those who attended.” How was he supposed to take witness statements when his witnesses scattered to the four winds? “Where is the watchman who was called?”
A red-cheeked man in a navy coat edged forward. “That’s me, sir.”
Mindful of Sir Michael’s warnings, Daniel handed the watchman his notebook and pencil. “Take the names of each of the remaining guests.” He turned to the small group. “Once you’ve given your name and address, you are free to go.” So many had already left, and if these people were anything like the Montgomery guests, they had seen nothing, knew nothing, and were adept at sticking to the theory that it was a servant or housebreaker.
Daniel returned to the host of the party. “Describe what was stolen, please?”
“A maquette of a statue of Saint Mark by the sculptor Donatello.” Lord Bickford’s hands fluttered.
Daniel knew from his university studies what a maquette was and who Donatello had been, but he raised his eyebrows, as if he’d never heard of them before, encouraging Lord Bickford to say more.
But the man was clearly at a loss. He shrugged, touching his cheek with his fingertips and looking around, as if the statue would materialize if he just wished hard enough.
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” A woman, clad in glittering gold that shimmered when she moved, stepped forward. “I’m Lady Bickford. The statue is about this high.” She spanned her hands nearly eighteen inches apart. “It’s bronze and heavy, and it was sitting in the ballroom. We haven’t even owned it properly for a week, and my husband paid what I consider to be far too much for it.” Lady Bickford had ebony hair that surely must be dyed, given the wrinkles on her face and the creped nature of her hands, and she seemed to have a fine disdain for her husband. She glared at Daniel. “What is this city coming to when a person can have their home robbed in the middle of a party?”
“Where did you acquire the piece?” He addressed Lord Bickford.
“Turner and Rathbone.”
Daniel would have been shocked if he had said any other name.
Clearly something was going on here that was more involved than an opportunistic theft by a temporary servant. Was the theft of the maquette a further complication to his case, or would it show commonalities that could lead to the apprehension of the thief?
“Was this a piece purchased specifically for you, or did you buy it after seeing it in the gallery?”
“I learned about the statue through Mr. Selby, and when he said he was sending a buyer to Europe, I asked him to get it for me if he could.” Lord Bickford turned hopeful eyes to Daniel. “You will get it back, won’t you?”
“We’ll do our best, sir. Did you hire temporary staff for this party?”
“Of course we did. Our regular staff couldn’t hope to keep up with everything for such a large gathering. There were more than fifty guests.” Lady Bickford spoke as if Daniel had rocks for brains. “You don’t know the first thing about fine entertaining, do you?”
He knew more than she thought, just not from her side of things.
“I will need a list of your staff, both temporary and regular.” A thought struck him. “And the paperwork, receipts, anything you have that pertains to the stolen item. I will need those too. Now, can you please describe exactly what happened and how the statue came to be missing?”
They moved into the ballroom, which wasn’t as large as Montgomery’s but still substantial enough for the number of guests said to have attended. Daniel surveyed the room, noting the scattered chairs where the orchestra had sat, the bedraggled panel of drapes, and the scratches on the floor as Lady Bickford told the story. In one corner a footman knelt, picking up broken glass and piling it on a silver tray while a maid wiped spilled liquid with a rag.
