Page 47 of The Devil and the Heiress
He knew that when the reckoning came, it would be harsh and just.
V. Lennox,An American and the London Season
THE NEXT DAY
BERKELEY SQUARE
Max took in the white stone facade of the fashionable town house. It stood three windows wide and four floors tall, narrower than most other homes on the street. Despite the fact that every window boasted a window box full of pink and yellow tulips, there appeared to be no one at home. The drapes were pulled closed, and the front stoop had not been swept in days. Leaves, sticks, and other debris clung to the steps, still wet from the recent rains.
He glanced back down at the address on the note that had been delivered to him earlier that morning. “Are you certain this is forty-three?” he asked the hackney driver.
“Forty-three,” the man agreed. “Shall I wait for you?” The driver did not seem particularly thrilled by the prospect. His gaze was already scanning the traffic as he readied to pull away from the curb.
“No, not necessary,” said Max, stepping up onto the sidewalk, especially when he had no idea what this meeting was about or how long it would take.
He had arrived in London late last night only to find his parents not at home. They had been out at a ball, apparently enjoying themselves while their daughter was God-knew-where. His interrogation of them this morning had led to little information. They had decided to tell everyone that Violet had fallen ill and been sent to Bath to recover. The strong insinuation had been that she had succumbed to a case of nerves. Keeping her disappearance quiet and minimizing scandal was, regrettably, their upmost concern. Instead of reporting her disappearance to the Metropolitan Police, they had chosen—with the help of their friends Lord and Lady Ashcroft—to hire a retired detective. Mr. Spencer was even now combing the countryside, looking for clues. The only information he had reported back to the family was that he had been unable to find Ellen Stapleton, Violet’s maid who had disappeared on the same day, and that no one had reported seeing a woman matching her description on any of the trains.
His father had run off to a meeting with Lord Farthington, while his mother prepared for a luncheon, leaving Max to attempt to parse clues from the letter Violet had left. Thankfully, the note had arrived soon after, leading him to this address. Short and succinct and written in a feminine hand, it simply stated:Come alone. Leave immediately. 43 Berkeley Square.
Half believing this was someone’s idea of a jest, half believing he might find Violet hiding within, he hurried up the steps and rang the bell. After several moments had passed, an ancient man in livery with stooped shoulders and bushy gray eyebrows answered the door.
“Good morning. I am Maxwell Crenshaw. Someone sent me this note.” He held up the small scrap of parchment.
“Of course, Mr. Crenshaw.” Without further explanation, he stepped back and allowed Max passage.
He vaguely wondered if perhaps he was being led to some nefarious purpose, but curiosity won out. Max stepped inside, declining when the butler offered to take his gloves and hat. The house was stylishly appointed in muted tones of cream, gold, and green. It wasn’t overly cluttered in the way his mother preferred to decorate. Everything was orderly and minimal, but in a manner that emphasized the elegance of each item.
“With whom am I to—”
“Follow me, Mr. Crenshaw.” The butler turned, leading him down the corridor beyond the stairs. A single light fixture lit their way, leaving the rooms they passed in shadow. Finally, the little man stepped into the room in the back. “Mr. Crenshaw,” he announced to whomever waited there.
Max turned the corner to see a woman standing before the cold hearth. She wore a charcoal gray traveling costume embroidered in maroon, complete with hat and gloves. A traveling case sat on the floor near him by the door. He couldn’t tell if she had only just arrived, or if he was catching her as she was leaving. She was stunningly pretty in a very untouchable sort of way. Delicate nose, high cheekbones, and pointy chin. Buttery blond hair pinned up in an elaborate roll beneath a hat that perched high on her forehead. Her eyes were a light color, but he could not tell if they were blue, green, or gray from the distance between them. He could only tell that they were expressive, shining with intelligence and censure as they looked him over. Apparently, he had been duly inspected and found lacking.
“Good morning, Miss...”
“Lady Helena March.” She spoke in the crisp, clipped tones of someone who had already decided something and was growing impatient for everyone to reach the same conclusion. “You are late, Mr. Crenshaw.”
The clock on the mantel behind her showed half past ten. He glanced to the butler only to find the little man had abandoned him to face the hoyden alone. “Did we have an engagement I missed?” he asked, walking farther into the room. The drapes were open to reveal a small but neatly kept walled garden that faced the mews beyond. Gray morning light filled the space. “My apologies. Back home we use calling cards and invitations, not cryptic messages left unsigned.” He held up the note, and her lashes flickered in acknowledgment of his pique. “I’ll have to become accustomed to the way you do things here.”
“Thank you for coming. I regret that I could not reveal more in my note, but I could hardly take the chance that someone might see it.”
“Someone? Do you mean my parents?”
Her pretty, pink mouth turned down in a frown as she thought over her answer. Finally, she nodded. “Yes, I regret to say.”
Interesting. “Lady Helena March, if I recall correctly, you are the one my parents claim accompanied my sister to Bath.”
“I think we both know that story is contrived.” Her eyes flashed in temper. They were blue. Blue like morning glories. “And Lady Helena is sufficient.”
“Do you know where Violet is?”
“No, but I have a good idea. If you please, we should get going.” She gestured to her travel bag. “We can talk on the way.”
“We’re going together?” He glanced to the bag and back to her.
She glared at him as if she wanted to bodily pick him up and tuck him into a carriage herself. “Yes, we have no choice. Huxley has sent for the carriage to be brought round.”
“Lady Helena, I don’t mean to be rude, but I must insist on you telling me what the hell is going on before I go anywhere with you.”
