Secret Admirer Read online

  Those revelations had come just after supper when, despite Tuesday’s protestations—

  “I am not taking a bath with him in the room.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” CeCe replied authoritatively. “I am certain His Lordship will agree to step into the kitchen with me.”

  “I wouldn’t trust him to stay there. I wouldn’t trust anything he said.” Tuesday leaned toward CeCe and added by way of explanation, “He is prone to lying.”

  “Tuesday!”

  “I may not be of your moral caliber,” Lawrence admitted gallantly, “but I do have a nose. A sensitive one. I would do anything to spare it discomfort.”

  “Are you saying I smell bad?”

  “Yes,” Lawrence lied. “And I might remind you that you agreed to do whatever I said. Right now, I order you to bathe.”

  “You cannot just bark orders at me like you do to your unsuspecting men.”

  “Why not?”

  “You are a muddle-headed gargoyle.”

  —she had been forced, still hissing insults at him, into the tub. This gave Lawrence a chance to corner CeCe on her own. After watching her and Tuesday together that afternoon, he’d realized that the neighbors underestimated CeCe. Whether they liked her or not, they were taken in by her carefully cultivated surface, her studied manners and painstakingly practiced accent, and none of them paid attention to the intelligence below it, an oversight he was increasingly convinced CeCe enjoyed. Only Tuesday seemed to see the sharp wit and mind beneath the polished exterior, and he had quickly realized that the two women were more friends than mistress and maid. Which was why he wanted to ask CeCe a few questions. If only she would sit still for three seconds together.

  Any time he started to ask her anything, she’d get up from the kitchen table they were sitting at to respond to some noise she’d thought she’d heard Tuesday make, or to put something away, or to sigh at the cook’s messiness as she rubbed at an all but invisible spot of gravy near the fire. Then she would return to her seat opposite his, give him a lovely, sweet smile and say, “I’m sorry. I just cannot stand for anything to be out of place. Now what were you asking me about?”

  She did it so smoothly that Lawrence did not realize what she was up to. It was only after the third time she’d gone to the door in response to an inaudible summons that Lawrence saw the quick gleam of merriment in her eyes, and realized he’d been had. She had spent the last half hour evading his questions, and he hadn’t even recognized it. He decided to get even.

  This time when she sat down, clasped her hands in front of her like a good girl at school, and looked at him with bright, eager eyes, he did not say anything. He just leaned back farther in his chair and watched her. She was extremely pretty, with a heart-shaped face that dimpled slightly when she was amused and reddish-pink lips that looked made for kissing, so staring at her wasn’t hard. Keeping a straight face was tougher. When the silence had stretched to almost a minute, she smiled knowingly at him with just a hint of dimple and said, “You are figuring out all my secrets, aren’t you, Lord Pickering? I am afraid at the end you will be very disappointed. I am quite dull.”

  “I believe that is what you want people to think, CeCe. I’m convinced, however, that you are a very clever woman.”

  Mock horror flooded over her, her ultrablue eyes growing huge. “Oh, please don’t say that. Clever people have all sorts of problems I’d rather live without. I’d rather be like the Mean and Uglies than be clever.”

  It was another diversion, Lawrence knew, but he decided not to call her on it. “The Mean and Uglies?” he asked.

  “Some of the women in the neighborhood. You would think they would want to know if red would be a better color on them than black, or if their gowns are twenty years out of style, but instead they just glare at you when you try to tell them.” She shrugged. “They make fun of me and call me uppity and say I’m trying to get above my station, but what is the harm in that? If I don’t think about bettering myself, who will?”

  Lawrence looked at her and his expression was serious. “You are right to try it, CeCe. Don’t let them stop you. They are just threatened by what you are doing, so they condemn it. You are holding up an accurate mirror to them, showing them that they could have lived a different way if they’d tried.” He smiled crookedly. “That’s why the most expensive mirrors are the ones with flaws in them. People never like to see their true reflections.” Then, after a pause, he added as if musing to himself, “It probably doesn’t help much that you are Tuesday’s best friend.”

  The sweetness in her face was instantly replaced by an expression of real pride, and Lawrence knew that he would have no more trouble getting her to answer his questions. He had guessed that her relationship with Tuesday meant an enormous amount to her, that it was her weak spot, and he saw now that he hadn’t been wrong.

  CeCe nodded to herself and said, quietly, “You are right, Lord Pickering, I am Tuesday’s friend. I owe everything I am to her. She saved me—saved me from myself, gave my life a purpose.”

  “How? How did you come to work here?”

  CeCe’s eyes looked beyond him, into a space of memory and she smiled a little. “It was all Lord Cardmore’s doing.”

  “Lord Cardmore? The horse breeder?”

  CeCe nodded. “Tuesday had been working on his portrait in the park and lost track of time so she was rushing home and she ran right into me. I ended up wearing the better part, if there was one, of Lord Cardmore’s face across the bodice of my gown. She was terribly upset, not about the painting but about me, about having ruined my dress, and she insisted I come home with her so she could clean it up. She had no servants, so I offered to stay on as her maid. I had been walking in the park trying to decide what to do with—with my life.” CeCe paused and her eyes came to rest on Lawrence. “Tuesday appeared like the answer to a prayer, and I have been with her ever since.” It was only part of the story. It left out the fear that CeCe had seen in Tuesday’s face when Curtis burst into the washroom and saw that she had unauthorized company, as well as her terror about asking him if she could take CeCe on.

  But CeCe had been determined to stay close to Tuesday, to attach herself to the only person she had met whose company did anything to mitigate the bone-deep loneliness she had been sunk in since her fiancé left. She had offered to work for free at first, and, unable to object to that offer, Curtis had agreed.

  Lawrence Pickering did not need to know any of that, she decided, at least not until she could be sure of his exact interest in her mistress. She said instead, “I should warn you, I won’t tell you anything that might hurt Tuesday. Her friendship means everything to me and I’ll do nothing to jeopardize it.”

  “Such as tell me her secrets?”

  Now CeCe laughed. “Hardly. Tuesday cannot keep secrets. Everything she thinks is either written on her face or bursts out of her mouth. No,” CeCe said, regarding him coyly, “such as being seen to be working with the enemy.”

  “The enemy. You mean me? I’m not the enemy. I am trying to help.”

  “Then perhaps you should try not to frown at her all the time as if you suspected her of murder.”

  “Do you suspect her of murder?”

  “No. Absolutely not. She was here when Curtis was killed—ask anyone on the street; she never closes her curtains, so they can all see her in her studio, and I heard her moving around. There is no chance she killed Curtis. Not even if—no.”

  “ ‘Not even if’ what?”

  CeCe looked at him defiantly. “Not even if he deserved it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was a lying, cheating, scoundrel.”

  “You did not like him?”

  “I used to like him. I used to be taken in by his nice manners and lovely accent, just as Tuesday was. But not anymore.”

  “What happened to change your mind?”

  She eyed him carefully. “I would not like Tuesday to know what I am abo
ut to tell you. You will keep it from her, won’t you?”

  “If I can.”

  “That is hardly a gentlemanly promise, Lord Pickering.”

  “I’m hardly a gentleman,” Lawrence said, and he wasn’t joking. “Look, CeCe, I am interested in catching Curtis’s murderer, whoever it is. If passing along what you tell me to your mistress is going to help, I’ll do it. I don’t lie, even when it would be more polite.”

  CeCe thought about this as she studied the tabletop for a moment. Finally, she said, “I had a visitor today. A woman. She claimed to be Sir Curtis’s mistress. She said her name was May Dew and she had gotten my name and address from the landlord at Sir Curtis’s lodgings and that she was stopping by as I had asked her to. Which is impossible, because I’ve never been anywhere near that unworthy liar’s chambers. But she seemed to think she was telling the truth so—” She finished the sentence with a flutter of her hand and looked up at Lawrence. “Do you know what this woman, this May Dew, told me? She told me that Curtis was going to get rid of his wife and marry her. Marry her. That is why I said he deserved it. Because he was getting ready to break Tuesday’s heart again.”

  Lawrence leaned forward, asking, “Did she leave an address? Mention how we could find her?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think you could describe what she looked like? So Lady Arlington could do a sketch?”

  Indignation left CeCe speechless. Her lips worked but no sound came out until she said, “I thought you told me we were on the same side. Why would you want to make Tuesday suffer that way? Hasn’t she been through enough? Or would you like to see—”

  “Tuesday already knows Curtis had a mistress, and that he was planning to marry her.” Lawrence broke in, to calm her. “She found out about her this morning from the landlord. She wants to meet her. Tuesday is the one who left your name because she was afraid that if she left hers, the mistress would not come.”

  CeCe was shaking her head. “That is absurd. I don’t believe it. Tuesday said she would never go to Curtis’s rooms! Never.”

  “She claimed she went there looking for a necklace. Do you know anything about that?”

  “A necklace? No, of course not. Tuesday has no jewelry whatsoever. Her brother claimed every—oooh.” CeCe’s demeanor softened abruptly. “Now that I think of it, there was that one piece with the dragonfly on it from her mother, but Curtis took it away ages ago. She said he was going to have it cleaned but he never brought it back.” She looked at him as she explained. “I only remember because that was the day she fell and broke her wrist. It still sometimes cramps if she’s been working too long but at least she can hold a brush again. While it was healing, she could not paint, which made her particularly miserable to be around. She has a rather unfortunate vocabulary when she is in pain.”

  Lawrence absorbed all of this. “Where did she break her wrist?”

  CeCe pointed to her own wrist and said, “Here.”

  “I mean, where was she when it happened?”

  “Oh. Where.” She paused, thinking, with one finger under her chin. “I’m not sure, actually, but it could have been anywhere. Tuesday manages to find things to walk into even if a room is entirely empty. I can’t complain. After all, if she hadn’t walked into me in the park that day I would never have met her, but she is a bit clumsy. And it doesn’t help any that she leaves everything in such disorder. I used to try to put things away, but they were always scattered around by the—”

  As if on cue there was a loud bang from behind the door leading to the studio, followed by a thud, a yelp, and a “blast Lawrence Pickering and his blasted furniture moving” in Tuesday’s voice.

  Lawrence looked toward the closed door, then back at CeCe who was trying hard to conceal a smile behind a look of dismay at the outburst. “I suppose that means she’s finished her bath. Does she do that—” Lawrence pointed in the direction of the noise with his thumb, “—often?”

  “Trip over the furniture? Yes. Well, actually, yes and no. She used to be more accident prone. Almost never a day that went by without my finding some new bruise when I helped her undress, but she’s gotten better since she moved downstairs. I suppose because there are fewer opportunities to fall down them.”

  “When did she move?”

  “Recently.” CeCe got up and began floating around the kitchen again. “Would you like something to drink? Some wine? Oh, that’s right, I read in the news sheets you only drink milk.”

  “Actually I prefer lemonade if you have it.” Lawrence watched her closely as she poured some into a chipped glass. While she was still cleaning up whatever minute drop might have fallen he asked, “Did she move downstairs when Curtis left?”

  She turned toward him with a look of concentration and took her time answering. “Now that I think of it, yes. It was just at the same time.”

  Lawrence pretended to believe she’d just realized it. “How long had Curtis and Tuesday been married before that?”

  “Two years,” CeCe supplied without hesitating.

  As if to reward her forthrightness, Lawrence stood up. “You’ve been very helpful, CeCe. I can’t think of any other questions right now.”

  “Really? That was not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”

  “I’m glad.” Lawrence smiled and moved toward the door to the studio. He hesitated with his hand on the door pull and mused, “Two years. Two years and no children. That’s strange.”

  CeCe had turned around when he rose and he now saw her shoulder blades come together sharply. She looked over her shoulder at him with a slight smile and said, “I’m sorry? Were you talking to me?”

  “Two years is a long time to be married without having any children, don’t you think?”

  CeCe tried to keep smiling but her voice caught. “No.”

  “Really? It isn’t?”

  “No,” CeCe said facing him now. “It happens all the time.”

  “When there is something wrong in the relationship. But it is much more normal that there would be a child.”

  “I would not know about that, and even if I did it is certainly not my place to speak of it.”

  “You are right,” Lawrence said. “It would be better for me to ask Tuesday all about it. Find out what became of her child.”

  CeCe grew stony. “I don’t think I will ever speak to you again, Lord Pickering. You tricked me.”

  Lawrence smiled at her. “I’m not nearly clever enough for that. I promise you will feel better once you tell me.”

  “I doubt it, but I also doubt that you will go away if I don’t.” CeCe glared straight at him as she spoke, her tone clipped. “Tuesday was pregnant, once. It was a very hard pregnancy. She was ill all the time, but she was happier than I had ever seen her. She loves children and could not wait to have some of her own. To have Curtis’s. She thought it would please him.” Something bitter flitted across her expression. “Then one day she was standing on a ladder, painting, and her wrist, the one that had been broken, cramped as it often did and she dropped her brush. As she was climbing down to get it, she fell and, well …”

  “She lost the baby?”

  CeCe nodded once. “It was a dangerous fall. She was badly bruised all over. What was worse, she was utterly desolate about the child. She tried to act happy, for my sake and Curtis’s, but nothing anyone could do could break her out of her sadness. That was why Curtis took her into the country. He hoped the fresh air would restore her spirits.”

  “When was this? How long did they stay away?”

  “It was a few months ago. They were not gone long.” Her eyes did not move from his, as if she were defying him to ask her anything more. “Have you learned enough now?”

  “Almost,” Lawrence conceded brightly. “Just one more question. Why did they come back from the country so quickly? Did Tuesday recover that fast?”

  “Curtis had business to attend to so she came home.”

  “Alone?�
�

  “Yes.”

  “How did she explain that to you?”

  “She did not need to. I am only her maid. And you said only one question.”

  “Of course. Sorry,” Lawrence apologized sheepishly. “I should be asking Tuesday herself about it.”

  “You would, wouldn’t you?” CeCe challenged, friendship beating out her pretence of being a maid. “You would, just to hurt her.”

  “Why would it hurt her?”

  “Because he left her there,” CeCe whispered, her composure gone, her voice shaking. “He left her at the inn in the country, left her because, he said, she was not a good enough wife. She was so bereft that it was two weeks before she even admitted it to me. When she first came back all she could talk about were some gypsies she’d seen whose faces she had to get into her book, and she worked feverishly at it. Then one day I came into the studio when she wasn’t expecting me and she had her head down on her arms and she was sobbing. I’d never seen her cry before, not even when she lost the baby. That was when she finally told me the truth. Now if she knew I had told you she would be furious.” She paused to blot the tears that had come into her eyes with the sleeve of her gown. As she finished, a little smile crossed her face. “Actually, she’d probably be more furious at the fact that I told you she had been crying. She sees it as a sign of weakness. She is so worried about always being strong, strong for everyone, that she never lets herself go.”

  Lawrence nodded, reflected for a moment and said, “I don’t think I will have to tell her about any of this.”

  “Really?” CeCe looked up at him. “You mean that?”

  “Yes.”

  A cunning look came into CeCe’s eyes. “On your word of honor? I’ve read in the news sheets that your word of honor is like gold to you and after your performance tonight, I am not sure I would trust you on a mere promise. Before you give it, though, I must warn you, Lord Pickering. If I find out that you told her, that you have done anything to hurt Tuesday, particularly anything based on what I have told you, I will become your sworn enemy.”

  Lawrence raised an eyebrow, then agreed, adding, “I would not like to have you for an enemy, CeCe.”