“Hmm . . . I’ll leave organizing the police to you, but I believe I can provide just the right bait.”
He smiled at the eagerness shining in her eyes, at the quick calculation behind them. “We’ve already set the perfect stage. Our engagement has been much talked about.”
“Exactly! All the grandes dames have declared it a love match, and given the unexpectedness combined with our individual histories, it’s been talked of extensively.”
“Meaning the gossipmongers have had a field day.”
“True, but in this case that’s all to the good. The higher the stakes, the more succulent the bait. And even more to the point, our engagement ball is four days away. What could be more natural but that I take my friends’ recommendations regarding who to have in to dress my hair?”
She paused, then went on, “And I know the perfect incident to use as the basis for our bait.” She met his eyes. “You’ll have to trust me as to what it is—I haven’t yet worked out how best to present it. But I assure you, once she hears of it, Elaine Mackay will not be able to resist blackmailing me.”
With their engagement ball only four days away, they had no time to lose. They consulted Mrs. Makepeace; as she already knew and approved of their mission, convincing her to assist them took no time at all.
However, as Mrs. Makepeace pointed out, there were procedures to be followed. “You cannot simply summon such a person to attend you on the day. She will expect to be interviewed ahead of time, and to discuss and consider styles, then to have her fee negotiated and agreed. We had a lovely young man in to dress Lydia’s hair, but in the interests of justice, and as this woman’s work is clearly acceptable, I see no reason we shouldn’t summon her for a consultation tomorrow.”
So it was that the following morning Sebastian sat beside Tabitha on the sofa in the drawing room, with Mrs. Makepeace seated in an armchair to his right, and watched Elaine Mackay walk calmly into the room.
Her gaze swept them, then she curtsied demurely.
“Please do sit, Miss Mackay.” Mrs. Makepeace waved to the straight-backed chair set before them.
With an elegant nod, Elaine Mackay came forward. She was of above average height, with smooth brown hair sleeked back in a neat bun at her nape, and well set greeny-brown eyes. Beyond that, she was unremarkable; there was no feature of face or person that might induce anyone to pick her out in a crowd.
She halted and nodded to them before she sat, perching on the edge of the chair and clasping both hands on the plain brown reticule she balanced on her knees. “I’m honored to be considered for your upcoming event, ma’am.” Her glance took in Sebastian, and the easy way he held one of Tabitha’s hands. She looked back at Mrs. Makepeace. “I take it it’s an engagement ball?”
“Indeed. We’ve heard that your work has proved most satisfactory, and in some instances seen the results.” With a regal wave, Mrs. Makepeace indicated Tabitha’s wild curls; for the occasion, she’d left them free—they formed a vibrant corona about her head. “As you can see, my daughter will pose something of a challenge. Do you think you’re up to it?”
A spark of purely professional interest lit Elaine Mackay’s eyes. After a moment’s consideration, she said, “I’ve faced more difficult tasks—if I might point out, Miss Makepeace’s coloring is excellent, and while any tightly structured form would be a struggle, I believe that by careful choice of style, a most sophisticated result could ensue.” She turned back to Mrs. Makepeace. “What style did you have in mind, ma’am?” She glanced at Tabitha. “Miss?”
Tabitha merely smiled eagerly and clasped her other hand over Sebastian’s; they’d agreed she needed to project an image of scatterbrained innocence.
“We thought Grecian might suit,” Mrs. Makepeace replied. “But I would like to hear something of your background in the field—what brought you to it, and how long you’ve been practicing.”
“Oh, I’ve always been good with hair—since I was a little girl in Edinburgh.”
Her brogue was so faint, Sebastian concluded she’d left Scotland a great many years ago.
“As to my experience, I’ve been dressing hair in the theaters for many years. I realize it’s not appropriate to compare young ladies making their come-outs, or at their engagement or wedding balls, to great actresses, yet both are examined very closely and constantly while they are on their stage, on their particular day.”
Mrs. Makepeace raised her brows. “Very true. It is an apt analogy.” She paused as if considering, then went on, “I believe we might come to some arrangement, but if you would, I would like to get a better idea of what style you would suggest for dear Tabitha”—Mrs. Makepeace paused to glance approvingly at the picture both Sebastian and Tabitha were endeavoring to present of a besotted young lady and her possessively attached fiancé, then looked meaningfully at Elaine Mackay—“on the occasion of the ball to celebrate her engagement to Mr. Trantor.”
Elaine Mackay turned to study Tabitha. Sebastian noted that she also surreptitiously studied him, taking in the subdued elegance of his attire, no doubt evaluating his wealth and consequent worth to the Makepeaces. He’d dressed for the occasion, down to the ornate gold-and-diamond pin anchoring his cravat.
Eventually, Elaine Mackay rose, and indicated the straight-backed chair. “If Miss Makepeace would oblige me by sitting here, I can give you some idea of what I think would suit.”
Tabitha eagerly leapt up and sat, smiling at Sebastian in a thoroughly giddy way as she did. He had to fight to suppress a grin. Elaine Mackay had an actress as her client, even if she didn’t know it.
“And if I could view the gown . . .” Elaine Mackay darted a glance at Sebastian. “That is, if it’s not being kept a secret.”
Tabitha waved the notion aside. “I have no secrets from dear Sebastian.” She all but glowed. “None. Our union will be based on the utmost trust, you see.”
She kept her bright gaze on Sebastian’s face, so didn’t see the sly smile that, for a fleeting instant, curved Elaine Mackay’s lips. “Well, then.” All business, she turned to Mrs. Makepeace. “If I could see the gown, we can confirm the style. But while it’s being fetched . . . let’s see.”
For the next five minutes, Elaine Mackay bunched and pinned Tabitha’s hair, talking continuously about curling tongs and irons, hair padding and ornaments. Mrs. Makepeace held her own, displaying a knowledge Sebastian hadn’t thought she would possess. When Tabitha’s maid arrived with a delicate gown of sea-green silk, Elaine broke off to admire it with a knowing eye, and compliment the selection.
Watching her performance, Sebastian had to admit that she used sincerity to great effect. The overall impact was of a helpful and knowledgeable artiste, one who was an expert in her field and appreciated the artistry of others in theirs.
Only the calculation that hovered behind her eyes gave any hint of her untrustworthy nature.
Eventually, Mrs. Makepeace declared herself more than satisfied. Tabitha bounced up and rushed to a mirror; turning this way and that, she examined the roughly constructed style. Elaine Mackay quickly followed to point out various elements and explain how it would look when properly done on the day.
With everyone happy and satisfied, Mrs. Makepeace made a generous offer, one Elaine Mackay accepted with the barest of hesitations.
After she’d gathered her reticule and departed, that sly smile again playing about her lips as she turned away, Sebastian held up a hand to halt any exclamations, waited until he heard the front door close, then smiled at Mrs. Makepeace. “You were inspired.” He looked at Tabitha. “And if I didn’t know better, I would think you a fluff-brain intent on nothing more than pleasing me.” His smile widened. “You were brilliant. You were both brilliant. That last hesitation of hers was just for show—she’d already taken the bait.”
“Excellent!” Mrs. Makepeace declared, jaw firming, a militant look in her eye.
“Now for our next step,” Tabitha said.
Looking from mother to daugh
ter, taking in the feminine resolution etched in their features, Sebastian could only be glad that Elaine Mackay couldn’t see them now.
The day of their engagement ball rolled around surprisingly quickly. With Sebastian, Tabitha had filled the intervening two days with the typical social events a newly affianced couple would attend. Keeping up appearances, as they dubbed it, yet she was a trifle unnerved by how easy it was to hang on Sebastian’s arm and pretend to be his lady.
After their night at the Radlett Arms—which they hadn’t yet had any chance to discuss—she was aware that their interactions had taken on a new depth, a subtle shading she suspected arose from that intimacy. Beyond that thought, she steadfastly refused to let her mind wander further and dwell on what had occurred. Not yet—not while their mission was under way and she had to keep her wits about her.
What hours she’d spent apart from Sebastian had gone in polishing her story, the secret she would, when suitably encouraged, divulge to Elaine Mackay. She’d lied often enough in her youth, and had generally been successful; she’d long ago absorbed the successful liar’s code: stick to the truth as far as possible. In this case, that wasn’t difficult.
Two years before, her sister Lydia and Tabitha’s now-brother-in-law Ro Gerrard had retrieved a letter she’d unwisely written in her late teens to the then-imagined love of her life. The contents of the letter would have been embarrassing enough for even the giddiest young lady, but for Tabitha, with her widely known views on marriage and her position in the Sisterhood, publication of that old letter within the ton would have reduced her to a laughingstock.
That was the fabric of truth she intended to embroider. All she needed to do to create a highly sensitive secret was change the names and overemphasize the details.
Elaine Mackay was due to wait on Tabitha at four o’clock in Bedford Square. Their ball was to be held at Ro and Lydia’s London home, Gerrard House in Grosvenor Square. It would be preceded by a formal dinner, also at Gerrard House.
By half past three, Tabitha had bathed and, swathed neck to toe in a voluminous wrapper, her hair a frizzy halo about her head, stood in the first-floor gallery of her parents’ house and watched Sebastian ascend the main stairs, another man following close behind.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Sebastian turned toward her. His lips curved; his gaze raced over her, then returned to her face. “Good afternoon, my dear.” He took her hand, briefly raised it to his lips, then turned to introduce the other man. “This is Inspector Stokes. He’s recently taken up a position in Peel’s new force, and is eager to see what he can make of our case.”
“Miss Makepeace.” Stokes inclined his head politely.
Tabitha was agreeably surprised. She’d heard a great many tales of policemen, most highly uncomplimentary. Stokes, however, was neatly and unobtrusively dressed, well enough to appear abovestairs in a gentleman’s home without causing undue comment. His manners, too, while reserved, seemed natural; he was an inch or two shorter than Sebastian, dark haired and dark featured, and otherwise perfectly presentable. And if she’d interpreted Sebastian’s introduction correctly, Stokes was ambitious for success, which boded well for his commitment. She deigned to bestow a welcoming smile upon him. “Good day, Inspector.” Glancing at Sebastian, she waved down the corridor. “Let me show you our stage, and your hide.”
Turning, she led the way down the corridor to an open door. Entering the room beyond, she paused in the center, waited until both men joined her, then waved at the large dressing table set against one side wall. “That is where I will sit. Miss Mackay will stand behind me as she dresses my hair. We chose this room because, while it has a lady’s dressing room to that side”—she pointed to where another door stood open, revealing a welter of skirts and bandboxes—“it also has a gentleman’s dressing room on this side.” She indicated a matching door to the right of the dressing table; that door stood slightly ajar, with the room beyond in darkness. “Naturally, as this is supposed to be my bedchamber, that gentleman’s dressing room would be expected to be unused. If you stand in there and make no sound, there will be no reason for Miss Mackay to suspect you are there, yet you’ll be close enough to hear every word she and I exchange.”
Stokes, who, now she could see him clearly, appeared quite young, looked eager. “If I may . . . ?” He pointed to the door. When Tabitha nodded, he pushed it open, looked in, then stepped inside. He glanced back at them around the door. “If you could sit at the table, Miss Makepeace—and Trantor, perhaps you could stand behind her?”
They dutifully took up those positions. Stokes closed the door until it was an inch away from being shut. “Trantor—can you see me?”
Sebastian looked, as did Tabitha. After a moment, he shook his head. “Not really. If you don’t move, your clothes merge into the shadows—as she won’t know you’re there, even if she looks that way, it’s unlikely Miss Mackay would detect you.”
“Excellent!” Stokes opened the door and came out. He inclined his head to Tabitha. “I applaud your arrangements, Miss Makepeace.” He looked at Sebastian. “It appears our stage is set.”
“Now all we need is our principal player.” Sebastian raised his brows as the front doorbell peeled.
They all listened, heard Biggs cross the hall, then his stentorian voice carried up the stairs. “I believe Miss Tabitha is ready for you—I’ll send for her maid. She’ll take you up.”
Tabitha waved her hands at both Sebastian and Stokes. “Into the dressing room. We arranged for my maid, Tilly, to bring Miss Mackay up, then Tilly will stay and fuss for a few minutes, then leave us alone.”
“Very good.” Stokes led the way into the dressing room.
Sebastian grinned at the excited anticipation in Tabitha’s face. He bent his head and pressed a swift kiss to her lips. “Good luck.” Then he followed Stokes into the darkened dressing room.
Tabitha pressed her hands to her cheeks, then drew in a deep breath. She did indeed feel as if she were stepping onto a stage. One on which she’d have to improvise to a large degree. She had to hope Elaine Mackay would give her the opening she needed to impart her secret, and that she wouldn’t do anything to make the woman suspicious.
Hearing footsteps approaching, she checked the almost closed door of the dressing room, then, satisfied there was nothing to give the men away, she sank onto the stool before the dressing table, and schooled herself to play her part. She had to build on her earlier appearance before Miss Mackay and pretend to a naivety she’d never possessed.
“Oh! There you are.” She swung to beam at Elaine Mackay as Tilly ushered her into the room. Swinging back to face the mirror, she plumped up her flyaway hair. “I’ve been thinking . . . do you really think the Grecian style will be best?”
With a confident smile, Elaine Mackay set a package containing her implements down on the dressing table and smoothly moved into what Tabitha mentally dubbed her reassurance mode. Tilly bustled about, then went into the lady’s dressing room. She came out with Tabitha’s petticoats over one arm. Laying them out on the bed, she turned to Tabitha. “I’m just going down to check over your ball gown—it might need the iron put to it.”
Tabitha, engrossed in Elaine Mackay’s transformation of her hair—she really was a gifted hairdresser—waved Tilly off. “Take your time and make sure every last crease is gone—I want everything to be perfect for tonight.”
“Yes, miss.” With a bob, Tilly was gone.
Tabitha waited. Minutes ticked by with nothing more than a comment here and there about this curl or that. She was starting to feel anxious, but then Elaine Mackay murmured, “It’s such a wonderful time in a young lady’s life—getting engaged.”
Eyes wide, fixed on her own reflection, Tabitha made a breathless sound of agreement. In the corner of her vision she caught the sly, measuring look Elaine Mackay sent her way.
“Why,” the hairdresser said, paying attention to a stray curl, “in many ways it’s as if you leave your old life behind, all the
mistakes and stumbles, and start afresh as a soon-to-be new bride.”
Tabitha nodded emphatically. “Yes, exactly . . . oops—sorry.”
Her smile a touch strained, Elaine reset the curl Tabitha had yanked out. “It must be such a relief not to have to worry anymore about past indiscretions. I know many of my young ladies have said that.”
“Oh, yes!” Tabitha gushed. “I know just how they feel.”
“Indeed?” Polite skepticism colored Mackay’s voice. “But I wouldn’t imagine you had any truly worrisome episode in your past.”
“Oh, but I have! You have no idea.” Tabitha lowered her voice. “I’m just so relieved that once I marry Mr. Trantor I can forget all about the letter.”
“Letter?”
“Hmm. It’s such a silly thing to have done.” In the tone of a naive girl recounting a past incident to someone she trusted without any true appreciation of the potential for harm vis à vis her current situation, Tabitha babbled, suitably disjointedly, through her embellished tale of a highly inflammatory letter explicitly alluding to a lover’s tryst—she allowed the implication that the tryst had culminated in intimacy to slide through—ultimately explaining in an airy way how such a letter surfacing now would shred her reputation.
As the tale that she had once believed herself utterly, romantically, and most definitely physically, in love with the gentleman now popularly known as Addison the Spineless Wonder truly would play havoc with her image, she substituted Addison with a blameless young gentleman who she knew had been with the army in Spain over the time her supposed indiscretion had taken place.
Elaine Mackay was an excellent listener; even knowing her motives, Tabitha found it remarkably easy to blab her secret.
The exercise, however, brought home to her how betrayed and lost her friends must have felt when the blackmailer’s demand arrived. The conversation with Elaine remained so inconsequential, constantly interrupted by details about her hair and with Elaine giving the impression that she wasn’t really listening, Tabitha finally understood how her friends might have revealed their secrets, then forgotten that they had.