The Drury Lane Theatre was as busy as a December night, the public having learned that Mrs. Arabella Malibrant had returned and that her understudy was again relegated to a minor role. This was the final month of Dibden's Revenge, and the production had been a resounding success. The theatre was abuzz with speculation about the play now in rehearsals.
Morton stood in the lobby awaiting the evening's leading lady. A stage door existed, but Arabella occasionally had need of the attention of her admirers and would descend among them for a few moments, her unmistakable cumulus red curls making her immediately recognisable. A little ripple of excitement entered the lobby with her, washing through the gathering. Impertinent young men on the stairway turned their quizzing glasses upon her, and gentlemen of more senior years (and in the company of wives) tried not to be seen glancing Arabella's way. Even among the women present she had her admirers.
Morton could not help but warm a little with pride as she took his arm, so that he might escort her out to their waiting hackney-coach. Arabella nodded and said “So kind” and a hundred variations thereof as they made their way through the throng. Here and there she greeted friends and acquaintances, enquiring after children, husbands, lovers.
For a moment they were held up by the crowd pressing around the doors, and Morton found a lovely pair of brown eyes turned their way. It took a moment for him to realise it was he, not the woman on his arm, who was the object of their interest.
“Mademoiselle Honoria,” Morton said, bowing.
“Monsieur Morton,” answered the young woman with a curtsy. She was in the company of her family-all but the elder count-who were engaged in an animated conversation in French. The words flew so quickly that Morton barely caught the gist-talk of returning home to France.
Morton would have introduced Arabella, but she was speaking to another, and by the time she had finished, the d'Auvraye clan had moved on, young Monsieur Eustache d'Auvraye leading the way; a tiny wave from the daughter's gloved hand as they passed out through the row of columns.
A moment later Morton handed Arabella up into their carriage, and they set off at a snail's pace in the press of conveyances. Arabella laid her head against his shoulder.
“Tired, my love?”
“It has been a full day, what with rehearsals, performances, and fittings-the latter in the service of Bow Street, mind you.”
“You saw Madame De le C?ur?”
“Her daughter came to see me so that I might have a gown made. It shall cost a small fortune, but perhaps it will be worth it. We shall see.”
“I shall pay for it myself,” Morton said chivalrously.
“Thank you, Henry, but Arthur has already insisted that the bill come to him.”
Morton felt a strong sense of irritation at this news.
“Of course it doesn't matter who pays,” Arabella added. “The important thing is that we learn more of poor Madame Desmarches.”
“And how go your efforts to that end?”
“First I must gain Miss De le C?ur's confidence. To morrow we meet again. I shall test the waters then, though when I mentioned Madame Desmarches's name today, Amelie became terribly silent for a time. She knows more than she has told us, I am sure of that.”
“Something that can be said of most parties involved in this affair,” Morton reflected.
They soon arrived at Arabella's home in Theobald's Road. “Come up, Henry. I need comforting after my long day.”
“There is nothing I would rather do, but I must be off to Maiden Lane and relieve the man who is watching over a cully who might know something of this same murder.”
Arabella gazed at him in the poor light from her door lamp. “And how is one to compete with Mistress Duty?”
“Easily, if one is the celebrated Mrs. Malibrant. But tonight I could find no other to stand the middle watch.”
She smiled only a little. “Well, I shall dream of you as I lie in my warm bed, Henry Morton.”
Morton stopped off at his own lodgings in Rupert Street to change from his theatre clothes into something more ppropriate to Maiden Lane. Wilkes, his manservant, was still stirring and brought Morton a letter.
“Sent over from the Public Office, sir. They wanted you to have it this night.” He held it out to Morton in a tremulous hand, a condition that had cost him his employment among the quality and eventually brought him into service with a lowly Bow Street Runner- much to that Runner's benefit. The older man fetched Morton's frock coat from the wardrobe.
Morton turned the letter over. “And what is this?” he wondered.
“I don't know, sir. Unusual coat of arms, though,” Wilkes observed.
“Is it?”
Wilkes nodded to the crest stamped at the top of the fine notepaper. His years amongst people of fashion had made him something of an authority on matters heraldic.
“Three chevrons, saltire”-he wrinkled up his nose- “the cross flory-a little unusual. The beast, I think, is a lion salient, although I must say, sir, it looks as much like a hedgehog as it does anything else. Certainly such devices are not English, nor even British. If I were to guess, with such a lion, I would say French.”
Morton broke the seal and opened the letter. “You impress me, as ever, Wilkes. It belongs to the Count d'Auvraye, although I do wonder how long he's had it.”
“I have not heard of the family, sir. But there are ever so many counts over there, even if one doesn't heed the lot that Bony hatched. Is the letter something important?”
“A request by d'Auvraye, or at least from his secretary, to meet with the count in Barnes tomorrow morning. I shall be in late tonight and up early, I'm afraid.”
“I'm sorry to hear it, sir.”
Morton smiled at the man, as much a friend and confidant as a servant. “Can't be helped. Will you have a breakfast ready for Mr. Presley and me at six?”
“Six it is. Coffee will be steaming.”
“You are a warm hearth in a cold world, Wilkes.”
The older man performed a slight gracious bow, his trembling hands held carefully out of sight behind his back.