*
“I’ve been thinking—what if Caleb Grant is Sybille’s father?” Ophelia said, once Penrose had crept back down to the cellar to change and they’d gone back outside to the street. “He is an American.”
“But she grew up in an orphanage. And didn’t you say that Sybille’s father was a French diplomat?” Penrose smeared grease off his cheeks with his handkerchief.
“Well, that’s what Henrietta told Prue. But Henrietta isn’t known for her sterling word. And if he’s Sybille’s father, then he’d know Henrietta, too—even though he said he didn’t when I asked him yesterday. What if Henrietta looked him up when she arrived in Paris, and something went wrong?”
“I suspect that learning precisely what Grant was doing, matching gentlemen’s names with girl’s names in his notebook, will shed a good deal of light on the matter. I’ll speak to Lord Dutherbrook. From what I recall, he rarely stirs from his chair in his club.”
“Do you reckon he’s there now?”
“Very likely. He’s a bit like a beached whale. However, Miss Flax, the Jockey Club is no place for a lady.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I’m not known for my retiring and ladylike nature.” How had that slipped out?
“No, what I mean to say is, ladies are not allowed inside the club.”
“Oh.”
“I shall send a note along to you—to Madame Brand—and apprise you of anything that I learn at the club. Now—shall I hire a carriage to take you back to H?tel Malbert?”
“No, thank you.” Ophelia had already dug out the Baedeker from her reticule, and she popped open her umbrella. “I’ll walk.”
*
As soon as Ophelia had tumbled through H?tel Malbert’s cellar window, bent her umbrella back into shape, and dusted herself off, she went in search of Prue. Once again, she found Prue scrubbing away—this time at a dented copper pot—in the kitchen. Beatrice was nowhere to be seen, so Ophelia crept in.
“Still at your housewifing then?” Ophelia said.
Prue shrugged.
“Are you well, Prue? You look a little peaked. Should you take a rest?”
“Too much to do. Sleuthing with the professor again?”
“Yes.”
“Learn anything?”
Ophelia told her about Madame Fayette and the stomacher, but Prue seemed distracted. “Prue, the kitchen work is not your responsibility. Where does Beatrice take herself off to, anyway?”
“Market, she says. Course, she smells like a saloon every time she comes back, and one time she clean forgot to even buy any food. Are you hungry? There’s cold beef in the pantry, and a nice onion tart I helped make.”
“Sounds lovely.” Ophelia was ravenous; she hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast. Although she and the professor had passed countless cafes and bakeries today, she hadn’t suggested they stop to eat. That would have led to him paying for things.
Ophelia sat at the table and dug into the food Prue brought. The onion tart was surprisingly tasty, and only a little burnt. Prue even served her a cup of tea. Sitting here in the kitchen without the Mrs. Brand disguise was risky, but Ophelia was too hungry to care.
“Well, I do hope you’ll come upstairs, come dinnertime,” Ophelia said to Prue, once she’d washed her fork, plate, and teacup.
“Not in these dirty duds. My stepsisters would turn up their noses at me.”
*
Ophelia tiptoed up to her chamber the back way. The first thing she did was write a note to Madame Fayette requesting that she cancel Lord Harrington’s order for the gowns. Ophelia would rather have a tooth pulled than accept handouts. She remembered to sign the note Miss Stonewall, and sealed it in an addressed envelope. Then she hurried into her Mrs. Brand disguise. She meant to locate Malbert and have a cozy chat with him, as the professor had suggested. She just might be able to squeeze something from him about Henrietta and divorce.
Ophelia was just replacing her theatrical case in the wardrobe when a rap sounded on her door.