‘Mistresses? He has got more than one?’ He has any?
‘As far as I know he hasn’t got a mistress, that’s what I am trying to say. Don’t get into a tizzy and snap at me, Sophie. I haven’t got one either.’
‘I don’t care about your mistresses, Toby, other to hope that you find a nice one. And I certainly do not want to track down Calderbrook’s light of love, if he has one. This is about a friend of mine who is falling for a man, but she is worried about rumours she’s heard and wants to find out if they are true.’
‘Well, so long as you don’t want me interfering in Calderbrook’s private life.’ Toby gave an exaggerated shudder and flung himself into the nearest armchair. ‘He’d run me though if he found out, although I suspect he would tear my head off first or set that sinister swordmaster of his on me. So what’s the name of this shady cove? I’ll find out about him for you.’
‘I can’t tell you that. If he is perfectly innocent and marries my friend, then you will know who she is and I am sworn to secrecy.’
‘Ah, good point.’ Toby frowned and lapsed into silence, brooding. Sophie curbed her impatience and waited. He was not a great thinker and it was usually best to leave the cogs to grind slowly round in their own time.
‘I know.’ He sat up abruptly. ‘Finchingfield was convinced someone was cheating at cards and set this man on him. Sure enough, tracked him back to York and found he’d been run out of town for running crooked games. Now what was his name? Frogmore, that’s it.’
‘The agent?’
‘No, the card sharp.’
‘I need the agent’s name and direction, Toby.’ Patience. You can’t strangle him now, you need him.
‘Ah. Right. I’ll go and find Finchingfield, he’s bound to be at White’s. Won’t be long.’ He went out, then put his head back round the door. ‘Has your cook got any of those macarons, do you think? The almond ones?’
‘I’ll get her to make some.’ Sophie lobbed a cushion at him. ‘Now, go!’
Cal stood on the pavement outside 32, Ludgate Hill and studied the items displayed in the window of Rundell, Bridge and Rundell. Jewellers and Goldsmiths to Their Majesties, it said above the door under the array of royal crests, which should be good enough for a duchess.
The strong boxes at the bank were stuffed with gems and jewellery that would be Sophie’s for her lifetime as soon as the knot was tied, but he wanted to buy her something chosen for her, not anything like the ponderous stuff he recalled from all the family portraits.
He could go in and as soon as they realised who he was they would be prostrating themselves in their eagerness to lay things out for him, but he wanted to have some ideas about what Sophie would like best before he entered. Sapphires would suit her, of course, and in his pocket he had a packet of uncut Burmese stones that he’d bought in India that he wanted to consult the jewellers about, but aquamarines would be prettier, lighter. Perhaps something in aquamarines and pearls, for day wear?
He found he liked the bustle of the City. People had purpose and the juxtaposition of the great cathedral of St Paul’s, just up the hill from where he stood, made a dramatic contrast with the lowering presence of the Newgate and Fleet prisons and the Old Bailey. Distantly there were sounds from the river to add to the mix and he would walk down to it past the Bridewell when he had completed his business and didn’t have a small fortune of gemstones in his pocket.
He was turning to the door when a flicker of golden hair made him stop and stare up the hill at the slender figure walking away from him. He caught the glimpse of a veil as she turned her head to speak to the woman beside her, a maid from her clothing, but the back of her hair showed under her hat, guinea-gold in the sunlight. Surely not Sophie, on foot, in the City? No lady walked there in the heart of the business district.
Cal set off after her, cursing under his breath as slower pedestrians got in his way. She crossed the road, continued up, then stopped and seem to consult a paper in her hand. Then she turned left and vanished. He broke through into a gap in the throng, took the turn into a quieter street and glanced up. Ave Maria Lane.
And there was Sophie, studying her piece of paper again, unmistakeable now he was close.
‘Sophie! Miss Wilmott.’
She spun round then took a step back. ‘Your Grace.’
A few passers-by stared. The maid curtseyed. Cal doffed his hat. ‘Sophie, what on earth are you doing here?’
He couldn’t see her face properly behind the fine black net, but he heard the ‘Um…’ perfectly clearly.
‘Does you mama know you are walking about in the City?’
‘Er… No.’
‘Then what are you doing?’
‘I don’t want to tell you,’ she said with disarming frankness.
‘That is perfectly obvious.’ He should probably be annoyed, he was certainly suspicious, although quite what of, he wasn’t sure. ‘But I think you had better.’