Since she was no horsewoman, the ride back to Westminster was both frightening and uncomfortable for Eleanor Ryle but it got her there much quicker than her own feet could have done so. Nigel, the fresh-faced young servant who had accompanied her, helped her down from the saddle. She thanked him profusely before running to the house. In her estimation, she had been away for the best part of two hours and feared that her mistress might have called for her in the interim.
Admitted through the side door by one of the kitchen maids, she scampered up the backstairs and along the corridor to Lady Culthorpe’s bedchamber. Eleanor was relieved to see that the door was firmly shut. Leaning against the wall opposite, she tried to catch her breath. She did not regret what she had done. Like her mistress, she had lingering doubts about Jean-Paul Villemot’s guilt and she felt a frisson of pleasure when she recalled the artist’s suggestion that she should wear the exquisite blue dress at a sitting in place of Lady Culthorpe. He had noticed her. During the few seconds they had met, Villemot had observed that her figure and deportment were similar to those of her mistress. That simple act of recognition meant so much to Eleanor. It made her want him to be innocent of the crime.
The door of the bedchamber suddenly opened and Araminta stood before her. With a squeal of surprise, Eleanor stood away from the wall and gave an obedient smile.
‘I hope you haven’t been waiting there all this time,’ said Araminta with concern.
‘No, m’lady.’
‘What have you been doing?’
‘I went for a little walk,’ said the maid. ‘We’ve been trapped in the house so long that I felt the need of some fresh air.’
‘An excellent idea — there’s no need to entomb ourselves here.’
‘Did you get any sleep, m’lady?’
‘Yes, I did, for an hour or so.’
‘Oh, I’m so pleased.’
‘It’s left me feeling drowsier than ever.’
‘Perhaps you should go back to bed.’
‘No,’ said Araminta, ‘I feel the need to stretch my legs. Fresh air will do me good. Let’s take a turn around the garden.’
‘The garden?’
‘Yes, Eleanor.’
‘Are you sure that you’re ready for that, m’lady?’ said the other, thinking about Lady Culthorpe’s last venture into the garden. ‘I don’t want you to upset yourself.’
‘I need to go,’ decided Araminta. ‘A dreadful event may have taken place there but I’ll not bar myself on that account. My husband adored his garden and he’d want me to enjoy it to the full. In any case, I have another reason for wanting to see it.’
‘What was that, m’lady?’
‘It was where Sir Martin proposed to me,’ confided the other, a distant smile touching her face. ‘So it will always be a very special place to me. Come, Eleanor. The garden will revive happier memories.’
‘As long as it does not trouble you in any way.’
‘We will soon find out,’ said Araminta.
The ritual of dressing to go out was a long and laborious one for Henry Redmayne. Every detail had to be right, every colour had to match, every article of clothing had to blend into a dazzling whole. After a final ten minutes spent on choosing the best hat, he was ready to depart but, when he opened the front door, his brother was bearing down on the house with Jonathan Bale beside him. Henry shivered with apprehension. Recovering quickly, he sought a means of escape.
‘I’m sorry, Christopher,’ he said, holding up a hand. ‘I can see that you’ve come on urgent business. Whatever it is, it will have to wait until the morrow. I have an appointment with His Majesty at the palace and he must not be kept waiting.’
Christopher was direct. ‘I don’t think the King would be pleased to know that he was consorting with a thief.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That portrait.’
‘I did not steal it,’ said Henry. ‘I’d swear on the biggest Bible in Christendom. I’d even do so before our esteemed father and there’s no more solemn oath than that. Now, let me get on my way.’
‘No, sir,’ said Bale, obstructing him.
‘You’ve no right to stop me.’
‘And you’ve no right to tell us lies, Mr Redmayne. I am not as close to King Charles as you but I do hear gossip about him from time to time, and I am certain that he’s not even in London.’
‘That’s true,’ said Christopher. ‘I read it in the newspaper. His Majesty is visiting Oxford. No more flimsy excuses, Henry. Invite us in so that we may settle this matter.’
‘It already is settled — I’m not a thief.’
‘We are talking about the visit you paid to the house yesterday.’
‘That wasn’t me, Christopher.’
‘The maid believes that it was,’
Henry was incensed. ‘Do you accept the word of an ignorant slattern over mine?’
‘Yes,’ said Christopher, tapping the portfolio. ‘We showed Matilda those sketches I did of you. She recognised you.’
‘And she is no ignorant slattern, sir,’ said Bale. ‘The girl has good eyesight. Even by the light of a candle, you are very distinctive.’
‘If you still persist in denying it, Henry, there’s an easy solution. Now that you no longer have to rush off to the palace, you can step along to Monsieur Villemot’s lodging with us and let Matilda take a proper look at you.’ Christopher held out an arm. ‘Shall we do that?’
Henry Redmayne was like a trapped animal. Caught at the threshold, he could not get free. What made his discomfort more intense was that Bale was there to enjoy it. They had met before in the course of Henry’s previous indiscretions and the constable had always seized the chance to deliver a lecture at him on morality. Henry could not bear that. He looked for a compromise.
‘Very well,’ he said with a grandiloquent gesture, ‘perhaps my curiosity did get the better of me. There’s no harm in that.’
‘You entered that house under false pretences,’ said Bale.
‘I’m prepared to discuss this misunderstanding with my brother, Mr Bale, but not if you are party to the conversation. Your presence would inhibit me. This is an occasion for filial confidences.’
Bale looked at Christopher and they had a silent discussion. At length, and with reluctance, Bale agreed to withdraw, touching the brim of his hat in farewell. Henry took his brother into the house and guided him into the drawing room. Sweeping off his hat, he conjured up an expression of remorse.
‘I did visit the house,’ he confessed, ‘and it was wrong of me to do so. But I was desperate to see that portrait of Araminta and it seemed like the only way.’
‘Short of stealing it, that is,’ said Christopher.
‘I did not take the portrait and there’s an end to it.’
‘Far from it, Henry — I fancy we are just at the beginning. I spoke to Sir Willard Grail earlier and he mentioned an association to which you and he belong. What exactly is it?’
‘Harmless fun among friends,’ said Henry, airily.
‘I don’t think that wheedling your way into someone else’s property can be classed as harmless fun. Matilda has been blaming herself for letting you in ever since. I could see it in her face,’ said Christopher. ‘But for her, that portrait would not have been stolen.’
‘I told you — I had nothing to do with the theft.’
‘We’ll come back to that. First, tell me about this society.’
‘It was Elkannah’s notion,’ said Henry, trying to shift responsibility on to someone else. ‘I was against it from the start but the others cajoled me into it, and I was as entranced by Araminta as any of them. Under pressure from the others, I joined the group.’
‘And what was its purpose?’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Come along, Henry. I know that it pertained to Lady Culthorpe so you might as well be honest about it. What was its name?’
‘The Society for the Capture of Araminta’s Maidenhood.’
Christopher was shocked. ‘That’s disgraceful!’
‘It was only meant in jest.’
‘Well, the jest has so far led to the murder of her husband and the theft of her portrait. What other amusement is your iniquitous society going to offer?’