Worth of Rubies: A Victorian Short Mystery Read online

  Furtive movement caught her eye, and without a second thought, she slid behind a large fern potted in an oriental vase. Carefully, she peered between the fronds.

  Partway down the hall, the Countess of Draymoor stood, stripping the rings from her gloved fingers. The woman glanced about, then snatched the glittering diamonds from her own throat and crammed them, and the rings, into her reticule. After a moment’s hesitation, she tore the matching brooch off her blue silk gown and tucked it away. She tugged at her beautifully coiffed hair until it tumbled in disarray.

  Then she opened her mouth wide, and screamed.

  Isabelle clapped her hands over her ears as the woman’s cry reverberated down the hall. An instant later, the main doors to the ballroom flew open, and several gentlemen hastened out. Behind them came their hostess and a number of women, voices raised in questioning alarm. Isabelle stepped out from her hiding place and joined the throng in the now-crowded hallway, confusion squeezing her thoughts.

  Whatever was the countess up to?

  “It was dreadful,” Countess Draymoor said, one hand at her throat. “He leaped at me from one of the doorways, ripped off my jewelry, and ran before I could cry out for help.”

  “Which way did he go?” one of the gentlemen asked.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Was he a servant?”

  “I…I think he went that way.” The countess pointed away from the ballroom. “As to his form—he was large, and his hair was light in color—or so I recall. But I was so overset, you must understand….”

  Three of the younger men immediately sprinted after the imaginary assailant.

  “Give her some space,” the mistress of the house said. “Come, Lady Draymoor, into the parlor. You have had quite a shock, and need to recover.”

  “Oh yes, please.” The countess pressed a hand to her forehead. “I feel rather unwell.”

  Isabelle folded her arms and watched as Countess Draymoor was shepherded away. Now was not the time—but as soon as calling hours arrived on the morrow, she planned to pay the deceitful countess a visit.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  It was fairly easy for Isabelle to convince her tender-hearted mother they should call upon Countess Draymoor.

  “The poor woman,” Lady Strathmore said as the footman handed her out of their carriage outside Lord Draymoor’s town house. “How kind of you to suggest we pay her a visit—and the peonies are a lovely touch.”

  Isabelle dipped her nose into the bouquet she carried and inhaled deeply of the white flowers’ delicate perfume.

  “You know how father objects when they shed petals all over the conservatory floor,” Isabelle said. “This way, there will be less for him to complain of.”

  And her sympathy made a convenient screen for her ulterior motive of questioning the countess. She mounted the curving granite steps leading to the front door. The brass knocker ring was heavy under her fingers.

  A stoic-looking butler admitted them, taking their cards and indicating that the countess was receiving visitors in the Blue Room. A waiting footman bowed and ushered them in, and Isabelle handed the flowers off to him. The blooms would appear again in a few minutes, no doubt artfully arrayed in a cut-crystal vase.

  The Blue Room was aptly named. Long velvet curtains, divans and settees, even the carpet on the floor was figured in tones of azure. The place seemed designed to highlight the cobalt of Countess Draymoor’s eyes and set off her fair complexion.

  Though it was an early hour for visitors, the countess was entertaining half a dozen ladies, seated in a semicircle in the center of the room. A quick scan of their faces proved that Isabelle knew none of them by name. Although the young woman with brown ringlets framing her face looked familiar—as did her older companion. A moment later, Isabelle caught her breath as belated recognition swept over her.

  It was the young woman from the lecture hall, who had her bracelet stolen. Was she here to commiserate with the countess… or was something deeper at play?

  “Lady Strathmore—please take a seat,” the countess said, gesturing Isabelle’s mother to a nearby chair. She made introductions, then turned to Isabelle. “And this is your lovely daughter, Isabelle, yes? I recall she came out earlier in the Season. Look at her hair, her eyes—such a beauty!”

  Isabelle bobbed her head. It was not easy, acknowledging compliments when one was being spoken of in the third person. Wry humor sparked inside her. It had not escaped her notice that she and the countess were very similar in coloring. And she would wager it had not escaped the countess’s, either.

  Lady Strathmore sat, and Isabelle took the chair beside her—an overstuffed cushion of a thing that made her feel as though she were perched on a camel’s hump. On her other side was a robust woman, who also looked vaguely familiar. Isabelle shot her a surreptitious glance. She was not entirely sure, but the lady resembled the woman whose rubies had been stolen at the musicale.

  “We were just discussing the Queen’s College,” the countess said. “What do you think of the endeavor, Lady Strathmore?”

  “The queen supports it, does she not?” Isabelle’s mother said. “Surely our monarch’s judgment is sound in such matters.”

  It was a clever answer, especially as neither Isabelle nor her mother were certain of the political leanings of this group. At home, of course, the family had discussed it. A school that intended to award academic qualifications to women? Society was abuzz. Detractors claimed that teaching higher mathematics to women would imperil their health, but the entire Strathmore family thought such claims ridiculous.

  “I am relieved to hear you say so.” A woman whom the countess had introduced as Lady Henrietta Stanley of Alderley leaned forward, her dark eyes alight. “Surely, as a mother, you support the education of our young women.”

  “Indeed I do,” Lady Strathmore said. “I understand the college is facing stern opposition from the Tories.”

  The countess let out a deep sigh. “My husband chief among them, I am saddened to admit. He is strongly against the idea of the college, and believes that education is of little use to a woman. Perhaps, if we’d had daughters instead of sons, he would feel differently.”

  “And perhaps not,” Lady Stanley said, her voice brisk. “In any case, we all do what we can to support the worthy efforts of Mr. Maurice.”

  A charged silence fell, and Isabelle caught the jewel thief’s ‘victims’ exchanging wary glances.

  “Is Mr. Maurice accepting donations to his cause?” Isabelle asked, attempting to keep her voice casual. She smoothed the muslin of her skirts, the fabric cool under her hand.

  “How thoughtful of you,” the countess said. “Indeed, although one does not like to speak of it in polite company, the college is in serious need of funding.”

  Isabelle’s heart sped, though she kept her voice calm. “I’m afraid I have very little to give. Except, perhaps…” She looked to her mother. “Might I give them one of grandmama’s rings? I would like to donate some of my small inheritance in service to this worthy cause.”

  Lady Strathmore’s eyebrows rose, but she nodded. “If you wish, then certainly you may. And I shall make sure to send a contribution as well.”

  Isabelle turned wide eyes to the countess. “I presume you are able to accept donations that are not precisely in monetary form?”

  “We will make do—and your generosity is sincerely appreciated.” A delicate flush crept along the countess’s cheeks, almost unnoticeable, unless one were watching for it.

  Across from Isabelle, the young woman shifted, the fabric of her skirts making a hushing sound.

  “Speaking of jewelry,” Isabelle said, “I do want to offer my sympathy to you, Countess Draymoor. Whatever is London coming to, with this dreadful rash of necklaces being stolen so boldly off the necks of women?”

  “It was a terrible shock,” the countess said, one hand going to her chest. Around her, the other women nodded vehemently.

  Isabelle was about to say some
thing more, when a young man strode into the room. The words froze in her throat. It was the black-haired man!

  “Charles!” The countess rose, a smile warming her features. “Do come in, my dear. Though I suppose you are only here in hopes of encountering Miss Shaw.”

  The young woman with the brown ringlets blushed.

  “Mother, you know I enjoy your company,” the young man said. His gaze went over the assembled ladies, then snagged on Isabelle. “I see you’ve made some new friends.”

  Countess Draymoor made the introductions, and an awkward silence settled. Isabelle’s thoughts hummed. All the pieces were coming together—the false thefts, following Charles to the jewelry shop, the Queen’s College need for funds in the face of serious opposition.

  “Lady Draymoor,” Isabelle said. “I hear you have a lovely array of narcissus in your garden. Pray, would you show them to me?”

  Her mother shot Isabelle a curious look, but the countess rose immediately.

  “Of course. Being the daughter of a botanist, I imagine you are interested in such things. I prefer them for their scent, you understand. Ladies, please excuse us.”

  An attentive maid fetched Isabelle’s pelisse, and a cloak for the countess, and together they went out into the rain-fresh garden. It was true, the beds were full of white and yellow blooms, but Isabelle paid no attention to the flowers or the sweet scent filling the air. She faced the countess, meeting the woman’s blue eyes directly.

  “My lady,” Isabelle said. “Forgive me for speaking so directly—but you cannot continue your, shall we say, rather unorthodox method of raising funds for the college.”

  The countess arched one brow. “Are you saying you do not support such a worthy cause after all? I must admit, I am disappointed, Miss Strathmore.”

  “It’s not that. Bluntly put, you must stop pretending that your jewelry is being stolen. You’ll be caught—or your son will, as he attempts to sell supposedly stolen goods. Can’t you see the danger?”

  The countess turned her head and studied her rows of narcissus. After a moment she let out a quiet sigh. “How did you find out?”

  “I saw you, last night. Saw you strip the gems from your fingers, and rip the brooch off your dress. Next time, it might be someone not so sympathetic.”

  “You must understand, it is the only way some of us have of supporting the college. I cannot ask my husband for money to give them—he would never yield to it. Yet it is essential Mr. Maurice succeed. If not for my generation, then for yours.” There was a steely light in the countess’s eyes. “I would ‘steal’ all my jewelry, if I could. It is the only thing of real value I can control.”

  Isabelle nodded. “Perhaps you could ‘lose’ some, instead. It’s only a matter of time before Scotland Yard is called in.”

  “You are right—we must not be discovered.” The countess pursed her mouth. “The jewel thief will have to disappear, leaving unsolved mysteries in his wake.”

  “I’m certain you’ll find support in other quarters. I know my family will be able to give at least a small amount. Not every man feels as your husband does.”

  A shadow crossed the countess’s face, quickly banished. “Thank you, Miss Strathmore. Now, do take a moment to breathe in the narcissus before we return to the house.”

  The sweet fragrance still caught in her senses, Isabelle and Countess Draymoor re-entered the Blue Room. Isabelle sat beside her mother, and the talked turned to inconsequentials. Soon thereafter, the Strathmores took their leave. Just outside the Blue Room was a side table holding a vase of the extravagant white peonies Isabelle had brought.

  “I’ve always preferred flowers to jewelry,” she said to her mother.

  Lady Strathmore gave her a knowing smile. “Yes. And in my estimation, an education is worth even more than rubies.”

  She offered her arm. Isabelle took it, grinning, and together mother and daughter stepped out into the day.

  ~*~

  Discover what really happened on the Strathmore’s botanical expedition to Tunisia in PASSIONATE, Anthea’s RITA-nominated historical romance—available in ebook and print at all online retailers.

  EXCERPT OF PASSIONATE

  ~*~ CHAPTER TWO ~*~

  Lily Strathmore touched her brush to the paper, streaking crimson highlights along the petals taking shape on the page. She had finished the technical studies and now was painting for her own pleasure, letting the lush, perfumed warmth of the conservatory transport her into the heart of the flower. She stepped back from the easel and considered the rich red of the Amaryllis. Yes, that would do nicely.

  “Lily?” Her cousin Isabelle stirred on the nearby chaise. “Do you really think your parents will take you back to London with them? The expedition wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  “They won’t if I have any say in the matter. I’ve only been here a week—hardly long enough to make a start painting your father’s new specimens. I’ll find some way to stay. I always do.” Lily set her paintbrush down and smoothed back her unruly chestnut hair with both hands. “Mother only wants me back in Town because she has some scheme in mind—something matrimonial, no doubt.”

  “London isn’t all bad, surely. If you return you’ll be able to attend the balls and parties. While you’re dancing with dashing gentlemen, I’ll be carted around Italy with father’s precious roots and twigs.”

  “At least you won’t be required to dance and make conversation with them. I’d much prefer to travel about the Continent with your family. Collecting and painting flowers is far more interesting than trying to impersonate one in a ball-gown.”

  “So you have told me, for the hundredth time. But what about suitors? Surely you have scores of them?”

  Lily exhaled. “Hardly scores. And being pursued is not so enviable when it is your mother selecting the pursuers.” Lady Fernhaven had an unerring eye for the most placid, staid, and well-bred gentlemen Society had to offer. None of the men who had been allowed to present themselves over the last four Seasons had made Lily feel even a momentary flutter of emotion. No, that was not precisely true. Not if one classified boredom as an emotion.

  “Don’t worry,” she added, seeing her cousin’s serious expression. “When your Season comes you’ll have a lovely time and dozens of handsome suitors, I promise.”

  “Do you think so? I will pass?” Isabelle was due to make her come-out next year and cherished notions of London.

  “Quite well.”

  Isabelle’s sparkling nature, her golden hair and fair complexion, would be well received by Society. No doubt her cousin would have a throng of suitors. Lily did not envy her at all.

  She took up her brush again and swirled it in a pan of deep green—the leaves needed more shading to bring the flower out. The delicate brushwork took all her attention.

  A gentle hand fell on Lily’s shoulder, drawing her out of the world of shadow and tint and back into the conservatory. How long had it been? She looked up to see her Aunt Mary smiling.

  “The painting is lovely, my dear,” her aunt said. Her gaze shifted to her daughter. “Isabelle, your brother is about to go riding and wonders if you would join him.”

  “Of course.” Isabelle jumped up. “It must have stopped raining.”

  Aunt Mary took the seat her daughter had vacated and gave Lily a searching look. “Your parents seem set on taking you back to London.”

  “No doubt Mother has another perfect prospect waiting. Perfect, that is, until we actually meet. With all the men in Town, you’d think there would be someone. At this rate, I won’t ever marry.”

  “There is no-one? With your younger sister now wed, you are the only daughter left at home. Have you considered what that means?”

  Lily set her brush down. “In what way? I don’t relish the idea of ending up a spinster—but at least there would be plenty of time for painting. Life without a husband is better, in my estimation, than life with the wrong husband.”

  “That seems a lonely choice, my dea
r.”

  Lily shrugged. “I have come to terms with the idea.”

  Her hand smoothed her painting apron. She had always thought there would be someone for her, and children, too. But, as her mother so frequently reminded her, she was four-and-twenty—perilously close to being on the shelf. Her chances of making a match that would satisfy both her mother and herself were growing slimmer each day. Yet she could not bring herself to encourage the stuffy, self-absorbed aristocrats she was paraded before. She knew her duty was to make a match that would enhance her family’s status and her father’s position in Parliament, yet she had always believed that there should be something more.

  Aunt Mary studied her. “You realize your sister’s marriage changes your own situation.”

  “How so? Beyond the fact that I will now bear the full brunt of Mother’s matchmaking.”

  A look of sympathy passed across her aunt’s features. “You are the last unmarried daughter. Your mother may soon stop trying to see you wed and instead turn her focus toward seeing that you are ready to tend her—and your father—into their old age. The freedom of spinsterhood comes only after your obligation to your parents has ended. That might be very late in your life.”

  Or not at all. The muscles in Lily’s jaw tightened. She had not fully considered it before, but her aunt was right. Horribly right.

  Her mother was never an easy person to live with. The thought of playing the dutiful daughter, of fetching and carrying and accompanying her on an endless round of social calls… Lily shook her head. It was simply impossible.

  “I’d imagined the opportunity to travel, to paint—not play nursemaid and companion to my parents.”