Free Slightly Shady by Amanda Quick Page A

connections in Society and you keep track of rumors. What can you tell me about a woman named Joan Dove who lives in Hazelton Square?" Crackenburne considered the question for a moment. Then he folded his newspaper and set it aside. "Not a great deal, as it happens. Mr. and Mrs. Dove did not go about much in Society. There is very little gossip to relate. Nearly a year ago, I believe, the daughter got engaged to Colchester's heir. Fielding Dove died shortly afterward." "Is that all you know of the woman?" Crackenburne studied the leaping flames. "She was married to Dove for some twenty years. There was a considerable difference in age. He must have been at least twenty-five years older than she, perhaps thirty. I don't know where she came from, nor do I know anything about her family. But I can tell you one thing with great certainty." Tobias cocked a brow in silent inquiry. "When Fielding Dove died," Crackenburne said very deliberately, "Joan Dove inherited his extensive business interests. She is now an exceedingly wealthy woman." "With wealth comes power." "Yes," Crackenburne said. "And the more wealthy and powerful one is, the more one is tempted to do whatever it takes to keep one's secrets buried." It was still raining heavily when the elegant carriage came to a halt in front of Number Seven, Claremont Lane. Lavinia peeked through the curtains and saw a muscular footman in handsome green livery spring down to open the door and raise an umbrella.
    A heavy veil concealed the features of the woman who was handed down from the vehicle, but Lavinia knew there was only one lady of her acquaintance who could afford such an expensive equipage and who would have reason to come out in such dreadful weather. Joan Dove carried a package wrapped in cloth. She went quickly up the steps. In spite of the attentive footman and his umbrella, Joan's kid half boots and the skirts of her elegant dark gray cloak were damp by the time she was shown into the cozy parlor a few minutes later. Lavinia hastily gave her a chair near the hearth and took the one across from her guest. "Tea, if you please, Mrs. Chilton." She gave the order briskly, trying to sound as though receiving such a distinguished visitor was an everyday occurrence here in Claremont Lane. "The new, fresh oolong." "Yes, ma'am, right away, ma'am." Mrs. Chilton, clearly awed, nearly fell over her own feet when she tried to curtsy her way out of the room. Lavinia turned back to Joan and sought an appropriate comment. "The rain appears to be here to stay for a while." She blushed instantly at the inanity. Not precisely the way to impress a potential client, she thought. "Indeed." Joan reached up with one black-gloved hand and raised her veil. Any remaining remarks concerning the nasty weather died in Lavinia's throat when she saw Joan's pale face and stark eyes. Alarm swept through her. She rose quickly and seized the small bell on the mantel. "Are you all right, madam? Shall I send for a vinaigrette?
    "A vinaigrette will not help me." Joan's voice was amazingly even, given the dread in her eyes. "I am hoping you can, Mrs. Lake." "What is it?" Lavinia sank slowly back into her chair. "What has happened since we last spoke?" "This arrived on my doorstep an hour ago." Very deliberately, Joan unwrapped the square package she had brought with her. The cloth fell away to reveal a small waxwork scene framed in a wooden box that was approximately a foot square. Without a word, Lavinia stood again and took the picture from Joan's hands. She carried the little waxwork to the window, where the light was better, and studied the artfully wrought, finely detailed scene. The focal point of the picture was a small but precisely executed wax sculpture of a woman in a finely detailed green gown. She lay crumpled on the floor of a room, her face turned away from the viewer. The high-waisted bodice of the dress was cut very deeply in the back. The hem was trimmed with three rows of small flounces