Free Cynthia Bailey Pratt by Queen of Hearts

her petite form, brought out the color of her eyes. Add half-boots, a shawl and French bonnet, and Miss Berenice Clively could walk from New Bond Street Buildings to the banks of the Ganges in the most perfect accord with fashion and ease.
    Danita thought of her own walking dress, hanging forlornly in the wardrobe. Brown, bombazine, and boring. She could have taken her place in any mourning party without question. It did not make her feel any better to know that half the fashionable visitors to Bath were still wearing court-ordered mourning for Princess Charlotte. Danita tried to stifle the envy in her heart. After all, if it were not for Mrs. Clively’s kindness, she should have no attire but that which she had purchased for herself. “Very well, Berenice, I shall join you shortly.”
    Danita hesitated. Had the girl seen her put the note beneath the clock? Was that why she had not gone to change her clothing? If only there were some plausible reason for her to go to the clock. Berenice was not distracted enough by her letter, not nearly as interested in it as she had been in the departing form of Sir Carleton.
    “I think this clock has lost a few minutes,” Danita said slowly. “Can you see the church clock from there?”
    While Berenice pushed aside the drape to peer down the street, Danita snatched the note from beneath the pendulum. Sir Carleton had cleverly folded the paper to be no larger than thesquare inside of her palm.
    “No,” Berenice said. “I can’t see it.”
    “How stupid I am. St. Michael’s doesn’t have a clock. Well, I shall have Figgs attend to it. I won’t be long, dear.”
    Danita took the steps to her third-floor bedroom far more quickly than usual, taking care, however, to pass Mrs. Clively’s door on the landing without a sound. Once in her own room, she opened the note to discover only two lines scrawled in black ink.
    “Don’t worry. I am silent.”
    Coming downstairs, after she’d changed, Danita stopped to address a word to the butler. After telling him her spurious fears about the clock, she asked, “Did Sir Carleton ask who lived here before he told you about the handkerchief?”
    “No, Miss Wingrove. He told me of finding it, and then inquired as to how long Mrs. Clively will be residing in this residence. He said Number 15 is draughty and he is considering making a change.”
    “He knew Mrs. Clively had taken the house?”
    “Not until I told him. Miss Wingrove.” The hired butler’s expression did not vary despite his surprise at being questioned. “He wished to know how many persons this residence accommodates.”
    No doubt the butler had mentioned the added advantage of the rooms on the third floor for nursery and governess, presently occupied by a great-niece. Having been a servant herself, Danita knew how much gossip could be conveyed in a word or two.
    Sir Carleton had more than time enough to scribble a note while Figgs asked Berenice about the handkerchief. Danita’s hope that Sir Carleton had not recognized her in his town house began to evaporate. On which subject, she wondered, did his note promise silence, that of their first meeting or of her entering his house last night? The injunction not to worry was in vain.
    Either he had followed her last night, or he had purchased the handkerchief to meet the favored granddaughter of a wealthy woman. For reasons which she did not name, Danita did not wish to believe Sir Carleton, gambler though he be, was also a fortune-hunter.
    Berenice was ready to go. Usually, she had thought of several shops to visit as they walked to the Gardens, but today she rushed along the narrow streets of Bath as though pursued. Only when they reached the hotel, did she slow to a more sedate speed. Danita was all but breathless. “Why...why the hurry?”
    “No reason. If we are going, we might as well go quickly.” Berenice craned her neck to see ahead. “There’s an empty bench, down that lane.”
    “It’s rather shady, isn’t