only extended so far. ‘It would seem Miss Paisley has much to be grateful to you for, Colonel.’
‘I thought so, which was why I was so surprised when she left without telling me,’ the Colonel said. ‘Bit concerned, if you know what I mean.’
Barrington did know and he wasn’t surprised. Tanner was a decent chap, somewhere in his mid-fifties, with four married children and eight grandchildren. His wife had been in poor health for the last five years and, though he was devoted to her in every other way, her ill health had prevented them from enjoying a normal marital relationship. So he had turned, as so many men did, to the ranks of the demi-monde and there he had encountered Miss Elizabeth Paisley, the young woman for whom he had developed an unfortunate affection. Now she was missing and the Colonel was worried about her.
Probably with good reason, Barrington thought as he shook the man’s hand and walked away. It was a simple fact that women of Miss Paisley’s ilk were concerned with one thing and one thing only. Survival. It wasn’t easy making a living on the streets of London. A woman never knew if the man who pulled her into a darkened alley and threw up her skirts was going to be a paying customer or the last man she ever saw alive. Being a prostitute was not without its risks. But being the mistress of a wealthy man took away those risks and gave a woman security. It put a roof over her head and kept food on her table. So why would someone like Miss Paisley walk away from all that if she’d had any other choice?
It was a question Barrington couldn’t answer. And as he prepared to leave Lady Montby’s reception—after deciding it was best that he not stop to engage the delightful Lady Annabelle in conversation again—he realised it was one that would trouble him until he did. To that end, he made a mental note to ask his secretary to make some initial enquiries into Elizabeth Paisley’s whereabouts. Sam Jenkins had been with Barrington long enough to know what kind of questions to ask and who to ask them of. Then, depending on what he turned up, Barrington would either call upon one of his extensive network to continue the investigation or delve into the matter himself.
He wasn’t sure why, but as he climbed into his carriage for the short ride home, he had a feeling there was more to the disappearance of Miss Elizabeth Paisley than met the eye.
Anna pulled her dapple-grey mare to a halt by the base of a large oak and waited for Lady Lydia Winston to catch up with her. The two had made a point of riding together on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, and these rousing canters had become one of the highlights of Anna’s week. Lady Lydia, daughter of the Marquess of Bailley, was by far one of the most amusing and interesting people Anna had ever met.
‘Goodness!’ Lydia said as she drew her spirited Arabian bay level with Anna’s mare. ‘I was sure I had you at the big tree, but you sprinted past me as though I was standing still!’
‘I suspect Danby put oats in Ophelia’s bucket this morning.’ Anna reached down to give the mare’s glossy neck an affectionate pat. ‘She’s not usually that quick off the mark.’
‘Nevertheless, I had enough of a lead that it shouldn’t have made a difference. Tarik isn’t used to being left behind.’ Lydia’s ready smile flashed. ‘I won’t be so easily fooled the next time.’
Anna laughed, pleased that her little mare had done so well. She nudged her to a leisurely walk, content to enjoy the glorious morning sunshine and the relative emptiness of the park. During the fashionable hour, the avenue they were now travelling would be crowded with elegant carriages and their equally elegant passengers, but at this time of day it was the perfect place to enjoy a brisk canter.
‘By the by, have you heard the news?’ Lydia enquired.
‘That depends. All I heard at Lady Montby’s reception last week was that Cynthia Wicks had threatened to run away if her mother forced her to spend a month with her grandmother in Scotland.’
‘Good Lord, so would I,’ Lydia declared. ‘Lady Shallerton is a cold fish with whom I wouldn’t wish to spend an hour, let alone a month. But it wasn’t Miss Wick’s escapades I was referring to. It was the Baroness Julia von Brohm’s.’
‘Baroness von Brohm,’ Anna repeated slowly. ‘Should I know her?’
‘La, Anna, where have you been? It is all about town that the Viennese baroness has come to London to find a new husband.’
‘Why? What happened to her old one?’
‘He died. Almost two years ago now, leaving her a very lonely but extremely wealthy young widow. Apparently, he showered her with the most glorious jewellery and she was heartbroken when he died. Not because he gave her jewellery,’ Lydia was quick to say, ‘but because they were genuinely in love. But she is finished with her mourning now and has come to London to start a new life. I understand she’s taken a very fine house in Mayfair and is in the process of redecorating it from top to bottom.’
‘I’m surprised she would have chosen to leave Vienna at such a time,’ Anna remarked. ‘One would think she would prefer to stay with her family and friends.’
‘Friends I’m sure she has, but again, rumour has it that her only brother moved to America when she was quite young and hasn’t been heard from since. And both of her parents are dead.’
‘How tragic. What about her late husband’s family?’ Anna asked.
‘Apparently, they were never close. Difficulties with the mother-in-law, from what I hear.’
‘So Vienna is full of unhappy memories and the arms of her family hold no welcome. No wonder she decided to come to London,’ Anna said. ‘Has she any close friends here?’
‘I don’t believe so. Society is wildly curious about her, of course, but it hasn’t exactly thrown open its doors in welcome.’
‘Then we must be the first to do so,’ Anna said without hesitation. ‘I suspect once people see the daughters of the Marquess of Bailley and the Earl of Cambermere welcoming her, the rest of the doors will open soon enough. All it takes,’ she added with a knowing smile, ‘is that first little push.’
Barrington’s sword flashed once, cutting a smooth silver arc through the air and echoing down the length of the long gallery. Metal slid along metal as the two men moved through the orchestrated dance of extend, lunge, parry and retreat, and while concentration was etched on the faces of both men, only Barrington’s brow was dry. He feinted to the left, drawing his brother-in-law’s blade wide and ultimately opening him up to defeat.
‘Damn it!’ Tom Danvers snapped as the point of Barrington’s sword flicked his chest for the fifth time. ‘You’ve beaten me again!’
‘And I will continue to do so if you do not apply yourself more keenly to the sport,’ Barrington said, drawing back. ‘You won’t stand a chance if you keep both feet firmly planted on the ground, Tom. You need to keep moving. Dance on the balls of your feet.’
‘Oh, yes, that’s easy for you to say,’ the other man complained good-naturedly. ‘I’ve three stone and five years on you and it’s not so easy being nimble when you’ve more weight below your waist than above it!’
Barrington laughed. ‘Then tell that pompous French chef of yours to start preparing less fattening meals.’
‘What?
