Isabella and Mac let out their breaths and went back to the remains of their breakfasts, carefully not looking at Ian. Eleanor walked back to her place, wiping away the tears that had started in her eyes.
“Wilfred,” Eleanor said several hours later, looking up from her Remington. “This letter has nothing in it. You’ve written a name and an address, and that is all.”
Wilfred removed his spectacles and looked across his desk at her. “No letter, my lady,” he said. “Just enclose the cheque inside the blank paper and address the envelope.”
To Mrs. Whitaker, Eleanor typed on the envelope. “That is all? No note saying, Here is payment for… or Please accept this contribution to your charitable works…?”
“No, my lady.” Wilfred said.
“Who is this Mrs. Whitaker?” Eleanor asked as she rolled the platen to type the address. “And why is Hart sending her…” She turned over the cheque Wilfred had placed facedown on her desk. “One thousand guineas?”
“His Grace can be generous,” Wilfred said.
Eleanor stared at him, but Wilfred only bent his head and went back to writing.
Eleanor had learned that Wilfred was a poor source of information about the Mackenzie family. The man refused to gossip about anything or anyone. This quality was likely why Hart had promoted him from valet to private secretary, but Eleanor found it quite inconvenient. Wilfred was discretion made man.
Wilfred was a human being some of the time, Eleanor knew. He had a daughter and a granddaughter in Kent and doted on them both. He kept their photos in his desk drawer, bought them chocolates and little gifts, and boasted of their accomplishments to Eleanor, in his quiet way.
However, Wilfred never spoke about his shady past when he’d been an embezzler; never mentioned a Mrs. Wilfred; and never, ever told tales about Hart. If Wilfred did not want Eleanor to know why Hart was sending one thousand guineas to this Mrs. Whitaker, Wilfred would take the secret to his grave.
Eleanor gave up, typed the address on the envelope—George Street, near Portman Square—and neatly folded the cheque inside the paper.
Perhaps Hart had found the source of the photographs. Perhaps he was paying the woman to destroy them or to keep quiet about them, or perhaps to persuade her to send him the rest.
Or Mrs. Whitaker might have absolutely nothing to do with the photographs.
Eleanor tucked the cheque into the envelope, closed it, and added the envelope to her stack of finished correspondence.
The house near Portman Square where Mrs. Whitaker lived was ordinary-looking enough. Eleanor studied it carefully as she strolled past for the third time.
Eleanor had used the pretense of doing some shopping to journey to Portman Square, timing the outing to coincide with Isabella returning to her own house to argue with the decorators. In order to lend verisimilitude, Eleanor wandered the shops on the square and nearby streets, buying little gifts for the Mackenzie children and their mothers. Maigdlin trailed her, carrying packages.
Eleanor had seen no activity at all in or around Mrs. Whitaker’s house in the hour or so she’d drifted up and down George Street. No maids cleaning the stoop or footmen walking out to pass the time of day with the maids next door. The blinds remained closed, the door firmly shut.
In order to linger on the street a little longer, Eleanor started browsing the carts of the street vendors, deciding to buy a present for Cameron’s son Daniel. That Daniel was now eighteen was difficult for Eleanor to swallow. He’d been a wild and unhappy child when Eleanor had first met him, always in some scrape or another, earning Cameron’s wrath. He’d resisted Eleanor’s attempts to be motherly, but he had shown Eleanor his collection of live beetles, which Hart had told her was an honor.
Daniel had turned out all right, she’d seen, despite growing up in a houseful of Mackenzie bachelors. He was settled at the university in Edinburgh now, and seemed happy enough.
Eleanor was startled out of thoughts of Daniel by the door of Mrs. Whitaker’s house opening. A footman, a large, beefy lad like Hart’s footmen, came out of it. At the same time a carriage pulled up, and the footman hurried the few steps across the pavement to open the coach’s door.
Eleanor stepped to a street vendor who sold little cakes and watched as a quick-walking maid emerged from the house, followed by a woman who must be Mrs. Whitaker.
The lady was not very tall, but she was voluptuous, a trait she did not bother to hide. Even her fur wrap, pulled on against the chill, was draped to show off her large bosom. She painted—she had deeply rouged cheeks and red lip color—and the hair under her highly fashionable hat was very black.
Mrs. Whitaker adjusted her skintight leather gloves, gave her footman a kind enough nod of thanks, and let him hand her into the carriage. Eleanor stared openly as the carriage moved off, bearing mistress and maid. The footman, looking neither right nor left, strode back into the house and shut the door.
“Good heavens,” Eleanor said to the man selling cakes. “Who was that?”
The vendor glanced at the retreating carriage. “Not the sort of woman I should be talking about to a lady, miss.”
“Truly?” Eleanor slid a coin to him, and the vendor put a warm, wrapped seedcake into her hand. “Now you do have me curious. Do not worry—I am quite long in the tooth and not easily shocked.”
“No better than she ought to be, and that’s the truth, miss. And the gentlemen what go in and out at all hours… Some of the highest in the land, would you believe?”