employment.
“‘Dismissed for dereliction of duty,’” the clerk read. “That usually meant he never showed up for work.”
The other notations were dates of birth and death for Halle and his wife, Elizabeth Balcombe Halle. No other dependents were listed. If they had a child, the clerk supposed, the records would be kept with the parish priest of the Anglican Church in India.
Shipping lines and merchantmen kept excellent records, he was assured by an oily orderly in the Office of the Navy. They kept all bills of lading, passenger lists, and customs receipts. The British Navy insisted upon that. Unfortunately, all such documents would be kept in warehouses near the docks, which, as everyone knew, were subject to frequent fires.
Damn, it would take weeks to scour the wharves for the records he wanted, if they still existed. Kenyon thought about hiring Bow Street to help—or a secretary.
Lady Anstruther-Jones sent a note saying that her assistant had unearthed the letter from Elizabeth Halle, and there was something they might find of interest. Could they call on the morrow? So Kenyon canceled the trip to Bath, again, and had their bags unpacked. He sent the embezzler to the shipping offices, Ned to find a gift for Lady Anstruther-Jones, and another check to the hotel’s owners. The monkey, it seemed, could unknot its dog collar. Dinner would be delayed until a new chef could be hired.
Aurora was so upset, so remorse ridden, that Kenyon just had to think of some way to please her. Here she was in London for the first time in her life, and cooped in a second-rate hotel that could not even keep a decent chef. Windham had been thinking of spending the evening at his clubs, but he’d have to listen to congratulations and the usual ribald teasing on the nuptials, which was not a topic in which he could find much humor. He decided to escort his problematical partner to the theater. They could sit in relative privacy in his box, insulated from chitchat, although unavoidably on view. Let the ton see her, he decided. The announcement notices were out; they were already sunk. When the truth came to light, they’d just have to move to the Colonies. Aurora might as well enjoy herself until then, and he might as well enjoy having such a pretty woman on his arm. They’d have a pleasant evening out, not thinking of the muddle they were in. That was how Lord Windham planned it, at any rate. He did not, however, plan on one of his ex-mistresses being in the cast that evening.
The night began well enough. Aurora was stunning in a new creation from one of Ned’s struggling seamstress friends. The modiste’s days of obscure stitching were over, unless Kenyon missed his guess, as soon as Society discovered who had the dressing of Lady Windham. And the enciente maid Judith knew her craft, too, for instead of the usual braided bun, Aurora’s hair was all tumbled curls, threaded through with ribbons and pink silk roses to match the gown. She was stunning. How could he have thought her passably pretty at first glance? And how was he going to keep his hands off her? Dash it, when she was his wife and he had all the time in the world, he burned like a callow youth. Now that he did not have her, could not have her, must not have her, the fire was a conflagration. He didn’t need the hot bricks at his feet in the carriage. He needed another cold bath.
She was entranced by the spectacle of the theater, the ornate architecture, the myriad lights, the haughty majesty of those in the tiered boxes, the raucous jollity of those in the pit. And Kenyon was entranced with her. He could look his fill, too, for once, for opera glasses were nearly universal here, and his were specially ground lenses. One lens brought the stage closer; the other let him read the program—or the tiny freckles on Aurora’s nearly bare shoulders. Tearing his eyes away before he was tempted to tear the pink silk and lace gown away altogether, Kenyon noted that nearly
“‘Dismissed for dereliction of duty,’” the clerk read. “That usually meant he never showed up for work.”
The other notations were dates of birth and death for Halle and his wife, Elizabeth Balcombe Halle. No other dependents were listed. If they had a child, the clerk supposed, the records would be kept with the parish priest of the Anglican Church in India.
Shipping lines and merchantmen kept excellent records, he was assured by an oily orderly in the Office of the Navy. They kept all bills of lading, passenger lists, and customs receipts. The British Navy insisted upon that. Unfortunately, all such documents would be kept in warehouses near the docks, which, as everyone knew, were subject to frequent fires.
Damn, it would take weeks to scour the wharves for the records he wanted, if they still existed. Kenyon thought about hiring Bow Street to help—or a secretary.
Lady Anstruther-Jones sent a note saying that her assistant had unearthed the letter from Elizabeth Halle, and there was something they might find of interest. Could they call on the morrow? So Kenyon canceled the trip to Bath, again, and had their bags unpacked. He sent the embezzler to the shipping offices, Ned to find a gift for Lady Anstruther-Jones, and another check to the hotel’s owners. The monkey, it seemed, could unknot its dog collar. Dinner would be delayed until a new chef could be hired.
Aurora was so upset, so remorse ridden, that Kenyon just had to think of some way to please her. Here she was in London for the first time in her life, and cooped in a second-rate hotel that could not even keep a decent chef. Windham had been thinking of spending the evening at his clubs, but he’d have to listen to congratulations and the usual ribald teasing on the nuptials, which was not a topic in which he could find much humor. He decided to escort his problematical partner to the theater. They could sit in relative privacy in his box, insulated from chitchat, although unavoidably on view. Let the ton see her, he decided. The announcement notices were out; they were already sunk. When the truth came to light, they’d just have to move to the Colonies. Aurora might as well enjoy herself until then, and he might as well enjoy having such a pretty woman on his arm. They’d have a pleasant evening out, not thinking of the muddle they were in. That was how Lord Windham planned it, at any rate. He did not, however, plan on one of his ex-mistresses being in the cast that evening.
The night began well enough. Aurora was stunning in a new creation from one of Ned’s struggling seamstress friends. The modiste’s days of obscure stitching were over, unless Kenyon missed his guess, as soon as Society discovered who had the dressing of Lady Windham. And the enciente maid Judith knew her craft, too, for instead of the usual braided bun, Aurora’s hair was all tumbled curls, threaded through with ribbons and pink silk roses to match the gown. She was stunning. How could he have thought her passably pretty at first glance? And how was he going to keep his hands off her? Dash it, when she was his wife and he had all the time in the world, he burned like a callow youth. Now that he did not have her, could not have her, must not have her, the fire was a conflagration. He didn’t need the hot bricks at his feet in the carriage. He needed another cold bath.
She was entranced by the spectacle of the theater, the ornate architecture, the myriad lights, the haughty majesty of those in the tiered boxes, the raucous jollity of those in the pit. And Kenyon was entranced with her. He could look his fill, too, for once, for opera glasses were nearly universal here, and his were specially ground lenses. One lens brought the stage closer; the other let him read the program—or the tiny freckles on Aurora’s nearly bare shoulders. Tearing his eyes away before he was tempted to tear the pink silk and lace gown away altogether, Kenyon noted that nearly
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