Sheri Cobb South by In Milady's Chamber Page B

error, for it was by now almost half-past three—that time of day at which the ton made what it erroneously referred to as morning calls. Lady Herrington, when interrupted by her butler, was in the act of dispensing tea to a roomful of these callers. She took no particular pleasure in this act of hospitality, as her guests had been quick to inform her that her recent entertainment, which she had believed to be quite the succès fou, had been eclipsed in the public eye by the violent death of Viscount Fieldhurst.
    “Beg pardon, my lady,” murmured her ladyship’s butler, “but there is a man from Bow Street below, requesting a word with your ladyship.”
    “Dear me!” she exclaimed, setting her teacup down with a clatter. “And he wants to see me? Show him into the small saloon, and tell him I shall be with him directly. I wonder, does one offer tea to such a person? Best not, I suppose.”
    Lady Herrington rose with a rustle of silk skirts and excused herself to her guests. A moment later she entered the small saloon at the back of the house, her expression carefully, if imperfectly, schooled into an expression devoid of curiosity.
    “John Pickett of Bow Street, my lady,” intoned the butler, then withdrew, leaving her ladyship alone with a young man whose slightly shabby dress and outmoded queue appeared glaringly out of place, even in this least formal of receiving rooms.
    “Your ladyship,” said this worthy, rising awkwardly from his rigid perch on the edge of a straight chair covered in cherry-striped satin. “I hate to take you away from your guests, but I understand you held a ball here last night.”
    The lady inclined her head, somewhat mollified by the information that word of her humble amusement (only four hundred invitations sent, and, by some quirk of scheduling, in direct conflict with a rout given by a rival hostess) had spread so far eastward.
    “And you numbered among your guests the viscountess Lady Fieldhurst?”
    Again that inclination of the head.
    “I should be grateful if you could give me, as well as you are able, an accounting of her ladyship’s movements last night.”
    At this simple request, Lady Herrington abandoned all pretense of indifference. “Good heavens! Never tell me you believe Julia—!”
    Mr. Pickett had no intention of telling her any such thing, even had he been able to find his tongue after being unexpectedly presented with the gift of Lady Fieldhurst’s Christian name. Julia. It suited her, somehow. But this fact, though undoubtedly interesting, was a matter of irrelevance where her ladyship’s guilt or innocence was concerned, so he mentally filed it away for future study, and returned his attention to the matter at hand.
    “Merely a routine interrogation, my lady,” he assured Lady Herrington hastily. “I believe Lord Rupert Latham was also present?”
    “Yes, for he escorted Lady Fieldhurst,” concurred her ladyship, recovering her composure.
    “You were not surprised to see them together?”
    “Lud, no! Sir Rupert was mad for her before her marriage—Miss Runyon she was then, of course. I wonder if she will marry him, now that Fieldhurst is dead? She is far too young and beautiful to wear black for the rest of her life.”
    Pickett found himself in complete agreement with this assessment, although he was less than enthusiastic at the prospect of her marriage to Lord Rupert Latham.
    “So she arrived with Lord Rupert. What next?”
    “I believe they had the first dance together, although I could not swear to it, for I was still greeting guests at the door. My husband partnered her for the second, as she was the next-highest ranking lady present, after the countess of Farnsworth.”
    “Did she dance a great deal?” Pickett asked, duly taking notes as Lady Herrington prattled on.
    “Oh, Lud, yes! I daresay she reserved the supper dance for Lord Rupert—no, that cannot be right, for I saw her at the table with Mr. Fretwell—’tis a wonder he