‘No,’ Garrick said slowly. ‘It is not normal and I should have seen it. Although if she had drunk her mistress’s milk which wasn’t wanted that evening, that would explain it.’
‘She referred to it as her milk. Lord Cottingham did not pick up on it.’
‘He probably has little to do with the domestic staff and he has more on his mind than thinking about small details,’ Lucian said. ‘For all I know, Garrick takes himself off to bed with hot milk every night.’
‘Hardly, my lord.’ The valet’s tone was repressive. ‘And surely, if the milk had been intended for Miss Trenton, then the fact that it was drugged would be highly significant. Yet no-one commented.’
‘We need to talk to Martha again,’ I said. ‘And we need to do it without Lord Cottingham breathing down our neck. She will never talk if he’s looming over her and threatening dismissal.’
‘She may well deserve it,’ Lucian said.
‘Yes, well, let’s get her to tell us first. How can we do that?’
‘Cottingham instructed his butler to take you to speak to the girl when we called,’ Lucian said. ‘If we arrive when Cottingham is out and ask to see her, with any luck the man will assume the former instructions hold good and arrange it.’
‘How do we know when Cottingham will be safely out of the way?’
‘Leave that to me, Miss Lawrence,’ Garrick said. ‘I suggest that it will be the afternoon. But not tomorrow.’
‘Why not? This could be a breakthrough, we should hurry.’
‘It is Sunday tomorrow.’
‘There is no chance of catching her then?’
‘To call on a Sunday to speak to a servant would seem exceptionally strange,’ Lucian said. ‘It might well cause the butler to query it with Cottingham.’
‘Oh.’ I felt thoroughly deflated. ‘What is there to do on a Sunday then?’
Garrick said, ‘Attend church,’ just as Lucian sent me a heavy-lidded look full of so much meaning that I felt myself blush.
‘Which church?’ I had read about the Chapel Royal, attached to St James’s Palace, which sounded exceedingly glamorous, and about St George’s, Hanover Square where fashionable weddings took place.
‘St James’s is just across Piccadilly from here. We could go there,’ Lucian said. I was beginning to hear the unspoken words beneath his politeness and, although he might be a gentleman seeking to oblige a lady, I had the strong suspicion that he was not a regular church-goer and was simply picking the nearest place of worship for convenience.
‘What about the Chapel Royal? Is there any chance of seeing some of the royal family if we go there?’ It might be more interesting for Lucian – it certainly would for me.
Garrick brightened up visibly. ‘The Chapel Royal? In that case the new suit, my lord. And the new hat. And Madame sent over some more gowns for Miss Lawrence and three bonnets.’
‘Garrick, we are discussing a church service, not a fashionable reception,’ Lucian said, obviously striving for suitable gravitas. I guessed that when he was at his country estate he would turn out for church to do his bit as leading landowner and read the lesson, but that here in London, with no Dowager Countess to nag him and no children to give an example to – let alone what was presumably a mass of forelock-tugging tenants – he was free to kick back and relax.
‘We are discussing the Chapel Royal, my lord,’ Garrick said severely. ‘From all that one hears it might as well be a secular entertainment. And if you and Miss Lawrence are to appear there, then it is more than my professional pride will allow for you to be less than perfectly turned out.’
‘Very well, so be it. Garrick, what time do we have to be assembled in our finery?’
‘I would suggest at ten, my lord. I will endeavour to find a prayer book for Miss Lawrence.’
It was a lovely sunny morning so we walked, or rather strolled, along Piccadilly and down St James’s Street. I managed parasol, prayer book, reticule and my skirts, did my best not to gawp around me in an unladylike manner and rested my fingertips (the ones not managing parasol etc etc) on Lucian’s arm. He, meanwhile, had nothing to do but saunter along looking handsome and masculine, guarding me from whatever perils a Sunday in Mayfair might hold.
‘Oh, look, Hoby’s!’ I stopped dead at the top of St James’s Street.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have your boots made there?’
‘I do. How did you know?’
‘They are famous. They made the Duke of Wellington’s boots for him and we still wear Wellington boots.’