Imperfect Pretence

by Imperfect Pretence (retail) (epub)

  ‘Well then, Jenks, do you recall how easily I have just made my way from ship to shore?’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed, sir, it was a marvel to behold,’ Jenks replied.

  ‘Excellent! You are clearly a man of action like myself, unlike the good Mr Smithers, who is, shall we say, a man of affairs?’

  ‘I dare say I am, sir,’ Jenks replied, thrusting out his chest a little.

  ‘Then you must see how absurd it is for me to climb into a carriage, and be transported from here to Lombard Street, with all the attendant delays, when I might regain my land legs with a brisk walk that would probably take me half as long.’

  ‘Aye, but orders is orders, sir,’ put in Hargreaves, politely, putting a hand on Max’s arm. ‘Besides, sir, Mr Boughton ain’t—’

  Max glanced down at the hand on his sleeve, then looked straight into Hargreaves’s face. ‘Take your hand from my arm,’ he interrupted tersely, lifting his chin. ‘Understand this, Hargreaves: you may take your orders from Mr Boughton, but I do not. Stand aside.’

  Max’s muscular build, his air of authority and his position, usually meant that when he issued an order, men jumped to it. It only took him a fraction of a second to realize that, extraordinarily, Hargreaves was not going to oblige. ‘Then I’ll have to make you,’ he said, springing back into a fighter’s posture.

  ‘Now, now, that’ll do, sir,’ said Jenks in a distressed tone. ‘Mr Boughton didn’t say we was to mill with you. Just as long as we get you there, sir, does it matter how? And besides—’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ answered Max, his eyes on Hargreaves, who was preparing to square up to him. ‘Which is why it makes no sense to me that you are trying to insist that I go in a carriage. Who sent you? Was it really Boughton?’

  So saying, he made his first jab, catching Hargreaves on the chin. He had no doubt that he would be able to defeat the other man. His boxing skills had begun to take shape at Eton. Since leaving school, he had boxed regularly, and his square, powerful, muscular build made him admirably suited to the sport. A grin spread across his features. A little exercise such as this brief skirmish would afford was exactly to his taste.

  It was not to be. He was just calculating where to hit Hargreaves next when something struck him over the head and he fell to the ground.

  ‘That wasn’t fair,’ Hargreaves complained. ‘I was only just getting started.’

  ‘We’re not here to stage a prizefight and attract a crowd,’ the other man pointed out sarcastically. ‘You know our orders. Now, hurry up and let’s get him to the carriage before he comes round. I didn’t hit him very hard.’

  Fortunately for Boughton’s two employees, Legal Quay was such a chaotic place that the odd bout of fisticuffs passed without comment. The carriage itself was waiting for them in Lower Thames Street. It was a well-kept, plain conveyance, without any distinguishing marks.

  With the paid assistance of a passing sailor, who was given the tale that their friend had overindulged, and needed to be got safely home, they quickly bundled Max Persault inside, where a gentleman was already seated.

  ‘Oh dear! I suppose it couldn’t be helped?’ he murmured regretfully.

  ‘He wouldn’t come of his own accord, sir,’ Jenks answered. ‘Nor listen to no explanations, neither.’

  ‘Do you want one of us with you, sir?’ asked Hargreaves. ‘In case he should turn violent?’

  ‘No need, no need, I shall be quite safe,’ answered the gentleman in the carriage. Jenks closed the door, then climbed up beside the driver, whilst Hargreaves scrambled onto the back.

  As he had said, Jenks had indeed only struck Max a glancing blow, and the carriage had barely started moving before he rubbed his head with a slight groan, and opened his eyes. ‘What the deuce?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I trust your head doesn’t hurt too much. It really was your own fault, you know.’ To Max’s great surprise, looking solicitously at him from the seat opposite was his stepfather, Sir Stafford Prince.

  Chapter Two

  Had Max had the opportunity to consider who amongst all his acquaintance would have been the perpetrator of this outrage against his person, he would not have put Sir Stafford at the top of the list. The baronet had always seemed to be the most even-tempered of men, never given to violence as far as Max could recall. ‘By all that’s holy!’ he exclaimed, frowning. ‘This is a surprise indeed.’

  ‘And one I regret,’ Sir Stafford replied. ‘Unfortunately, you would not come of your own volition.’

  ‘I saw no need for a carriage ride from Legal Quay to Lombard Street,’ Max answered. ‘I still don’t.’

  ‘There is a reason,’ Sir Stafford assured him.

  ‘I’m not an irrational man, I trust,’ said Max. ‘A simple explanation – even the information that you were awaiting me in the carriage – would have sufficed. But I do resent being bundled in like a parcel, and I’ll tell you frankly that the fact that it was clearly at your instigation makes it harder to bear.’

  ‘I could not risk a delay,’ the baronet answered.

  ‘You make this matter seem to be of the gravest import.’

  ‘Oh it is, my boy, it is,’ said Sir Stafford, meeting his gaze.

  ‘Then perhaps you might have the courtesy to tell me what such a matter might be?’

  ‘I would rather wait until we reach our destination if you don’t mind. Then there will be no necessity of repeating anything.’

  Silence fell within the carriage, and Max looked out of the window. ‘I take it that we are not going to Lombard Street,’ he remarked.

  ‘No, we are not. I think, if you will just exercise your memory for a few moments, that you will find that more than one person attempted to tell you so.’

  Max recalled Smithers’s desire to detain him, and the way in which he had interrupted both Jenks and Hargreaves. He grinned ruefully. ‘Perhaps so. Are you able to tell me where we are going, or is that, too, of such import that knocking me on the head would be preferable to actually taking me into your confidence?’

  ‘Yes, I can tell you where we are going,’ answered the baronet placidly. ‘We shall be paying a visit to a house in Lower Brook Street.’

  ‘A visit? Not a visit of form, I trust.’ He indicated his sailor’s garb with a gesture. ‘I’d have made more of an effort with my appearance had I known that I’d be in company.’ Wholly unbidden, a brief look of consternation crossed his features. ‘My mother—’

  ‘Is safely in Warwickshire,’ Sir Stafford replied reassuringly. ‘As is your sister. No one will take exception to the informality of your garb, I assure you.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Max growled.

  After another brief silence, Sir Stafford said, ‘How has the voyage been? Have you accomplished all that you intended?’

  He could not have found a better way of restoring harmony. He had always taken a great interest in Max’s investments and business activities, and although the younger man was disinclined to be communicative at first, he gradually began to share with him the various experiences that had enlivened his most recent voyage.

  Eventually, the carriage drew to a halt outside an anonymous- looking house in a street that Max did not recognize. Either Jenks or Hargreaves had put his bag on the floor of the carriage, so he picked it up before alighting, then glanced around. ‘Lower Brook Street, I assume,’ he remarked.

  Fifty years before, the street had been almost entirely occupied by persons of quality. Now, with the expiry of short-term leases, some of the properties had been taken over by businesses, and the character of the street was much more mixed. There was no clue as to the kind of establishment that they would be visiting.

  They were obviously expected, since the door opened at their approach, and the carriage, bearing Jenks and Hargreaves, started to pull away. They entered the hall, where Max handed his bag to a footman, who looked as if he might have taken it between finger and thumb had it not been too heavy. Max grinned. He had never found it difficult to mix with his
fellow men, whatever degree they might be. ‘Don’t worry; there’s no fish in it,’ he said.

  ‘So I should hope, sir,’ answered the footman primly.

  A slim, fair-haired man dressed in black came down the stairs towards them, with swift, light steps. ‘If you would please follow me, gentlemen,’ he said in an educated voice. They did so and, as they reached the turn of the stairs, Max looked down. Another man, a bruiser by appearance, entered the hall, and took his place on a chair, to one side of the front door. Max hesitated briefly, then continued up the stairs behind Sir Stafford.

  They were shown into a room overlooking the street. It was a fine, square chamber, with a handsome desk and chair in one corner, a substantial cabinet with numerous drawers in another, and a large pier glass and table set between the two windows. The curtains and carpet were of a dull crimson shade, and there were several other chairs set in an old-fashioned style around the perimeter.

  The room itself already had three occupants. Two of them were standing by the fireplace, whilst the third was looking out into the street, the light making it difficult to distinguish more than the fact that he was a tall, fashionably dressed gentleman. One of the two men by the fireplace came forward at once, his hand held out. ‘Mr Persault, welcome.’

  ‘Boughton,’ Max acknowledged, shaking hands with his man of business. ‘You’re looking well. I trust your wife and son are in good health?’

  ‘Well enough, thank you,’ answered Boughton. ‘Sir Stafford, welcome.’ He turned back to Max. ‘You must allow me to introduce Mr Hampson, my, ah, colleague. Mr Hampson, Mr Persault.’

  Max looked at the other gentleman who had been standing at the fireplace. Like Boughton, he was dressed neatly and with care, in the style of a man of business. Even so, there was something about the way in which he carried himself that suggested that he was a good deal more than that. Boughton might term this man a colleague; he was surely no ordinary one.

  ‘Mr Persault,’ said Hampson. He was a quietly spoken man, probably in his forties, with a long bony face, and very keen grey eyes. ‘This is most obliging of you.’

  ‘Is it?’ Max replied pleasantly. ‘To be struck over the head, taken up in Boughton’s carriage and constrained to ride in it across London? I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘Constrained? Struck over the head?’ exclaimed Boughton. ‘How came this about?’ he asked, turning to Sir Stafford. ‘This was not part of the plan, surely?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said the man at the window, turning as he spoke. ‘Once you begin dealing with such as my cousin, who is always readier with his fists than his brains, I would say such an occurrence would be almost inevitable.’

  For a moment, Max was silent, transfixed by surprise. Then he hurried forward to greet the cousin whom he had not seen for over five years. ‘Alistair! Good God!’

  Max was about an arm’s length away, when his cousin extended one white hand in which he held a long-handled elaborately chased quizzing glass, using it to keep the other man at a distance. ‘One moment,’ he said, indicating a mark on the sleeve of Max’s jacket. ‘Is that merely dirt or is it’ – here he gave an elaborate shudder – ‘fish?’

  Max brushed the quizzing glass to one side. ‘Damn it, why must everyone suppose that because I go to sea I have something to do with fish?’ he exclaimed.

  His cousin allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch slightly. ‘In that case, if it is only dirt,’ he murmured, allowing the glass to fall, stepping forward and gripping Max by the forearms. ‘It’s been too long, little cousin.’ After a brief interval, he resumed his previous position, and looked Max up and down. ‘Certainly too long,’ he murmured. ‘You sadly need my guidance, I perceive.’

  ‘There his mother would agree with you,’ remarked Sir Stafford.

  ‘Some wine, gentlemen,’ said Boughton. ‘Mr Persault, I’m sure you would be glad of a glass after your misadventure. Then we can get down to business.’

  ‘Allow me,’ said Max’s cousin, approaching a tray with a decanter and glasses which stood on the table between the windows. As Alistair poured the wine, Max looked at him, remembering how they had first met. There were five years between them, so when he had arrived at Eton, a raw newcomer, unprepared for the rough and tumble of school life, his cousin had been a senior pupil.

  Alistair Robert Maximilian Woollaston was then known by his courtesy title of Earl of St Edmundsbury. His father had died when his only son was still in the nursery, and Alistair had become his grandfather’s heir. He was already tall at fifteen, and looked upon by the other boys as something of a leader. Max would never forget the day when, only a short time after his arrival, some older boys had been tormenting him in the dormitory by tossing one of his books between them. It had been a gift from his mother, and his tormentors had chosen to make mockery of the inscription. He had fought fiercely, but it was plain that he would be punished for his presumption, and his precious book probably destroyed to teach him a lesson.

  All at once, the banter had ceased as another group of boys had entered, led by a tall youth with white-blond hair, whom Max had recognized as his older cousin. ‘What is happening here?’ Alistair had asked, his voice even, his head held high.

  Despite the fact that Max’s tormentors were as many in number as the others, they had all appeared to step back, and glance at one another, as if unsure of what to do next. Then Freddy Parish, who had taken a leading part in the horseplay, had said in a defensive tone, ‘Just teaching this scug a lesson.’ ‘Scug’ was the school term meaning someone of no account.

  Max had barely known his older cousin, and what he did know did not make him optimistic. He had never visited any of the Duke of Haslingfield’s estates, although the duchess had come to see her sister two years before, bringing Alistair with her. The older boy had already seemed to be almost an adult, and had regarded his younger cousin with some disdain. Max had no reason to believe that he would be any more cordial at school, and certainly did not expect him to intervene here. For a few moments after Parish had spoken there was silence. Then Alistair, in a movement which would become very familiar to Max over the years that followed, had flicked an invisible speck off his sleeve, and had looked directly at Parish.

  ‘To which scug were you referring? Not my cousin, surely?’

  Suddenly, from tormenting Max, some of the boys were falling over one another to explain themselves, whilst one or two managed to sneak out by the door behind them. ‘Didn’t know he was anything to do with you, St Edmundsbury,’ Parish had said.

  ‘Now you do,’ Alistair had replied. ‘Oh, and, er … give him his book back.’

  Max had fully expected to receive some sort of reprisal from this incident, and had been apprehensive for some little time. This anxiety had only vanished after he had ventured back to the dormitory alone on another occasion and encountered the same group of boys who had teased him before. Parish had said casually, ‘Hallo, brat,’ and that was all. His worst fears were over.

  He had become a kind of pet adopted by Alistair and his friends, often running errands for them and performing chores; but also included in laughter and stories, and permitted to share treats, such as munching hot buttered toast, made on the fire in his cousin’s study. By the time Alistair had left school three years later, Max had become well established with his own circle of friends.

  Their paths had not really crossed during their adult lives. After school, Alistair had been packed off on the Grand Tour¸ an adventure which had lasted three years, whilst Max had gone back to live with his mother and sister, and give his grandfather whatever help he could with the estate.

  What had Alistair been doing with himself, Max wondered. The slim, fair-haired boy of fifteen had broadened into manhood. He was a head taller than his cousin, although not as heavily built. Unlike all the other men in the room, apart from Max himself, he wore his own hair tied back in a queue. Like Hampson, he was dressed in sober black, but no one could have doubted that he was a m
an of fashion. The linen which appeared from below the cuffs of his coat was snowy white and dripped with rich lace. His black brocade coat fitted him to perfection, as did the breeches which matched it. A signet ring adorned the third finger of his right hand. Whatever he had been doing, he appeared to have sufficient funds, or obliging enough creditors, to sustain his activities. Remembering the wealth of the Haslingfield estate, Max rather thought that it must be the former.

  When each man had been furnished with wine, Hampson raised his glass. ‘To the success of our enterprise, gentlemen,’ he said. Three of the five men raised their glasses to their lips. Only Max and Alistair refrained. ‘You do not drink, Mr Persault,’ Hampson observed.

  ‘I am not prepared to share in a toast when I do not understand its terms,’ Max replied. ‘For all I know, your enterprise might be to murder me and conceal my body under the floorboards. You’ll agree that it hardly started propitiously, at least as far as I was concerned. A fine fool I’d look if I drank to that.’

  ‘And I do not drink if my cousin does not,’ put in Alistair. There followed a brief silence.

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Hampson. ‘Another toast; happiness and success to every man here.’ This time, they all drank. ‘Now,’ he went on. ‘To business.’

  He gestured towards the desk, and approached it himself, clearly intending to take the chair that was set behind it. Remembering his cousin’s effortless superiority, Max observed Alistair glide gracefully towards the chair, and sit down on it with a brief word of thanks to Hampson, whose hand was already resting on its back. Smiling inwardly, Max picked up a chair and carried it over to the desk, and the other men did the same.

  When they were all seated, Hampson said to Boughton, ‘Would you like to explain, or shall I?’ Boughton inclined his head as if to say that Hampson should continue. Hampson then turned to Alistair. ‘Your Grace?’

  Alistair waved a hand indicating permission; Max, on the alert because this meeting had been somewhat suspicious from the very beginning, immediately pricked up his ears. ‘Your Grace? Is your grandfather dead, then?’