Imperfect Pretence

by Imperfect Pretence (retail) (epub)

  His clothes selected, he stripped off his shirt, poured water from the ewer into the basin, and pulled off the silk bag which enclosed his hair. He dipped his whole head into the water and washed off the mixture of starch and grease with which it had been covered. That done, he shook his wet hair back, sighing with relief. When this masquerade is over, he told himself, my hair won’t feel the tiniest grain of powder again for as long as I live.

  Having rubbed his hair dry with the towel provided, he donned a plainer shirt than the one he had been wearing, together with the other garments selected. That done, he took out the hat and cloak that he had worn when he had given his ring to Alistair. He also picked up a pistol, and his sword, a far more workmanlike, serviceable item than the dress sword which lay in the other trunk. He glanced in the mirror. His corkscrew curls, encouraged by the recent wetting, massed wildly about his face and shoulders. He grinned. Anyone looking less like a duke would have been hard to imagine. He put on the hat, tilting it carefully to shade his face, and threw his cloak over his shoulder.

  His room lay at the front of the house, so to climb out of his own window would be far too conspicuous. A careful listen at the door, and a swift glance outside revealed that no one was in the passage. He left his room, closing and locking the door behind him, and made for the window at the end of the corridor. Thanking his stars that it opened easily, he climbed out and, with the facility of one who had been climbing the rigging for much of his adult life, scrambled down the drainpipe to the ground.

  The house in which Mr and Mrs Scott resided was situated in the middle of Diss, just off the marketplace. Its owner was often heard to remark ironically that all their friends used his home as a staging post, which meant that he was never obliged to exert himself in order to visit anybody else. In truth, he and his wife were delighted to welcome guests, and since Mrs Scott and Miss Fellowes were childhood friends, they soon had their heads together. Mr Scott glanced over at the two plump, grey-haired ladies who were deep in conversation.

  ‘It never fails to amaze me how much they find to talk about,’ he said to Constance, as they stood looking out of the window, watching all the comings and goings. Mr Scott was a short, spare man with a rather long, gaunt face which was redeemed by a mobile, humorous mouth. ‘They write every week, so I would be surprised if there were any news to tell.’

  ‘Ah, but Aunt Roberta has all the excitement of the journey to recount,’ she replied. ‘Such adventures as we have had.’ She told her host about the objectionable duke, his unfortunate employee, and the foolhardy man who had offered to become his valet.

  ‘Haslingfield,’ said Mr Scott thoughtfully. ‘I have heard something of the man, and none of it to his credit.’

  ‘Indeed,’ murmured Constance, trying not to sound pleased at having her opinion supported.

  ‘By all accounts he’s a dandy, a gambler and a wastrel,’ Scott continued. ‘I wonder what brought him into the wilds of Norfolk?’

  ‘His carriage looked new, and he was attended by a number of servants,’ said Constance thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he is making a grand tour of his property.’

  ‘Is that what you would do?’ asked Mr Scott quizzically, before responding to a remark from his wife.

  Suddenly, Constance realized what had struck her as odd about the overheard conversation between the duke and his valet. ‘You even make me look like a duke,’ the nobleman had said, emphasizing the fourth word. Why would he do that?

  The family dined at five, and by eight o’clock, they were back in the drawing room with the excellent view onto the street. Constance was fascinated by it, and after tea had been served and drunk, she wandered again to the window to look outside. Although it was getting late, the evenings had drawn out, and she could see very clearly what was going on. There had been a market that day, and even though all the wares had long been cleared away, there were still extra people in the town, catching up on news, or perhaps cele-brating a good day’s sale.

  ‘When we first came to live here, I could not keep away from the window either,’ Mrs Scott confessed. ‘There is always something to see.’

  ‘It would be the perfect place to sit if one were not well enough to go out,’ Constance responded, turning back briefly to the others in the room.

  ‘That is so,’ Mrs Scott agreed. ‘I remember last year being confined to the house with a stubborn cold which would not go away, and I scarcely moved away from that window.’

  ‘One could also paint or sketch from here,’ put in Miss Fellowes. ‘The light is good.’ Her relations were wont to say teasingly that she looked far too well-fed and contented to be an artist. The truth was that Miss Fellowes was quite gifted with pens and brush, so much so that she was often asked to give private lessons.

  Constance smiled as she turned back to the window. It certainly was a fascinating scene, full of activity and colour. As she stood there, her eye was caught by a fragment of spider’s web which must have been missed when the room had been cleaned, and she reached a hand up to brush it away.

  As she did so, all at once she became conscious of being watched and, glancing down, she saw a man on horseback looking directly up at her. He was dressed in a dark cloak and a broad-brimmed hat, worn atop a mass of very dark curly hair which tangled wildly about his shoulders. He held the reins of his horse in his left hand, whilst his right, ungloved like the other, rested lightly on his hip. Her attention caught, she remained in the same position, her hand extended towards the top of the lower panel of the window. For a long moment, their eyes locked; then to her astonishment, he raised his right hand to his lips and blew her an extravagant kiss.

  She gasped and stepped back from the window, her hand involuntarily going to her breast in shock. Fortunately, at that moment, the rest of the occupants of the room were occupied and did not notice. When she stepped back cautiously, she found that the impertinent man had gone.

  She thought about the incident when she was in bed that night, trying in vain to fall asleep for what seemed like hours. She was a good-looking woman, with light-brown hair, warm hazel eyes set in an oval face, a determined chin and a well-shaped mouth, and she was accustomed to hear herself described as handsome rather than pretty. Her firm, no-nonsense manner had deterred more men than it had attracted, and she had never been the kind of female with whom anyone had ever thought that it would be wise to take a liberty. Gestures such as the man in the square had made that evening, therefore, were something of a novelty. ‘Shocking insolence!’ she exclaimed out loud. It then occurred to her that the movement of her hand might have been misinterpreted and that he might – shameful thought – have supposed that she was waving to him! This was such a mortifying notion that it effectively banished any idea of going to sleep. She lit her candle and took up her book, intending to tire herself out so thoroughly that she would then simply drop off.

  Her efforts met with little success. Her thoughts had been so disturbing that she found that she had turned over two whole pages and then did not have the slightest idea what she had read.

  Finally conceding defeat, she concluded that by attempting to go to sleep, she would at least be resting her eyes. She blew out the candle, therefore, and tried to send herself off by remembering the different varieties of flowers cultivated in her uncle’s garden at West Runton.

  She must have drifted off eventually, for she found herself dreaming of Cambridge. In her dream, she was standing in her father’s study overlooking the quadrangle of Trinity College. Some students were making their way through, celebrating noisily, and she heard her father’s voice saying that he must go and disperse them.

  She was aroused from sleep by a noise outside. For a moment or two, she was not sure whether the noise she had heard was real, or simply a part of her dream. Now used to country living, the night sounds to which she had become accustomed were the cries of owls, foxes and other occasional night creatures. By way of contrast, Cambridge nights were indeed occasionally disturbed by the sound of unru
ly students going back to college after an evening’s roistering. Momentarily, she imagined herself back in the ancient university town. Then, as she returned to full wakefulness, she remembered where she was, and at the same time realized that some kind of altercation was going on outside. She rose from her bed, and, going to the window, lifted up the corner of the curtain to see what was happening.

  It was a moonlit night, so the scene that was being played out in the street beneath could be seen quite clearly. There appeared to be an argument of some sort taking place between four men. As she watched, two things became clear to her. The first was that the disagreement was between one of the men and the remaining three. The second, which caused her to gasp out loud, was that the man on his own was the same rogue who had blown her a kiss earlier that evening.

  It was not long before what had appeared to be just a verbal altercation became more physical. One of the group of three aimed a blow at the lone man which he parried easily, blocking it with his right arm raised, whilst with his left fist he jabbed at one of the other men. What followed after that happened so quickly, that Constance blinked in surprise; for in less time than she could have imagined was possible, two of the assailants were on the floor and the other was fleeing, hurried on his way by a threatening gesture from the buccaneer. She was still looking down at the scene when he turned his head and looked up in her direction, his cloak swirling about him. Swiftly, she dropped the curtain. It would never do for him to suppose that she was looking at him!

  For some time after the noise outside had ceased, Constance stood beside the window, lost in thought. What would have happened had she been the kind of light woman whom he had obviously supposed her to be earlier? Would they have enjoyed a desperate flirtation, with perhaps a kiss or two? Would she have run down even now to congratulate him on his escape from harm, and reward him with another embrace?

  She blushed in the darkness. What was she thinking, indulging in such improper fantasies over a passing stranger, never to be seen again? Severely quelling an unaccountable and quite illogical twinge of regret, she climbed back into bed and this time was soon fast asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  The following morning, Barnes greeted Max with a cup of chocolate and a reproachful stare. ‘Your Grace,’ he murmured in carefully neutral tones.

  For response, Max yawned and stretched luxuriously. ‘My thanks, Barnes. There can surely be no sweeter smell than that of one’s morning chocolate.’

  ‘Indeed, Your Grace?’ Barnes responded, hovering as Max pulled himself up into a sitting position.

  He had had a splendid time the previous evening. He had hired a horse with the greatest of ease. The groom with whom he had spoken had plainly made no connection between the aristocrat who had entered the inn earlier, and the devil-may-care fellow in search of a mount for the evening.

  He had ridden the few miles into Diss, and had set about finding some entertainment. The evening had begun promisingly with that delightful exchange with the rather attractive-looking young woman in the window of a town house. It had continued with a convivial drink at the White Horse, and a few games of cards, from which he had risen a modest winner. Some of those from whom he had won money had resented the fact, and they had thought to ambush him as he prepared to leave Diss. They wouldn’t be trying that again in a hurry, he thought to himself, rubbing his knuckles, which were slightly grazed. Then, just as he had chased the last rogue away, he had glanced up, and he could have sworn that he had caught another glimpse of the intriguing watcher whom he had seen earlier.

  Who was she? he asked himself. Perhaps the daughter of some well-to-do merchant or attorney, well guarded and protected, and no doubt longing for a bit of excitement. A pity that circumstances had not permitted him to oblige her! Fleetingly, she had reminded him of someone; even now, he could not think of whom.

  Now, as he sat up to drink his chocolate, he could see the havoc that he had wrought the previous evening. The clothes that he had been wearing when Barnes had left him were thrown carelessly onto a chair, all higgledy-piggledy. Those that he had put on for his outing he had laid down on another, from which half of them had fallen onto the floor. His hat was lying in the same corner into which he had tossed it in the early hours of the morning. Various others of his possessions were strewn about the room. Max looked around guiltily. ‘Lord, I appear to have made rather a mess in here, Barnes. My apologies.’

  ‘It is soon remedied, Your Grace,’ Barnes replied. ‘However, had I known Your Grace wanted to change, or needed anything further, I could easily have given assistance.’ As he picked up the neckerchief which Max had knotted loosely about his neck the previous evening, he looked straight at the man sitting up in bed. Suddenly, Max was convinced that the valet had a fairly good idea of what he had been up to.

  ‘Barnes, I had to escape,’ he pleaded. ‘This prim and proper existence will drive me mad if I can’t ever get away.’

  Barnes paused in his tidying activities. ‘The whole purpose of this masquerade is to give the illusion that the Duke of Haslingfield is travelling to Cromer,’ he said. ‘Forgive me if I venture to say that there is very little point in constructing a story if you act in such a way as to destroy it.’

  ‘Barnes, I’m not a fool,’ Max answered. ‘My life has had its share of adventure, and its moments when secrecy has been vital. Believe me, I was very careful. I rinsed off my powder, and wore my plainest clothes.’

  ‘And how did you leave the inn, Your Grace?’

  ‘Out of the window at the end of the passage and down the drainpipe.’

  Barnes looked even more disapproving, had that been possible. ‘It is a blessing you did not miss your footing, Your Grace.’

  ‘I have climbed the rigging of a three-master just ahead of a howling gale, in order to furl the sails,’ Max said calmly. ‘If I couldn’t scramble down a drainpipe from a first-floor window, I should be very ashamed of myself.’

  Barnes permitted himself a small smile. ‘You have vast experience that is unknown to me,’ he replied. ‘However, I have the interests of my master very much at heart. You must forgive me if this leads me to be more cautious than perhaps you feel to be necessary.’

  ‘You cannot possibly be more concerned for Alistair’s safety than am I,’ Max told him. He leaned back against his pillows. ‘By God, I feel rested,’ he declared. ‘Don’t worry; I shall behave myself today. What’s the weather like?’

  ‘The day is fine and bright – a good day for travelling, Your Grace.’

  From Diss, the plan was to skirt Norwich, and spend the night at a less frequented inn just outside the city. Max would have liked to push on to Cromer, but was advised against it by the coachman. ‘There’s no turnpike, Your Grace,’ he said regretfully. ‘We’ll not be making such swift progress, I fear.’

  His fears proved to be justified. After they had left Norwich behind, the roads deteriorated considerably, and at times, they were obliged to slow to a walking pace, in order to negotiate the potholes in the road. Max, becoming bored with this mode of travel, closed his eyes. To his great surprise, and despite the jerking of the carriage, he fell asleep, and found himself dreaming that he was obliged to go to court for some important function. Barnes, who had apparently grown a huge mane of bright-orange hair, was dressing him in garments of pale-green satin which, although they had been measured for him, did not seem to fit. The shirt in particular caused problems, as although it had sleeves, which were far too long, there was no aperture through which to put his head. He appeared to be the only one who found this to be a problem, however, as Barnes was urging him to dress with all expediency, since the king was expected. Then, as he was struggling to find a way out of the shirt, there was a knock at the door and the king himself came in, bearing a marked resemblance to the landlord of the Swan – although how Max could know it when he was still trapped inside the shirt was impossible to say.

  ‘You, sir, are a disgrace,’ said the king, shaking his arm. ‘A dis
grace! Disgrace grace … grace… .’

  ‘Your Grace! Your Grace! Pray, wake up, sir!’

  Max opened his eyes to find that Barnes was leaning over him, looking anxious. ‘Was I making a commotion, Barnes?’ he asked.

  ‘You were becoming a little agitated, Your Grace. I was afraid that you might fall off the seat.’ As if to corroborate his fears, the carriage lurched violently, before moving on again at a snail’s pace.

  ‘How far have we travelled since I fell asleep?’ Max asked suspiciously.

  ‘Two or three miles,’ the valet answered.

  ‘Two or three? God almighty, this is intolerable!’ Max exclaimed wrathfully. ‘I could walk to Cromer more quickly.’

  A few moments later, there was another lurch, and the carriage halted. After a brief wait, Max opened the door and sprang down lightly, regardless of Barnes’s protests. ‘What’s to do?’ he asked the coachman, who had got down from his seat in order to investigate the problem.

  As he was speaking, he heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs, and looked up to see an African approaching on horseback, his straight-backed carriage one of dignified grace. He wore his own hair unpowdered and was dressed in a squirrel-brown coat and breeches, with a darker-coloured waistcoat and a beaver hat. As he came closer, he grinned broadly. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, his voice deep and rich. He inclined his head in a dignified bow before dismounting, and passing the reins over his mount’s head so it could graze.

  ‘Okoro,’ said Max, only just repressing an answering grin. ‘In a good hour. You see us in some difficulty.’

  ‘Indeed, Your Grace?’

  ‘Indeed. In fact, this journey has been one problem after another. I have been obliged to turn off that useless valet, Field, and feared for a time that I might be stranded at Colchester with no one to dress me. Fortunately, my new man is a marvel.’ He led Okoro over to the coach, where Barnes was still seated. ‘Okoro, this is Barnes, my new valet. Barnes, this is Abdas Okoro, my secretary.’ He paused as the two men acknowledged one another. ‘Barnes, I believe you said that your former master trusted you implicitly. I trust Okoro to the same degree. You may be similarly confident in him.’