by M C Beaton
“London may be dull this year but anywhere’s better than … what was the name of that place in Brittany that Harvey’s gone to?”
“Dinard.”
“Ah, yes. Dinard. Yes. Anywhere’s better than that, eh?”
And with a loud, jolly laugh he closed the door again.
The Greek was struggling to his feet. Lucy watched him with cold indifference brought on by shock.
MacGregor picked up the revolver and leveled it at him. “We want no scandal, Mr. Stathos. If you will clean up your face and get out of here, we will forget about the whole matter.”
“I shall get you yet. Only one criminal lets another get away,” said the Greek.
“Balderdash!” said MacGregor roundly. “I have no desire to see my poor daughter dragged into court as a witness. Be off with you. Damned cad!” he added after the Greek’s muscular back had disappeared.
“How did you do it?” asked Lucy.
“Do what?”
“Hit him.”
“With my head.”
“Your what?”
“My head, lassie. It’s called butting. An old trick of the Glasgow slums. I butted him on his head with my own.”
Lucy began to giggle weakly.
“Now, then. You’ve had a terrible shock. Off to bed with you and we’ll leave at dawn for Dinard.”
A slow blush rose up Lucy’s face under the gray powder. “Dinard. You mean … ?”
“Aye. There’s no time like the present and nowhere better to lay siege to the viscount than at a deserted holiday resort. Mind you, we’d better go by way of Paris and get you a new wardrobe. No more pillows.”
“But what about Mr. Brent?”
“Oh, I told him we were going to London to put him off. I didn’t like the way he just happened to turn up here. I wonder if he noticed your appearance. Your pillows slipped.”
Great waves of fatigue suddenly washed over Lucy. “I don’t suppose he noticed a thing,” she yawned. “But I am not traveling all the way to Paris dressed in pillows.”
MacGregor patted the wallet. “No, indeed. You can say good-bye to Harriet for good. We’ve got enough here to set us up for life!”
Lucy tugged out the pads of cotton wool from her mouth and took a deep breath. “Goodness, that’s better. I was beginning to fear my face was going to stay fat.”
There was only a loud snore in reply. MacGregor had finally succumbed. His head lolled on one side and his spindly shanks in his raw silk evening dress lay crookedly at angles to the patterned rug. He looked like an enormous puppet who had just had its strings cut.
Lucy rang for the valet de chambre and then waited until MacGregor was carried off to bed.
Then she turned down the gas and stood for a moment looking into the red embers of the fire. Soon she would see Andrew Harvey. And then what would she think? Perhaps it had only been a fleeting girlish dream after all, and when she saw him, she would begin to regret her new life of masquerade and violence. Violence!
Lucy looked at a stain of blood on the carpet and shivered. It could so easily have been her own.
CHAPTER SIX
MacGregor leaned on the balustrade of one of the many walks which encircled Dinard and stared unseeingly out at the green and foaming sea which sparkled and glittered under a small, pale winter sun.
Andrew Harvey, he had just discovered, was staying at a villa belonging to a certain Madame de Bercy, just outside the town. By diligent questioning and bribing, he had found that Madame de Bercy was not what he had feared—a courtesan—but an elderly lady who was an aunt of Harvey’s on his mother’s side of the family. It complicated matters. MacGregor had hoped that the viscount would be a resident in a hotel where he would be more easily accessible. MacGregor still did not believe that there was much hope for Lucy. Young men did not fall in love to order and Andrew Harvey had proved himself singularly unsusceptible. But Lucy deserved some reward for her long nights at various casinos. And if she failed, it would be better to fail here in Brittany, then perhaps she would find someone else during the Season.
Clutching his tweed cap, MacGregor leaned against the buffeting wind and made his way back to the Hôtel du Nord, which stood on a small cliff above the town.
Lucy was sitting in the hotel lounge staring blankly at a two-day-old copy of The Times.
She was dressed in an ardoise-gray satin frock with a corsage of pale rose velvet, with a broad black moiré sash, edged with narrow black moiré ribbons and a jabot of real lace. Her magnificent black hair was dressed high on her head and a delicate flush tinged her cheeks as she noticed MacGregor. It might be possible after all, he thought. Her beauty was of the constantly changing variety. She never looked the same.
He gave the logs in the fire an energetic kick and threw himself down into the armchair opposite her.
“Well, he’s here all right … staying with an aunt, which will make things a wee bit difficult. But never mind. We’ll manage. There is some social life of a kind. There is a very, very rich American widow, a Mrs. Hackett of New York, who entertains a lot. I shall call this afternoon and present our cards.”
“We don’t even know the woman,” said Lucy.
“We are now in high society and one doesn’t need to know people, especially when one is abroad. Aristocrats such as ourselves are allowed to impose on society matrons with no fear of a rebuff. Now, have you got our story right?”
“We have estates in the north of Scotland,” recited Lucy, like an obedient schoolgirl. “Our ancestors were Jacobites but changed to support King George just in time to save the family fortunes. This bit of family history is to be delivered with a deprecating laugh. All the best families have villains somewhere in the closet and are inordinately proud of them. We have a small castle, medieval, but very charming. I was educated by a governess. What on earth happens should I marry and my husband expects to see this famous castle?”
“We shall have bought it by then,” said MacGregor indifferently.
“But in the meantime, what if this future husband knows Scotland very well?”
“Not even the Scots know Scotland that well,” said MacGregor laconically. “There’s always some obscure glen somewhere.”
“And why has the famous and aristocratic family of Balfour-MacGregor never visited London before?”
“Because they didn’t like the place. Your great-great grandmother had her bottom pinched by George the Third.”
“Terrible man.”
“He was that by all accounts,” said MacGregor, cheerfully misunderstanding her.
“The first thing we do when we get to London is to seek out some impoverished lady of quality to get you presented at court.”
“That’s going too far,” said Lucy. Visions of King Edward leaping down from the throne and shouting “impostor” made her quail.
“Dinnae fash yerself,” said MacGregor. “Society abounds with all sorts of upstarts. Money opens every door these days. We must be very sure of our lady of quality, however. I ‘member the story of a rich American woman who got Lady Pettigrew-Lythe to promise to get her to Buckingham Palace. The poor American woman paid out a fortune to Lady Pettigrew-Lythe to secure the precious invitation. But Lady Pettigrew-Lythe’s daughter, one of those scrawny debs, all teeth and lank hair, told everyone that King Edward had tried to get her into bed. All lies. She only said it to make herself look like some sort of a femme fatale. Anyway, a lot of obliging friends cheerfully told King Edward, so just before the drawing room at Buckingham Palace was to take place, he had Lady Pettigrew-Lythe struck from the lists and the poor American lady along with her.”
Lucy looked up at MacGregor from under her long eyelashes. “And what do you wish for yourself out of all this, my dear adopted Papa?”
“Me? A bit of land in Scotland to call my own,” he said. “A bit of grouse moor, a bit of house, a bit of trout stream, and a bit of security for my old age.”
“I would like to meet an American lady,” mused Lucy.
“Ah, I can see the fires of democracy burning in your eyes,” laughed MacGregor. “The American ladies are just as formidable as the English ones. More so. They learn the snobberies of our social life fast. But then, they have so many peculiar ones of their own. By George! If I’m not mistaken here comes one now.”
Lucy looked through the lounge door to where an imperious-looking lady seemed to be borne into the entrance hall on a wave of small dogs. “How can you tell? She could be English.”
“Her clothes are French but they’re bandbox fresh down to the last boot button. English women always miss some little detail. A thread pulled in the shawl, a little broken feather in the hat … and the dogs have all just had a bath.”
The lady in question swept into the room followed by her retinue of dogs, the hotel manager, and a depressed-looking lady’s maid.
“I think it silly to stand on ceremony,” she began, holding out a slim hand in a tan glove. “I am Mrs. Hackett and you, I gather, are Mr. Balfour-MacGregor.”
“Enchanted,” said MacGregor, bowing over her hand.
Lucy was disappointed. The lady seemed cold and imperious and her voice was clipped and harsh, with only a slight flattening of the a’s to betray her transatlantic origin. She advanced on Lucy. “I guess you must be Miss Balfour-MacGregor.”
“Your guess is right,” said Lucy politely.
Mrs. Hackett sat down suddenly in a great flurry of plum-colored velvet. She wore an old-fashioned bustle which meant she was obliged to sit on the very edge of the chair. She must be around forty years old, Lucy judged. Her sallow complexion was dusted with rose powder and dark red lipstick on her thin lips made her mouth look like an open wound. Her army of small dogs lay around the hem of her skirts, panting and wheezing.
“You are Scotch, I believe,” said Mrs. Hackett, staring at Lucy with a pair of watery blue eyes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Which part?”
“Cromarty,” said MacGregor.
“Really! I know Scotland well. Which part of Cromarty?”
“It’s a little place called Auchterherder,” said MacGregor smoothly. “Miles from anywhere.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Hackett’s eyes were pricing Lucy’s Parisian gown to the last sou. “You’ll know the Earl of Dunfern of course?”
“Of course,” said MacGregor.
“Still the same, I trust?”
MacGregor ransacked through his memories of servants’ gossip. “Unfortunately not, Mrs. Hackett. I fear a divorce is pending. The earl has been out to play.”
Mrs. Hackett gave a delighted gasp. “But the earl and countess. Such a devoted couple! What happened? Who was it?”
“One of the servants.”
“Oh, my, my! A housemaid?”
MacGregor threw Lucy a quick look and dropped his voice. “One of the footmen.”
Mrs. Hackett’s pale eyes sparkled with pleasure. “But really. How? Where?”
MacGregor gave a warning look in Lucy’s direction. “My daughter, you know,” he whispered, leaning forward and pressing Mrs. Hackett’s gloved hand. “Just out this year. Innocent …”
“Of course, of course,” said Mrs. Hackett, positively trembling with delight as she returned the pressure of MacGregor’s hand. “But how diveen. You and I must get together for a long talk. In fact, I called to see if you and your daughter would care to come to tea this afternoon. I have invited several of the other English residents. I consider myself quite English, you know. But, of course, my ancestors were British. Colonel Billy Hackett fought under Washington.”
“That must have been very uncomfortable for him,” said MacGregor.
Mrs. Hackett bridled and withdrew her hand. Then her mind worked furiously. She had not had such a delicious piece of gossip in months. Mr. Balfour-MacGregor must be very powerful socially to tease her. She relaxed and stretched her thin mouth in a smile. “Dreadful man,” she simpered finally. “You even shock my poor doggies. Bye, bye. I shall expect you at four o’clock. My carriage shall call for you. No, no. No trouble at all. Au revoir, Miss Balfour-MacGregor. You will certainly set all our young men’s hearts aflutter.”
She swept out with her bustle bouncing and her dogs lolloping along at her feet. The lady’s maid scurried after her. The door of the lounge closed and MacGregor took a deep breath.
“The first battle’s over. I thought for a minute I had gone too far.”
“What was all that about the footman?” asked Lucy curiously.
MacGregor had the grace to blush. “Don’t worry your pretty head with things like that. Well have lunch and then you can go and put on that pretty tea gown. The lacy thing. What is for lunch?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucy. “I suppose it’s the usual … various animals marinated for a year in cider. I seem to have been eating cider since I got here.”
“Well try it anyway,” said MacGregor, getting to his feet. “Are you nervous about this afternoon?”
“No,” lied Lucy, “not in the slightest.”
But her hands shook later that day as she was assisted into the tea gown by one of the hotel maids. Her gown was of palest pink crepe météore with an overdress of white Chantilly lace and with an old-world sash of black velvet. She looked as if she had stepped down from a painting by Gainsborough. She fastened the first of her family heirlooms around her neck—a long rope of real pearls—picked up an ostrich feather fan, and then waited while the maid wrapped her in a thick mantle of green velvet, exactly the shade of her eyes.
The Hackett residence turned out to be only a short distance away from the hotel and they did not really need Mrs. Hackett’s carriage despite the cold, blustery day. Mrs. Hackett’s villa was rather like a large Swiss chalet which had woken up one morning to find itself turned into stone. On the inside it was like a lace-bedecked hospital. Everything was white; carpets, upholstery, and curtains. Mrs. Hackett herself was a miracle of white lace, white gloves, and white powder. She had even left her mouth unpainted. She looked like a very energetic ghost, newly returned from the grave and hell-bent on gossip.
“You have arrived early. Good, good. We shall be a small party today. Just Buffy, Didi, Elinor, Boodles, and … oh there’s the bell. I do prefer to answer the door myself. Too, too democratic, don’t you think?”
Lucy and MacGregor walked into the glare of the white drawing room. “Christ!” exclaimed the irrepressible MacGregor. “It even smells of anesthetic!”
Lucy wondered sadly if the elusive Viscount Harvey had been included in the invitation. It was hard to tell in a world where everyone seemed to have nicknames like Twiddles or Bo.
The other guests began to arrive. All were dressed in white to pander to their hostess’s latest whim. “I’m beginning to feel haunted,” whispered Lucy.
Didi turned out to be the type of American that Lucy had hoped to meet. She was a tiny girl with flame-colored hair, a pointed little face, and an engaging personality. Buffy was a heavyset young man with tremendous mustaches and a high, braying laugh. Elinor was a young deb with a thin red nose, thin red eyes, and a waspish tongue. Boodles was handsome in a bluff English way with a bluff inarticulate manner. His contribution to the conversation was to emit a huge dirty laugh every time anyone said the most innocent thing, leaving the speaker feeling that he had actually said something really filthy. He was in fact very shy, quite religious, and had a genuine horror of salacious jokes. Mrs. Hackett trundled about the room lighting sticks of incense. It was all that was needed to add to the ghostly effect.
“Isn’t Mrs. Hackett terrible,” whispered Didi to Lucy. “Now I’ve gone and shocked you. You wonder why I come. Well, you’ll find there really is nowhere else to go. Are you coming out this year?”
Lucy nodded.
“Oh, goody. Then we can suffer together. I’m coming out as well. The whole thing terrifies me. I could have come out just as well back home in Philadelphia, but my mama’s dead-set on me marrying a lord. Are you frightened about your Season
?”
“Very much,” said Lucy, warming to the vivacious American. “I gather that one is not supposed to say so. One is supposed to be terribly, terribly languid and say, ‘What a bore it all is,’ except of course it’s not. I think I get a kind of stage fright when I think of it.”
“Me too,” said Didi. “Oh, I do feel we are going to be friends. May I call you Lucy? I’m Didi, as you know. My real name’s Dorothy but no one ever calls me that unless they’re mad at me.”
“I can’t imagine anyone getting ‘mad at you,’” said Lucy.
“Well, my mother does,” laughed Didi. “‘Really, Dorothy,’ she says. ‘I declare you are so rowdy and common, I shudder to think of what London will make of you!’ “
Mrs. Hackett bustled from the room to answer the summons of the doorbell. “I wonder who that can be?” said Didi breathlessly. Her color had become high and her hand was trembling slightly. Lucy smiled down at the smaller girl. Didi was obviously in love. The door of the drawing room opened and Mrs. Hackett strode in.
“I think you know everyone here, Andrew. Unless you haven’t met our latest newcomers. Mr. Balfour-MacGregor and his daughter.”
Andrew Harvey was saying something about no, he hadn’t had that pleasure. Lucy stood rooted to the spot.
Andrew Harvey was dressed in an impeccably cut dark gray suit. He wore a scarlet waistcoat embroidered lavishly with gold birds. The familiar blue, mocking eyes stared across the room directly into Lucy’s own, and she blushed. She felt the blush rising and could not control it or her sudden rapid breathing. She was aware of Didi staring at her and of the sudden wave of antagonism emanating from the girl. Lucy had found a new friend—and lost her—all in the space of a few minutes. Viscount Harvey had swung away to talk to MacGregor, his high-nosed arrogant face breaking up into laughter at something the ex-butler said.
MacGregor was leading him across the room. Lucy could feel her heart thudding against her new Parisian stays.
“My daughter, Lucy,” said MacGregor proudly, unaware of Lucy’s distress and only noticing how the added color in the girl’s face made her look twice as beautiful.
