by M C Beaton
“Yes?”
The voice was soft and faint, somewhere below his chin. He drew her close to him, feeling the faint trembling of her body vibrating beneath its heavy armor of stays. He bent his head and gently placed his mouth on hers. The world whirled away for Lucy, into beautiful deep black velvet, a world of silent passion, enclosed and burning, far, far away from Marysburgh, far, far, away from the casinos. One shaft of light stabbed into the ballroom as someone carried in a lamp.
One by one the candles were being lit. Andrew gave a shaky laugh. “I feel, Miss Balfour-MacGregor, that I should apologize for …” The rest of his words were drowned in a sudden burst of music.
“Don’t apologize,” said Lucy softly.
“What?” He strained to hear and then felt an imperious tap on his arm. The mayor and his wife were standing smiling at them. “My dance, milord, I think,” said the mayor’s wife. Andrew wrenched his eyes away from Lucy’s face, bowed, and led the plump lady into the dance.
Lucy stood irresolutely for a moment and then moved toward the dowagers who were lined against the far wall. She saw Boodles bearing down on her and veered slightly and almost ran toward a curtained entrance. She must be alone. She must have time to compose herself.
She pushed back the curtain and opened the door. It opened into an anteroom which was divided into by a huge lacquered screen. She could hear two men—very English by their accents-chatting on the other side. Unconsciously imitating Didi, she leaned her forehead against the window.
She became aware after a few minutes that someone was watching her. Lucy swung around and found herself looking into Didi’s glittering eyes.
“It’s time we have a talk, Miss Balfour-MacGregor,” said Didi. One of the men behind the screen gave a loud, drunken laugh and Didi started and then lowered her voice. The room smelled of stale beer, potpourri, and hot wax. The driving snow hissed and whispered outside the window.
“You must leave Andrew alone,” said Didi, her voice a whisper like the snow.
“Why?” asked Lucy baldly.
“Because we are practically engaged, that’s why,” whispered Didi, still in that venomous manner.
“Practically,” said Lucy softly. “Practically.”
The two girls faced each other in silence. The two men behind the screen were having a joke competition and to Lucy their voices seemed to be coming from miles away.
“How do you make a Venetian blind?” said one of them in a slurred voice.
“Poke his eyes out. Old, that. Damned old,” said the other. “I’ve got one for you. How do you make a sauerkraut?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Bones.”
“Kick him in the balls.”
“Oh, jolly good. You didn’t hear that at the minstrel show!”
“Know the one about the waiter? Diner says to him, ‘How do you serve shrimp?’ Says waiter, ‘On my hands and knees.’ Know that. Fell out m’cradle.”
“Leave him alone or I will kill myself,” said Didi, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“This is absolutely ridiculous,” said Lucy. “You surely do not wish to marry a man whose attentions stray so easily.”
“If only you had never come here, they would never have strayed.”
There was a crash of glass from behind the screen. “Oops, sorry old boy. Did your watch stop when it fell on the floor?”
“Of course,” replied the other with a giggle. “Did you expect it to go right through?”
“Listen well, Miss Balfour-MacGregor. Listen well. I do not make threats lightly. You are breaking my heart. If you take Andrew Harvey away from me, I will kill myself.”
“We could have been friends,” said Lucy sadly, but she spoke to the empty air for Didi had gone.
She turned back to the window where the myriad voices of the snow whispered, “kill myself, kill myself, kill myself …”
“What is black and comes out of the ground shouting ‘Knickers! Knickers!’?” roared the voice from the screened end of the room.
“Don’t know, old boy.”
“Crude oil.”
“Don’t get it. Crude oil. Whash crude oil got to shout knickers for? Les go an’ dance.”
Lucy went slowly back to the ballroom.
Didi was surely being melodramatic. But there she was, watching Andrew Harvey with those lost eyes blazing in her white face.
Lucy went straight up to MacGregor. “I want to go back to the hotel. I must get away!”
“No need to rush,” said MacGregor. “Mister Jones, here, was on the point of showing me his museum. Come along with us and perhaps you’ll feel like dancing later.”
Mr. Jones was looking at her with a pleased, expectant air, like that of a child about to show off his favorite toy. Lucy felt she could not possibly refuse.
He led the way from the ballroom through a maze of passages to the back of the house, at last coming to a stop before a low door.
“This,” he said triumphantly, throwing it open, “is my museum.”
He lit the gas and Lucy and MacGregor blinked at the strange sight that met their eyes. It was a collection of water closets from the time of Joseph Bramah on. There was even a roped-in area containing water closets that had belonged to famous families. “Queen Victoria sat here,” said MacGregor under his breath.
It was the final, grotesque episode in a strange and weird evening. It took them an hour to cut short Mr. Jones’s enthusiasm and make their escape. Pleading a headache, Lucy insisted on being taken home. The mocking, tinny sound of the dance music followed them out into the courtyard. MacGregor looked down at her still, white face. “What’s the matter, lassie? You look as if the walls of the pumpkin are closing in on you.”
Lucy did not deign to reply and they arrived at the hotel in silence. “Talk about it,” urged MacGregor. “It never does to keep hurt locked up inside.”
When they were safely in their sitting room with a great fire roaring up the chimney, Lucy began to talk in a rush, words tumbling over the other, as she told MacGregor of Didi and of her threat of suicide.
“Havers,” said MacGregor succinctly. “‘Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them—but not for love,’” he quoted. “And that goes for women too. Miss Didi is a very determined young lady. But the viscount seems to have fallen for you in a bit of a way. But with that one, it’s always come too easy. I suggest we remove to London on the morrow.”
“What if he falls in love with Didi?”
“He won’t,” grinned MacGregor. “He didn’t before you’d arrived and he certainly won’t now.”
“I don’t like these games,” said Lucy. “My love needs no such intrigues to fuel it.”
“Believe me,” replied MacGregor heavily, “if you were as old and as spoiled by women as Andrew Harvey, you’d need every trick in the book.”
“I shall trust you this once,” said Lucy.
“Do that. Just thank your stars I’ve got you a maid to pack for you!”
Andrew Harvey threw down his pen and stared unseeingly at the pages of his manuscript. He had been working happily on his book for the last month—Military Maneuvers on the North-West Frontier. He had felt he had been producing something worthwhile, something that might, in time, honorably grace the walls of Sandhurst library, but now it seemed very dull and flat—as if it had all been written many times before.
He watched the vedettes bobbing out on the swell as they carried their passengers to the liner at St. Malo and wished heartily he were on one of them. Why had she left? Why had she not remained at the ball? Why had Didi looked so triumphant? Women!
The hotel manager had told him that they had gone to London, and his first impulse had been to throw his clothes into his trunks and pursue them. But there was his aunt to think of. She was a lonely old lady and patently glad of his company during the long winter months. He turned again to the manuscript. Perhaps he should never have left the army. But he was weary of the hot sun blazing down on foreign landscapes
. All he wanted to do was to settle down on his estates under the soft English rain and raise a family. There had been plenty of amiable and amenable girls around. Now the whole scheme seemed boring and lacking in adventure.
Damn Lucy Balfour-MacGregor, who could kiss so casually and leave without even saying goodbye!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lady Hester Blendish jerked the lace curtains of the drawing room window closed to shut out the dazzling late spring sunshine and turned to face the young man who was reclining in a chaise longue at the other end of the room. A stray sunbeam lit up the gold in his curly hair and her hard face softened.
“I find it a very hard story to believe, dear boy. This female, you say, simply won game after game?”
Jeremy Brent nodded.
“And,” she pursued, “you believe that Lucy and Harriet are one in the same?”
Again Jeremy nodded.
“But surely there must be some other way— other than marrying the girl.” She moved toward him. “After all, my love, there is me to consider.”
The sunbeam that had so attractively gilded Jeremy’s curls was not so kind to Lady Hester. It cruelly illuminated the network of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.
His voice sharper than he had intended, Jeremy said, “I told you. The father is a pretty dangerous character. Besides, think how happy we could be on her money. We have not enough of our own.”
Lady Hester Blendish had indeed been a friend of Jeremy’s mother. She had, however, been his mistress for the past two years. She was as much an adventuress as Jeremy and still a remarkably fine-looking woman, with a regal figure and an impressive head of auburn hair. But lack of money was beginning to drive them apart. Jeremy, she knew, was looking for an heiress. Better perhaps that he should settle for this mysterious Miss Balfour-MacGregor. At least he expected her to help him with the plot.
“And you have not been able to see her?”
Jeremy shook his head. “They have a great barracks of a place at Cheyney Street in Regents Park. Every time I call, some fish face of a butler tells me that ‘Miss Balfour-MacGregor is not at home.’”
“I must call, myself,” said Lady Hester. “Scotch, you say. A very superstitious people.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“Simply that it is a long time since we have used Madame Rejinsky.”
“Ah, a séance. Voices from beyond the grave telling her to marry Jeremy.”
She gave a little laugh. “Not quite so crude. But that is the general idea. Ring that bell, Jeremy dear. There is no time like the present. Onward to battle.”
Lucy was practicing her curtsy when Lady Hester was announced. The lady of quality, chosen by MacGregor to secure Lucy’s entrée to court, Lady Vivian Rochester, raised her thin eyebrows in surprise.
“Now what does she want?” she murmured.
Lady Vivian was a dashing young matron with masses of fair curls and wide blue eyes. She was not in need of the generous sum that MacGregor had offered her but very much in need of something to alleviate her boredom. Her husband, Harry, was in the diplomatic corps and at present on duty in Moscow, a capital which Lady Vivian frankly detested. Bringing the pretty young Scottish girl “out” had seemed an ideal plan and she had entered into her duties with enthusiasm.
“Is there anything strange about Lady Hester?” asked Lucy.
“Not in the slightest,” said Lady Vivian. “She comes from a good old family, but on the other hand, she is a very high stickler and not in the habit of making unsolicited calls on young debutantes.”
“I seem to have heard her name before,” said Lucy, handing a large ostrich-feather fan which had been part of her rehearsal to her lady’s maid. “That will be all, Sally.”
“Yes, mum,” said the lady’s maid. “You does your curtsy beautifully, if I may say so, mum. I was wondering …”
“Yes, Sally?”
“Could I have the afternoon off to see my mother? She’s terrible bad about the legs.”
Lucy hesitated. She had planned to go shopping that afternoon. “Is it really necessary, Sally? You had the afternoon off yesterday, you know.”
“Oh, yes, mum. I know I’m being terrible asking you like this. But honor thy father and thy mother, I allus say, mum, and she ‘as been took bad, my mother, that is.”
“Oh, very well.”
“Thanking you ever so kindly, mum.”
The lady’s maid bobbed her way out of the room.
“You allow that girl far too much license,” said Lady Vivian severely.
Lucy flushed with annoyance and bit her lip. Despite MacGregor’s objections she had hired a young lady’s maid who had had little experience. Remembering her own experience, she had perhaps been more lenient than most and, in the most engaging and grateful way, the maid appeared to be making the most of it.
“Lady Hester Blendish,” announced the butler with awful majesty, as if to underline Lucy’s ineptitude in hiring servants and show that he, on the contrary, came from a long line of references.
Lady Hester hesitated slightly at the sight of Lady Vivian. “Ah, Lady Rochester. I thought you were in Russia.”
“No.”
There was a little silence. “Pray be seated, Lady Hester,” said Lucy, feeling awkward. Lady Hester looked extremely chic in a cream silk blouse with a brown belt, brown skirt, and a saucy straw boater trimmed with brown poppies. Her only piece of jewelry was a magnificent rope of pearls.
“We have a friend in common,” began Lady Hester. “Mr. Jeremy Brent.”
Lucy’s face lit up with pleasure. After all the new faces and new friends she had met since she had arrived in London, Jeremy Brent did indeed seem a very old friend. “He was concerned about you and begged me to call,” went on Lady Hester. “He has called, himself, several times and has always found you out.”
Lucy frowned as she realized that MacGregor had probably given instructions to the butler to refuse Mr. Brent admittance. She forgot about her own suspicions and only remembered him as a very pleasant young man. She chatted enthusiastically of their meeting in Monte Carlo and then in Herrenbad—and then bit her lip in vexation. Jeremy Brent had met Lucy in Monte Carlo and Harriet in Herrenbad. She could only hope that Lady Hester would not pass her conversation on to Jeremy, word for word.
“I really must go, Lucy,” said Lady Vivian, getting to her feet and smoothing down her frock. “I shall call again this afternoon. Will you accompany me, Lady Blendish?”
“No thank you, Lady Rochester. I have many things to discuss with my new friend,” said Lady Hester. Lady Vivian gave her a rather hard stare before she made her exit.
“Now,” said Lady Hester when the door had closed on Vivian, “I must tell you, I was so excited when Jeremy told me you were Scotch.”
“Why?” said Lucy, amused at her new friend’s fervor. “There’s a lot of us about, you know.”
“Ah, but not with your aura … your ambience, my dear. Are you fey?”
Lucy thought momentarily on her own incredible luck at cards. “No,” she laughed. “Sometimes I am very lucky.”
“That is because perhaps you can see the future … see what is in the cards. Metaphorically speaking,” she added hurriedly, as a twinge of anxiety crossed Lucy’s face at the mention of cards. “I believe you have a sister. Harriet.”
“Poor Harriet,” said Lucy with carelessness she did not feel. “Gone into a convent in Belgium, I’m afraid.”
“Anyway,” pursued Hester. “My dear friend, Madame Rejinsky, is giving a séance this evening. I do wish you would come with me.”
“I am afraid I do not believe in any of that—that—”
“Mumbo-jumbo. Say it, my dear. Neither did I. But Madame is remarkable. Have you any plans for this evening?”
Lucy slowly shook her head. MacGregor, she knew, was going to his club, having managed by some peculiar ingenuity to get himself elected to White’s.
Lady Hester had been living on her wits for q
uite a time. She had a compelling charm which she knew to an inch how to use.
She turned the full glare of it on Lucy. “Do say you’ll come, my dear. Perhaps she can tell you if a tall, fair man is going to come into your life.” Lady Hester laughed, thinking of Jeremy Brent, and Lucy laughed, thinking of Andrew Harvey.
After all, thought Lucy, why not? Andrew Harvey had not yet returned to London and, without him, life seemed to be very gray and flat. She suddenly smiled. “Very well. What time?”
“Good girl! I shall call for you at eight? Good.”
Lucy rang for Jobbons, the butler. Lady Hester walked down the beautiful, curving staircase from the drawing room, her eyes taking inventory. Everything of the first quality. That tapestry alone must have cost a fortune! Such a nice little pigeon for the plucking! And with these comfortable thoughts, she climbed into her open brougham and settled back against its pale blue upholstery with the satisfied air of a woman who had done a good job. Her coachman allowed himself a fleeting glance at his mistress’s pleased face. He knew that look of old. Milady had found a new source of income. He might be paid his wages after all. He gave a cheerful crack of his whip, Lady Hester unfurled a primrose-yellow parasol, and the brougham swept off through the busy London streets, making the less-fortunate passersby stare with envy and long to be one of the idle rich themselves.
Lucy drew back from the window after she had watched Lady Hester’s departure with a pleased little feeling of anticipation. It would be nice to have a friend who had not been chosen for her by MacGregor. He would probably object to any friend of Jeremy Brent’s. Well, she would not tell him about the séance.
She had had a few exhausting months since their arrival in London, doing what MacGregor said, meeting people MacGregor thought she should meet, not learning to ride because MacGregor had said that Lady Angela rode almost every day in the park when she was in town and that she must never have an opportunity to examine Lucy closely. Lucy could, on the other hand, attend balls where Lady Angela was to be present, provided she kept her distance. The Season was about to begin and Lucy was already exhausted. Idle rich, indeed! Society sweated as much at their pleasures as any housemaid at her work. Dress had to be changed at least six times a day. Stays had to be lashed as tightly as possible and feet crammed into tiny boots. Great hats with hatpins like rapiers had to be secured on top of hot padded headdresses. Conversation had to be light and inane—strictly of the “do you know old so-and-so?” variety. Then there was a long list of people to cultivate and people to snub, and the people she was supposed to snub always seemed to be the more attractive of the two lists. Had it not been for Andrew Harvey, she would have taken the next train north.
