by Joan Smith
I told him the little I knew. “Wouldn't Tom like to get his hands on these beauties. Guard them well. I am insuring them for five thousand pounds."
The policy came to a shocking sum, but with a wily burglar on the loose, it was a necessary precaution. The agent enumerated the items and wrote up the policy; I wrote him a check, and Dalton showed him to the door. When he returned, he said, “Your carriage has just arrived, Miss Denver."
"My things from London! I must go home and oversee their placement. Thank you for your help, Mr. Dalton."
"Can I be of any assistance in your redecorating?"
"The servants will tend to it. It will be hard work, hauling furniture about."
"I have a strong back,” he said, and followed me home.
When he removed his jacket, I was able to verify his proud boast. Those broad, square shoulders owed nothing to padding. There is something very attractive in a fine figure of a man without his jacket on. He looks more approachable, more familiar somehow. I was quite simply amazed to see Dalton pitch in with such good will.
The furnishings of the saloon had to be pulled into the hallway to lay the Persian carpet over Lady Grieve's shabby floor covering. With Tumble on one corner, Dalton on one, and footmen on the other two, the carpet was laid in no time, and improved the room to some extent.
"Give the servants a glass of ale, Tumble,” I said, when the job was done. “I can see to the placement of the pictures myself,” I added aside to Dalton. “Would you like a glass of wine? Hauling furniture is hard work."
He lifted his jacket from the arm of a chair and tried to wiggle into it. It fit as closely as rind to a lemon. A sleeve became tangled, and I held it for him. I felt an unaccountable urge to run my hands over his back, but restrained myself.
"Thank you,” he said, pulling his jacket down in front. “I would prefer ale. It is more refreshing when one is heated."
We both had an ale, and as I was eager to continue my redecorating, we removed the more lugubrious prints from the wall and hung my paintings. “I cannot imagine why Lady Grieve filled the house with second-rate pictures of the sea when she had only to peek out her window and she could see the real thing,” I said, adjusting a nice landscape scene over the sofa.
He lifted a black brow at me. I remembered the boring array of seascapes in his dining room, and felt rude. “In a saloon, I mean, where the sea is entirely visible from the window."
"Of course. The only spot for a seascape is in the dining room, where one has to walk six steps to see the real thing."
"Let us remove this dreadful clutter,” I said, and began picking up statuettes and china dishes and other debris that littered every tabletop. “Fancy anyone paying money for such rubbish as this. Lady Grieve must have extremely poor taste."
"Auntie was never known for her taste in artistic matters,” he replied blandly.
"Auntie! You mean Lady Grieve is your aunt, and you let me make fun of her all this time!"
"She is my mama's sister, but I like to feel I inherited my own superb taste from Papa. Except for the seascapes, of course. That, I fear, is a family failing."
"You are very sly, Mr. Dalton,” I scolded, feeling a perfect fool.
"Let us hope I am sly enough to outwit Tom. As I have outwitted the canny Eve Denver, I feel success is within my grasp. Where do you want this box of rubbish put?"
He picked up the box of knickknacks, and I called Tumble to remove them. I went to the hall with Mr. Dalton. He picked up his hat and cane.
I said, “Be sure you don't tell your aunt what I said."
"It will be our little secret. I shall bring the pearls this evening. Will your aunt be accompanying us?"
"I don't know what her plans may be. Does it matter?"
"Not really. Linda will be along in any case.” He looked a little self-conscious after this speech. It implied somehow that our behavior would be different, depending on whether we were alone or with others.
Of course, I did not reveal this intuition. “You did not tell me where we are going, Mr. Dalton."
"To a concert at the Theatre Royal. Signor Caravelli, the Italian tenor, is singing."
"Lovely,” I said with so little enthusiasm that he smiled.
"I feel the same way. We can leave at intermission, if you wish, and find something more amusing to do.” He put on his hat and left.
I busied myself arranging a few trinkets from home, and admiring the improvements in my saloon, and wondering what “more amusing” pursuits Mr. Dalton might have in mind.
Chapter Ten
I was unsure what degree of elegance was required for a concert at the Theatre Royal, but a string of pearls insured for five thousand pounds surely merited something approaching a grande toilette. With so little occasion to strut my evening finery in London, four gowns had proven sufficient.
Until the nimble fingers of Madame Drouin enhanced my wardrobe, I had but little choice. Having already worn the pick of the crop, I was left with my indifferent blue crepe, featuring a narrow skirt and a maidenly bodice. This antique had come with me from Cornwall, where it was considered the latest jet of fashion a few years ago. The silver lace shawl would have helped, but after shivering to death at Lady Verona's rout, I did not plan to make that mistake again. I wore a white fringed affair, counting on the pearls to raise me out of the ordinary.
Hennie's comment, when I came down, was “You are never wearing that old thing, Eve!” You may imagine what this did for my self-confidence.
"Yes, I am. You decided to remain home, did you?” I retaliated. She was tarted up in her best gray gown, cheeks rouged to a fare-thee-well. She had already told me she was going to the same concert with Lord Brockley. That romance was certainly on the boil.
"I am going out with Lord Brockley,” she reminded me. “If that is a dig at this gown, Eve, I call it downright shabby of you. I shall order a new gown tomorrow."
"Try Madame Drouin, on Paradise Street. Tell her I sent you. No argument, Hennie. You will put it on my bill.” My temper breaks out at little provocation, but soon calms down.
"Maybe I will,” she said, jiggling in discomfort.
"Order two gowns while you are about it. I ordered three."
"Three! Good gracious. David always said a penny saved is a penny earned. I had no idea Brighton would be so expensive."
"Or so much fun, eh, Hennie?” I laughed. We both shared a chuckle at our good fortune. I told her not to mention that I had left my jewels with Dalton, as Lady Filmore did not know.
"But I have already told Lord Brockley,” she exclaimed. “You did not say it was a secret."
"Lord Brockley is not likely to steal them. Just ask him not to tell anyone."
"Why is it a secret, Eve?"
"Dalton feels his sister chatters too much. No point announcing to the world where my valuables are."
Lord Brockley called for Hennie shortly after that, inquiring in a hearty shout whether she was ready to hoist sail and be off. She nodded conspiratorially as she left, to let me know she would caution him to secrecy.
Dalton and Lady Filmore arrived shortly after. He was carrying the pearls in his pocket and handed them to me surreptitiously as he entered, so that his sister would not notice. There was not time to offer them a glass of wine, so I slipped the pearls around my neck while Lady Filmore fluffed at her curls at the hall mirror, and we were off to the Theatre Royal.
Our seats were near the front. We had an excellent view of Signor Caravelli's tonsils, as he stood with his head back, hollering in Italian. His singing reminded me for the world of the concert provided by the cats in the front yard last night.
Halfway through the first recital, Dalton leaned aside and whispered, “Could I borrow one of your slippers?"
"My aim is better."
"We'll leave at the first intermission."
A lady in front of us turned around and said, “Hush!” in a most impertinent way. We hushed, and had to satisfy our high taste by nonverbal gri
maces after that.
"I had no idea an hour could be so long,” Dalton said, when the first intermission finally came. “Let us go to the lobby and show off your necklace before we leave."
"The man sounds as if he were drowning. Such an artificial vibrato,” Lady Filmore said.
"We'll leave before the torture resumes,” Dalton said.
She accompanied us into the squeeze of the lobby but darted off as soon as we got there. I saw from the corner of my eye that she was chasing after Harelson. Poor girl. Someone ought to tip her the clue not to hound him so. Nothing was more likely to make him run for the hills.
We met up with Hennie and Lord Brockley. That misguided gentleman praised Caravelli to the ceiling. Hennie, whom I can only assume had taken leave of either her hearing or her senses, seconded him in his praise.
Lady Filmore succeeded in catching Harelson, and they joined us, bringing wine with them, which was very welcome.
"A grand concert,” Brockley said again.
"Very nice indeed,” Harelson agreed.
"I think it is horrid. We are leaving before the second half,” I announced.
Linda wore a scheming face.
"Must we leave?” she said. “I would like to stay for the second half. Harelson, will you give me a drive home?” So that was what she was up to. “You can take Richard's seat for the second half,” she continued, not giving him time to think up an excuse. “It is much better than yours."
Harelson hadn't much choice but to agree. He did so with a good grace, like the gentleman he was.
"Where is Mr. Grindley this evening, Lord Harelson?” I asked, just out of idle curiosity.
"Out spending his money,” he laughed. His eyes widened a little as they discovered my pearls. “He tells me he won at cards last night. A fool and his money are soon parted. He has already replaced his curricle and team, and will come home with his pockets to let tonight, if I know anything."
"That would be at Mrs. Lament's that he won last night? You mentioned he was going there, I think."
"He did not show up, actually. He fell into a game with some chaps at the inn. He did not even know them; he was fortunate they were not Captain Sharps. I understand he is playing at the inn again this evening."
"With the same men?” I inquired, thinking Officer Hutton could check up on this.
"I believe he said last night's companions were traveling salesmen, and were moving on today. There is a sort of floating card game that goes on at the Rose and Thorn. That was his destination. I asked him to come here instead, but Grindley has no taste for music.” His eyes returned once or twice to my pearls as we spoke, but he did not compliment me on them.
We talked for a few minutes, then some other people joined us, and Harelson and Lady Filmore went to join a younger set. When the bell for the second half of the concert rang, Dalton and I headed for the street door.
I said, “You heard what Harelson said about Grindley? A pair of traveling salesmen make a good excuse for a sudden fortune. No one can check his story. He did not turn up at Mrs. Lament's, where Harelson was expecting him."
"I can check whether he played cards at the inn."
"I am sure he did—using the money he stole from Lady Harkness as his stake. Did the man from Bow Street arrive, Mr. Dalton? This would be a good chance to check Grindley's rooms, while he and Harelson are both out."
"He will be arriving tomorrow morning."
"That may be too late. I daresay Harelson's house is full of servants, to make getting in impossible."
"No, he is roughing it. He makes do with his valet and one footman who doubles as butler, groom, and general factotum. They are free as soon as Harelson leaves for the evening. I happen to know his house is usually empty in the evening, as I have stopped by once or twice on Linda's behalf."
"Then this would be a good time to search it."
"I shall do that, as soon as I take you home."
"Why waste time driving to Marine Parade? Harelson's house is near here, is it not, on East Street?"
"I do not like to leave a lady alone in the carriage."
"Much better for me to accompany you inside,” I agreed, knowing full well this was not his meaning. His weak smile acknowledged my remark as a joke, so I had to inform him that I was serious. “I am as much interested in catching Tom as anyone—more so, since I have been used as bait to trap him. Besides, there is no danger in it. You will knock at the door first to see if anyone is at home. Why, I would be safer inside with you than in the carriage."
"But safer still in your own home."
"Mr. Dalton, you have seen me ‘under fire,’ as the soldiers say, at Parker's pawnshop, and know that I am not one to lose her head. I think we both know I shall be accompanying you; let us not waste time in discussion. Now, how shall we get in if no one is at home? Perhaps the back door will be left ajar. It will be better to enter from the rear in any case, lest we are spotted by a chance passerby."
He drew a resigned sigh and said, “How are your skills at picking a lock?"
"I have had no occasion to practice lock picking. I was hoping for an unlocked window. We could use your carriage blanket to deaden the noise if we have to break it, but that would inform Grindley he has had an intruder."
"Leave your pearls behind. It has been my experience that something usually goes amiss in such a venture as this. The string might break, and it would be a pity to lose even one."
"I see! You are willing to risk my neck, but the pearls must not be put at peril!"
"Well, upon my word, if that is not just like a woman! You are the one who insisted on coming."
"I was joking, Mr. Dalton. Have you no sense of humor?"
"That joke had the sting of truth."
I removed the pearls and dropped them into the side pocket. Mr. Dalton pulled the check string and ordered John Groom to drive to East Street. We descended at the corner, and the groom drove along to park in the shadows beyond Harelson's house. The houses in this neighborhood were large and solid-looking, but not so elegant as those on Marine Parade. There was no traffic at this hour of the night.
"That is Harelson's house,” he said, pointing to one much like its neighbors, except that no lights showed inside.
I hid behind a tree while Mr. Dalton knocked on the door. After no reply to his second knock, I joined him. “The front door is locked,” he said in a low tone.
"We shall try the back."
The back was reached by a narrow, paved path. An arched gate led to the rear. There was a sense of abandon about the premises. Hank grass invaded the path, clutching at my skirt hem and no doubt marking it. Some dark hulks loomed up before us in the shadows, abandoned crates or rubbish bins or some such thing. Access was ridiculously easy. As I was pointing out an open window, Dalton turned the knob and said, “It's open."
We scuttled inside, closing the door behind us. A faint ray of moonlight at the window told us we were in the scullery. A teapot and the remains of a meal for two were still on the table. Harelson's valet and factotum, I assumed, I felt the pot; it was cold. We stood still for a moment, listening to the dead silence of an empty house.
"We shall need a light,” I said, and began peering into the darkness. There was a lamp near the stove. Dalton lit it by sticking a straw into the dying embers of the stove and applying it to the wick.
We crept upstairs to the main floor. A ghostly saloon of adequate size, sparsely furnished, loomed on the left. We peered in and continued upstairs. “I wonder which rooms are Grindley's,” I whispered.
Dalton spoke in a normal voice. “I shall recognize Harelson's things."
The first two chambers were obviously unoccupied. The beds were not made up, and the dresser tops were bare. The third door we tried was Grindley's. I knew instinctively that Lord Harelson was not so slovenly as to leave his dirty linen in a heap on the floor, and one boot on his bed. I lit another lamp, and while Dalton searched the clothes closet, I went to the desk. It was empty, save for a
welter of bills (unpaid), and a receipt for fifty pounds, signed by Lord Harelson. That would be for Grindley's summer's rent. Not cheap either, for one room, but perhaps Grindley had the use of the saloon as well.
Next I went to the dresser, where a handsome leather-bound jewelry box held two pennies, a broken clasp knife, and a brass button from a man's jacket. There was a sound from below, muffled by distance, but certainly in the house, not outside.
"These old houses—squeaking rafters,” he said vaguely.
I returned to work, quickly rifling the drawers, but found nothing incriminating.
"Nothing here,” he said, turning from the clothespress.
"Perhaps under the mattress, or—"
We froze in place, as the sounds of footfalls coming up the stairs reached our ears. That “squeaking rafter” had been the front door opening. We knew Lord Harelson was at the concert, so it had to be Stewart Grindley, about to catch us red-handed searching his bedchamber.
I did not want to swoon in front of Dalton, after my proud boast of grace under pressure. As cool as cream cheese, I blew out the lamp and nipped over to the clothespress. “In here,” I said, and climbed in, pushing Grindley's jackets aside.
Dalton grabbed the bedroom lamp from my hand and set it on the dresser, extinguished his own kitchen lamp, and wiggled in beside me, still holding the lamp. He drew the door to behind him. The smell of dying wick was powerful in that small, enclosed space.
If Grindley had his wits about him, he would catch the same scent in the bedroom. I waited with my heart in my mouth for the door to open. What possible excuse could we give if we were discovered? Perhaps I trembled, or perhaps Mr. Dalton just wanted some physical comfort, or perhaps his arm was cramped in the confined space. In any case, he put his arm around my waist and pulled me more closely against him.
I tensed up like a coiled spring, but as I was prevented by circumstances from objecting either verbally or physically, I soon relaxed and enjoyed the unexpected intimacy. His breaths fanned the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. His fingers tightened their grip on my waist. I hardly dared think what liberty might come next—but whatever it was, I would have to submit to it in silence.
