by Joan Smith
Brockley and Hennie moved a little ahead of me, but as I could still keep an eye on them, I allowed them this much privacy. We were near the iron fence that protected the garden from the street. I glanced out and saw two bucks strutting along.
One of them was Grindley, but it was at the other that I stared. I had seen that handsome face before. It had some significance for me, but I could not place it immediately. I had met so many new people the last few days. Suddenly it flashed into my mind where I had seen that particular face before. He was the man who had sold Parker the emerald ring at Shepherd's Market.
I pelted to the fence and called to Mr. Grindley, hoping to discover his friend's name. Grindley turned and waved, but kept walking. Brockley and Hennie heard my shout and joined me.
"Do you know who that man is, Lord Brockley?” I asked, pointing to the stranger.
"It looks like young Grindley,” he said.
"No, no. I mean the other fellow."
Brockley peered out, frowning. “My eyes ain't what they used to be, but it looks like young Naismith. Do you know him?"
"No, I do not have his acquaintance."
"And you don't want it, though he is my own nevvie,” he said, and immediately drew us away to admire the Nash-Repton pavilion. Some suitable words of praise issued from my lips from time to time, but my mind was elsewhere. Grindley and Brockley's nephew ... and perhaps Lord Brockley as well, working in tandem?
I was keen to try this idea out on Richard, and went after him as soon as I could induce the lovebirds to leave the garden. I found him wandering the maze of corridors.
"Where did you disappear to?” he asked curtly. “I have been looking all over for you."
There was an open door behind us. I beckoned him into a room that resembled an Oriental bordello, or how I imagined an Oriental bordello might look. It had strange sofas of sinuous shapes, with only one arm, and feet that resembled a lion's paws. The usual amount of red and gilt were present, along with lamps imitating lotus blossoms, and an extremely ugly marble fountain in one corner. The water issued from the mouth of a dragon into a basin with real goldfish in it.
"Do you know a Mr. Naismith?” I asked, sinking onto one of the strange sofas.
"I know several of them. Which one do you refer to?"
"Brockley's nephew."
"Half the Naismiths are related to him. Naismith is his family name. It could be his brother George's sons, or his brother Alfred, or Leonard."
"Oh dear. The one I mean is tall, young, blond."
"They are mostly tall and blond. None of them favor Brockley in looks. Some think he is a changeling. Why are you interested in Naismith?"
"He is the man who hawked Lady Dormere's ring. He is a friend of Grindley. They were together in the street just now."
"Really! Now, that is interesting. I wonder how Naismith came to possess Lady Dormere's ring."
"Did you not see him, when you were waiting outside of Parker's shop in London, Richard?"
"No, I arrived only moments before you came out."
"Well, he must have some connection to Tom. Is it possible Tom is more than one man?” I told him my reasons for thinking so, emphasizing Grindley's nimbleness in scampering up the ladder and onto the roof.
"The others, perhaps, but not Brockley. He is too rich to bother. You have only to glance around you."
"What do you suppose it costs to have fifty footmen, one hovering behind each guest at dinner, pestering us?"
"No more than Brockley can afford."
"Who is to say he is doing it for the money? He obviously misses the excitement of life at sea. He cannot open his mouth without saying something about hoisting anchor, or clear sailing, or a willing foe and sea room. He cannot be as big a fool as he appears, if he was given command of a ship."
"More than one ship. He retired a rear admiral. I am not sure he was not a vice admiral."
"There you are then.” I waited expectantly.
"What do you expect me to do about this?” he asked.
"We must have a look for some stolen jewelry."
"In this house?” he exclaimed. “It would take a week."
"He would not leave it in any of the public rooms. It would likely be in either his bedchamber, or his study."
"Very likely, but—"
"We shall begin with his bedroom,” I said, and rose.
"No, really! We are guests in his house. We cannot—"
"We are not likely to be here as anything else, unless you care to call Bow Street. We may not have another chance."
Richard reluctantly followed me out into the hallway. People were roaming about, quite at random. When the hallway was empty, we scampered upstairs. Brockley followed the prince's, and no doubt his papa's, habit of having the entire house ablaze with lights. We hurried down the red-carpeted hallway, peering into rooms until we came to one done up sparsely, like a ship, with naval-looking clocks and barometers and things on the wall. They were round, encased in brass circles, and mounted on mahogany. The large portrait of Admiral Nelson over the desk pretty well settled that we were in the right room.
It would be an easy room to search. The furnishings were few, and simple. I closed the door and began rifling drawers and peering into closets. We had soon determined that the room was innocent, save for a leatherbound chest at the end of the bed. It was locked with a lock that defied tampering with. It would take a blacksmith a week to break that stout lock.
"This is hopeless,” Richard said.
I agreed, and suggested we try the study. When we went below, Brockley spotted us coming downstairs. “Having a look about, are you?” he asked, in perfectly good humor. “Folks never can quite believe the quantity of rubbish my papa accumulated. I like things simple myself. They are striking up some music in the ballroom, if you youngsters would like to have a hop. Your aunt will be sitting down to cards, Miss Denver, if you want to speak to her about anything."
"Nothing, thank you,” I said.
A footman had come into the hall and was standing guard. Further searching was impossible at that moment, so we escaped to the ballroom, where the musicians were playing a waltz. Richard swept me into his arms and we whirled about the floor.
"Now, isn't this more enjoyable than sneaking about like a pair of thieves?” Richard asked.
He was a graceful dancer, and I am no slouch myself in that department. Lorene liked to keep up with fashions as much as our isolation allowed. She had hired a caper merchant to teach us the waltz, so I could perform without blushing—at least for my dancing. I will not say that a few of Richard's comments did not raise a flush, for he was quite warm in his conversation that evening.
He regretted that Linda must so often accompany us on our outings. “I am beginning to wish she could win Harelson back,” he said. “They were used to be well nigh inseparable in London last spring."
"I wonder what came between them."
"Another lady, very likely. He seems to like variety. He has been dangling after Miss Denver lately, I think?"
The hint of jealousy in his words pleased me. “Is your sister unhappy with me?"
"I cannot think why else she has taken to calling you ‘that wretched woman,’ when she used to like you very well."
"Oh dear! I most particularly wished to make her my friend. I hope she does not think I am encouraging Harelson."
"I think you could discourage him, if you felt so inclined. A little of the vinegar you showed me in the park last week might do it. I am referring to your veiled threats when you asked me to empty my pockets."
"I have no reason to mistrust Harelson. I cannot be rude to him, or ask him to empty his pockets."
"You suspect everyone else of being Tom. Why not Harelson? And don't say because he is a nobleman. You suspect Brockley."
"Harelson did not murder his wife."
"Neither did Brockley. But I should not disparage Harelson with no real reason. I accuse him of nothing more than dangling after an heiress."
"He is comfortably off. His elder brother gets the estate. I notice his flirts usually have money."
"I understand your sister has no fortune."
"Precisely. Harelson was not aware of that when he took up with her. She thought he loved her for herself. I daresay one of his friends tipped him the clue."
"If that is the case, she is well rid of him."
"Yes, and so are you, Eve,” he said, gazing into my eyes. The bit of Atlantic trapped there was stormy.
It was a pity that Harelson joined us at the end of the dance and asked me to stand up with him. It seemed impolite to refuse, but I claimed a great thirst. When he offered to take me for wine, my invention failed. I went with him, but I asked Richard and Lady Filmore to join us. Richard refused;
she tagged along, of course.
There was one thing I hoped to learn from Harelson, and after he had procured us a glass of wine, I said, “As Grindley is a good friend of yours, Lord Harelson—"
"I wish you would call me Harelson. All my friends do."
I smiled uneasily at Lady Filmore and continued. “Do you happen to know which of the Naismith boys Grindley chums around with?"
"He goes about here and there with half a dozen of them."
"Do you know which of them he was seeing this evening?"
"He said nothing to me, but I know Robert is in town, for I saw him today. Very likely it is Robert. If it had been George or Tony, Brockley would have invited them to his do. He does not much care for Robert."
"Oh really. What is wrong with him?"
"A scapegrace lad. Gambling, and so on. Why do you ask?"
"No reason,” I said, foolishly. “I saw Grindley with a fellow. Brockley thought it was a Naismith. He sounded rather peeved. I was curious; that's all."
"If Brockley was in the boughs, then we can assume it was Robert.” I now had a name for Richard to give Bow Street.
I turned my next conversation to Lady Filmore. After five minutes of intensive flattery, she asked me to call her Linda, and I asked her to call me Eve. While all was rosy, I slipped away and left her alone with Harelson.
Richard was at the door of the ballroom, timing my absence. “I could not refuse a drink, when I had just said I was dying of thirst,” I explained, before he could chide me.
"It is not my place to tell a grown lady what she may or may not do. The footmen have left the hallway. Shall we give the study a try?"
I took it for a favor, as I was morally certain he did not wish to do anything of the sort. Before we discovered the study, however, a footman discovered us and asked if he could help us, so we said we were looking for the card room, and he directed us there. Richard suggested we have a hand with Hennie and Brockley, and that is how we wasted the remainder of the evening. I would have preferred to dance, but with Harelson on the prowl, I settled for cards, and won three guineas. Brockley had no skill for whist at all; Even Hennie, who is a bit of a dab at the game, could not keep him from losing.
At midnight, Richard went to look for Linda to go home. She said Harelson would see her home, and we left, alone together.
Chapter Fifteen
A fog as thick as Tewkesbury mustard had rolled in while we partied at Brockley's place. It was so dense, you could hardly see a foot in front of you. It was strange driving home, like driving through clouds. The clip-clop of oncoming horses and rumble of wheels would be heard half a minute before the lights of an advancing carriage appeared. Unlike the famous fogs of London, this was a gentle, white mist, sweet-smelling, untouched by the smoke from factories. It was a warm evening, too, which made the fog seen friendly. I asked Richard to open the windows and let the mist in.
We drove up to see Prinny's pavilion in the fog. It looked like a fairy castle or a dream, with the domes and minarets glowing mistily through clouds—the very attar of romance. Then we drove directly home. I was sorry we had so short a distance to go, and even sorrier I had to destroy the mood by business.
I told Richard it was Robert Naismith who had been with Grindley. “Brockley pretended to dislike him, but he would not admit in public that he was friendly with such a sad creature."
"Let us forget about catching Tom this evening,” Richard said. His hand fumbled in the darkness and seized mine.
"Do you have a more interesting topic for conversation?” I inquired discreetly.
"Now that we are alone, for once...” He lifted my hand. I felt the brush of his lips pressing on it. It caused the strangest sensation within me, as if warm little fingers were exploring my vitals.
When he drew me into his arms, the warm fingers rose to my lungs and squeezed them fiercely, robbing me of breath. Soon his lips were seeking mine. “Richard!” I gasped, for I felt a maidenly show of reluctance was called for. The gentle roughness of his cheek grazed intimately against mine. The mist caused our faces to cling together.
"Hush, woman,” he said softly, and his lips crushed mine.
The compelling intensity of the experience caught me off guard. The first mellowing pleasure swelled to a surge of excitement, crashing and thundering in my ears, as wild and elemental as the stormy sea at Cornwall. The heat of his embrace escalated to a pounding assault on my senses, and left me witless, but a willing prey to his fierce attack.
People may say what they like about the moon and starlight, about the romance of a garden or an apple orchard; for a really soul-destroying kiss, there is nothing like a carriage on a foggy night. It is as though you two were isolated in some imaginary land, surrounded by a beneficent, moistly soft, concealing Nature. As if you were in the clouds.
Soon—too soon—the carriage drew to a stop, and Richard reluctantly withdrew his arms. He sent the groom on and walked me to the door, with his arm around my waist, our hips bumping familiarly. I wished I could think of something light and clever to say, but as this situation was entirely new to me, no such comment came to mind.
"Isn't it a lovely night,” I said stupidly.
"An enchanting night,” he replied. He had no more idea what to say than I had myself.
We just looked at each other and laughed conspiratorially. I said, “I expect you will relieve me of my diamonds, before I go in."
"The ball is over, Miss Cinderella.” He held out his hand.
"Then I had best scamper away, before you see me in rags.” I removed the necklace, and a shimmering cascade of diamonds fell into his outstretched palm.
The cats were at it again that night. They chose that moment to begin their racket. “Is your glass slipper handy?” Richard asked.
"I wonder whose cats they are."
He made no reply to this, except with his eyes, which studied me engrossingly. “You look very lovely tonight, Eve,” he said, in a husky voice.
"You have seen me in this gown before. It must be the fog that dims your view."
"That must be it,” he agreed, with a quizzing smile that belied the words. If that was not the smile of a lover, then I had no right to be called a rational person.
I gave him the key; we walked to the door, opened it, and I went inside. When I reached to recover the key, he leaned down and placed a fleeting kiss on my lips, as light and evanescent as the touch of a butterfly.
"You look good in lamplight, too. I shall leave, before you raise the lights and frighten me with your warts and wrinkles."
"A wise precaution. Good night. I had a lovely time."
"A demain."
He turned and walked off into the fog. I went upstairs immediately, in a fog of my own. Strangely, the cats did not bother me that night. They made a frightful racket, but I was able to ignore it. My thoughts were all happy ones. Richard had been charming. After reliving every instant of that fateful drive home, I turned my thoughts to my garden party. I hoped the fog was not a harbinger of bad weather on the morrow.
I only stuck my nose out the door once in the morning, to check the weather. The sun was shining
in the halfhearted way it usually shines on the coast, dulled by that perpetual layer of moisture, but with no indication of a storm approaching.
I was busy with the servants and Cook. There was some little uncertainty whether we had sufficient glasses and china. Lady Grieve's house came fully furnished, but furnished with her second-best stuff. Her better things would be in London, or at her country estate. I wished I had brought some of my own superior tableware with me. Lorene had left me a silver table service for twenty-four.
When Linda came over to see if we required anything, I arranged to borrow two dozen wineglasses from her. She did not remain long, as she could see I was busy, but before she left, I asked how it had gone with Harelson last night.
"He left soon after you and Richard. Brockley and Mrs. Henderson brought me home. Did your aunt not tell you?"
"I was in bed when she got home last night, and I have hardly seen her this morning. She went to Madame Drouin's. One of her gowns is ready for the party this afternoon."
"Well, Harelson did not even drive me home,” she said crossly, and left.
Tumble had been behaving himself well since coming to Brighton. I had put him in charge of buying wine for the party. He would know what the ton preferred. From the size of the bill he handed me, I assumed he had done me proud. I soon realized he had been sampling rather heavily. It was Hennie who informed me of this disaster when she returned.
"Tumble is weaving about the front hall like a reed in the wind, Eve. He was scarcely able to open the door. You must get him out of the way before the guests arrive."
"Good God! I counted on Tumble to oversee the serving of dinner. He knows better than my servants how to do things."
When I rushed out to see how bad he was, he fell over in a heap, wearing a beatific smile, and smelling like a winery.
It took two footmen to get him to bed. I searched his room myself, and found three bottles of a very expensive claret under the mattress. I removed them and locked his door, praying that he would be sobered up in time to greet the guests at four.
