by Myers, Amy
The boy obstinately remained, gazing in disgust at his reflection in the servants’ hall mirror. ‘I look just like a Fred,’ he muttered beneath his breath. ‘I don’t wanna go, Mr ’Obbs.’
Hobbs’ voice rose menacingly. ‘Out, Edward. Up there this instant.’
God had spoken. It wasn’t Greeves, true, but another God seemed to have taken his place. Edward cast him one scared look and ran.
Walter returned in the governess-cart from a day’s outing just in time to change for dinner, in thoughtful mood. It had not taken long to find the establishment of Mrs Greeves, fifteen miles away. It was a Queen Anne villa of generous proportions. She was known as the Widow Greeves, visited once a week by her brother. Walter thought carefully about Greeves and his character and the idea simmering at the back of his mind firmed up. Tomorrow he would act on it. He would see the Duke.
But much was to happen before that Sunday morning dawned.
Behind the baize door a seething mass of frustration was prevented from explosion only by the limitations inposed by the duties of the evening ahead. Nevertheless certain events took place.
Frederick Chambers kissed May Fawcett and received a slapped face for his pains. May Fawcett then informed Mrs Hankey, who had surprised them, that she was a jealous old biddy. Mrs Hankey forthwith burst into tears, simultaneously informing Miss Fawcett she was dismissed. Miss Fawcett pointed out only Mr Hobbs and Her Grace could dismiss her. Ernest Hobbs appealed to their better natures. He was disregarded. Ethel sided with May Fawcett, Mrs Hankey informed her she was dismissed. Mr Cricket for once in his life played the hero and defended the rights of Miss Ethel Gubbins; Mrs Hankey threw a sugar loaf at Mr Cricket. It missed and caught Auguste entering Pug’s Parlour to place the evening dessert in the pantry a glancing blow in the left shoulder, causing him to drop a large blueberry pie upside down on the floor. French imprecations flew through the air.
‘You are mad, you English. Mesdames, messieurs. The ball. Remember, if you please.’
Carriages drew up and disgorged rustling, silken-cloaked ladies, their fragile arms held possessively by top-silk-hatted gentlemen. Equipages softly and silently vanished away, while their owners ascended the six white steps of Stockbery Towers, so painstakingly blancoed daily by Ethel’s minions, and on this day twice so manicured. Bevies of beauties swept through the porticos, a kaleidoscope of rich-coloured gowns peeping beneath their cloaks, waiting to be shaken out and fussily arranged in the privacy of the Duchess’ suite, lace fichus carefully swirled to display what they were intended to conceal; it was necessary to ascertain immediately who was present, to mark prey for the evening, to ensure that only those people whom one wished were given the opportunity to fill their names on your card and that only the person should be allowed the supper dance.
Only a dozen servants in full dress livery, six imported from the village, betrayed the fact that there was another world within Stockbery Towers, wherein a vast army slaved with dedication and, in some cases, satisfaction, to ensure that the Duke and Duchess of Stockbery’s ball should be a success and reflect due credit on their coroneted heads. One platoon of this army applied itself assiduously to the last touches to the buffet. For the titillation of jaded palates they laboured over the finest products of Auguste’s art.
‘The secret, Joseph,’ said Auguste didactically, for he believed in communicating his wisdom whenever possible, ‘is that they all look the same.’
He stopped still in the middle of applying a shrimp to the herb mayonnaise on the darne de saumon. Thus it was that a mere crustacean was responsible for his realisation of how Archibald Greeves had been murdered.
Down at Kent County Police Headquarters in Maidstone Sergeant Bladon and Inspector Naseby were working late, with two cold mutton pies from Master Tucker’s pie shop awaiting their pleasure. What Mrs Bladon would have to say about this would never be recorded; the sergeant, however, was half gratified that his views were of such importance that it warranted his staying late, and half annoyed that he would be missing the company of one Joseph Hopson, and more particularly his plump jolly wife Nancy, invited by Mrs Bladon to share their repast that evening. But be that as it may, the Stockbery case took precedence. For the umpteenth time Inspector Naseby and Sergeant Bladon were trying to figure out just how the Honourable Mrs Honoria Hartham had managed to poison the brandy to give to the Duke.
The players were making their opening gambits now; the band had been playing some while. Lord Arthur strode towards the Lady Jane. To claim her for the first dance showed a certain panache he felt, a masterly handling of the situation to which the Lady Jane did not seem averse. She was discouraged, it was true, because she had not been able to avoid Mr Marshall who had blandly written himself in for the supper dance, showing a blatant disregard for her feelings since any gentleman should have realised from her manner that this was not what she had desired.
‘Jane,’ said Lord Arthur, as they whirled around to the strains of the music. ‘I have something very particular I wish to talk to you about. Shall we take a turn in the orangery?’
Her heart jumped. She closed her eyes. This, then, was it. The moment that all women waited for. When a man – the man – would say . . . She looked at his dark handsome face so close to hers, and thought how unbelievably happy she was.
His Grace was very far from being unbelievably happy. He’d been forbidden access to Honoria’s arms the night before on the grounds that she had to look her best at the ball, and, dammit, if she wasn’t trying to keep him at arm’s length tonight, too. Asked her for the supper dance only to be informed that the Prince was taking her in. Damned Prussian. Prince indeed! Everybody who could say Schleswig Holstein boasted of being some kind of prince nowadays.
‘Why, George, what a positively miserable expression. Anyone would think you weren’t glad to see me.’
Honoria had appeared at last. She was at her most provocative and His Grace had no more chance than a particularly slow-moving fly of avoiding this Venus-trap.
‘Hardly been near me all day,’ was all he could manage in the way of a protest.
‘But I wanted to, George, oh how I wanted to. You don’t know how jealous I am seeing you with all those lovely women at the shoot. And knowing that we must be careful.’
‘I’m tired of being careful, Honoria. Dammit, I want you – and by God, no damn foreigner’s going to have you.’
Honoria looked skittish. There was a time when that look had raised fires in him; now it infuriated him even though it occurred to him that she looked a little silly. For some reason this made him even angrier. Whatever Laetitia was, he thought, looking at his Duchess, she wasn’t silly, and by God, no woman like Honoria was going to make a fool of the twelfth Duke of Stockbery.
No, Laetitia certainly was not silly. She was thinking hard. She was scrutinising her best friend, meditating as to what awful revenge she could wreak upon her. At the moment, boiling that pretty body in oil seemed a fate too good for her.
Her Grace, her attention distracted by the welcome sight of her daughter being led in the direction of the orangery by Lord Arthur, had not been pleased to discover a few moments later that the Prince was to escort Honoria to supper; his protestations of the need for discretion this time failed to convince.
‘My reputation, I feel, my dear Franz, can stand the occasional assault.’ Then, feeling this was a little tart, she managed a light laugh.
‘Liebling, we will meet later. Much later. When you and I can be alone.’
He caressed her with his dark eyes, but for the first time it seemed to Laetitia that it was perhaps just a little mechanical. Nevertheless she was jealous. Honoria was forgetting her place.
‘You take much for granted, Your Highness,’ she replied a little coolly. ‘Perhaps this evening I do not wish to be alone with you. The cuckoo clock may not sing tonight.’ Her own private signal.
‘Dearest,’ the Prince’s eyes clouded, ‘have I offended you? Of course you must be alone if
you wish, stricken though I shall be.’
This was not what Laetitia had intended. She pouted, and tossed her curls. ‘If you don’t want to be with me tonight . . .’
‘But, Liebchen, you wished to be alone . . .’
‘If Honoria Hartham is so attractive . . .’
These women. These English women. So demanding. He hated warring women.
‘Dearest, for tonight perhaps, you are tired after the ball . . .’ He kissed her and and, with great relief, fled.
The Duchess, her woman’s wiles quite deserting her, tried to restrain her temper.
Jane smiled a beatific smile of assent to Lord Arthur, and indeed led the way to the long orangery that ran the length of the library behind the house. This had been another conceit of the eleventh Duke, who had insisted on its being built incongruously on the back of the house, thus causing the architect of Stockbery Towers to die prematurely of shock and outrage. It was an approved spot for dalliance, the statuary of naked gods and goddesses being classified as art and not as erotic encouragement.
It appeared that the Lady Jane had a speck of dust on her lovely face that entailed close examination by Lord Arthur for its removal. Once that was accomplished, he seemed to find it difficult to distance himself.
‘You will marry me, won’t you, Jane? You must. I want you to be my wife. All my life I’ve been waiting for someone like you . . .’
Having heard the words she had been imagining all day, instead of replying as any well-brought-up young lady had been trained to do, Jane merely managed a gulp and said, ‘Yes please.’
‘You wonderful filly. Can I kiss you, Jane?’
An inarticulate murmur gave him to understand that no objection would be raised, and his lips were placed respectfully on hers. She closed her eyes to savour every moment, and was rather surprised to find she had not fainted – perhaps it was not essential. She tried hard to feel like Evelina when Lord Orville fell to his knees before her, but could only be aware of Lord Arthur’s moustache tickling her upper lip. Still, it was all very satisfactory and no doubt she would get better at it in time.
It was at this inopportune moment that Walter Marshall came storming through the door to claim Jane for the supper dance. His face was angry, his eyes blazing and he bore little resemblance to the cool young politician whose reticence was such an asset to his career.
He planted himself stockily before them both, and in a manner that definitely veered on the truculent, said: ‘Our dance, Lady Jane, I believe?’
She drew herself up in a dignified manner.
‘Mr Marshall,’ she said, ‘it must be clear to you that you are intruding.’
‘No doubt,’ he said briefly, ‘but it is still our dance.’
Lord Arthur laughed. He could afford to. ‘Run along, dearest, I can wait. Let this young oaf have his dance.’
Walter’s hands clenched, but he restrained himself – just.
Lady Jane cast a devoted look at Lord Arthur, and one of an entirely different nature at Walter. She marched out of the orangery by Walter’s side to the dance floor. She accepted his arm stiffly, her lips pressed tightly together, baring them in a grimace.
‘Mr Marshall,’ she hissed, ‘I shall never forgive you.’
‘For claiming you for our dance?’ he asked, equally icily.
‘For coming in then. Lord Arthur had just asked me to be his wife.’ Even as she spoke, she felt that she had been a little unwise in this precipitate announcement.
Walter Marshall stopped dead in the middle of the floor. He seized her hand and marched her off the floor and into the morning-room.
‘Did you accept?’ he asked grimly.
‘Of course,’ she said with dignity. ‘I love him.’
‘You fool,’ he said simply.
She gasped. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’
‘Quite easily. He’s well over twice your age. He’s never been married. There’re all kinds of stories floating around, from which he’s only protected because he’s close to the Prince of Wales. And he’s stone broke. He only wants you because you’re a duke’s daughter.’
A bright spot of anger appeared in each of Jane’s cheeks. ‘I suppose it’s not conceivable that he might want me for myself?’
Deliberately Walter considered. ‘No, it’s not. I can imagine someone wanting you for yourself. But not him. He can’t even kiss you properly.’
This time she flew at him physically as well as verbally. ‘You were watching? But that was a – a sacred moment. You shouldn’t—’
He caught her hands and pulled her to him. ‘This is how you should be kissed.’ And proceeded to show her. It was nothing like Lord Arthur’s kiss. For a start, there was no moustache to tickle her. And then there were several other interesting sensations that almost made her wish she could continue in this diverting occupation. Then she recollected Arthur.
When she succeeded in breaking away – which took a little while – she marched to the door and said in carefully restrained tones, ‘Mr Marshall, you will leave this house,’ a dignified statement somewhat marred by the curl hanging over one eye.
‘You haven’t slapped my face,’ he pointed out objectively. ‘You’re letting me off very lightly.’
She hesitated. Her fingers itched. But he held her gaze. Abruptly she flung herself out of the door and slammed it behind her.
Prince Franz of Herzenberg was pleased. At last a chink, a hope, that he might with grace disentangle himself from the Duchess. He was not at all sure how he had arrived in her toils. The Kaiser led an exemplary home life; he expected his diplomats to do the same. Victoria’s court, too, was exemplary. He had not therefore bargained on the machinations of London society and was finding himself hopelessly out of his depth. He lived in fear that word would reach the Kaiser. And in even greater fear of—
‘Your Highness,’ breathed Honoria, sinking low to the floor with the desired result that her pretty bosom beneath her décolletage was clearly visible. ‘Our dance. The supper dance.’
The Honourable Mrs Hartham was drunk. Drunk on champagne and the headiness of female power.
‘Your Highness,’ she trilled. ‘This exquisite buffet. Dear Laetitia. She excels herelf. And yet,’ she glanced archly at the Prince, ‘I feel I might still be a little hungry at the end of the evening.’
‘Indeed, madame?’ replied a Prince, a little nonplussed.
‘I might ask for a plate of sandwiches,’ said Honoria with heavy meaning, tapping him lightly with her fan.
The stiffening of his muscles in annoyance passed her by as did the significance of her statement to him.
‘Would you care to share them with me?’ She glanced at him coyly, letting her gaze fall modestly.
‘That would be delightful,’ replied the Prince, entirely at sea now.
‘Of course, dear Laetitia . . . She won’t mind? She is my dearest friend.’
‘I am sure Her Grace would not object to your asking the butler for sandwiches.’
She chuckled. ‘What a delightfully witty man you are.’
The Prince could see nothing witty about this statement but smiled and bowed.
‘Of course I haven’t decided yet; no lady could. But I will give you my answer later this evening.’
The Prince gazed at her blankly. Were all Englishwomen mad?
‘If I say yes, if, mind you, you naughty man, delightful man, it will be about an hour before I will feel a little hungry. When you see the sandwiches then I will be yours. Yours,’ she said in a thrilling undertone, and tapped him archly once more. ‘Now go, Your Highness, we will be marked.’
Slowly the awful truth began to dawn upon Prince Franz von Herzenberg.
The gentlemen had retreated to the library, glasses of the best Napoleon in their hands. They were of course discussing the international situation. It was a safe anchorage.
‘Salisbury’s got it right. Everyone’s talking about the navy but it’s the army we’ve got to look to,’ rumbled
the Duke. ‘Say it meself, Cambridge is past the job. Need a new man. Nothing against the Queen, God bless her, but it’s time her cousin went. It’s the army won us the Empire.’
‘And the navy keeps it,’ said Walter quietly.
‘My dear fellow,’ drawled Petersfield, ‘what’s the navy done since Trafalgar? I believe it fired one gun in the Crimea, though, did it not?’
‘Precisely,’ said Walter. ‘That is its function. Defence.’
‘And you Liberals believe that Germany’s to be feared. That we should build up the navy even more to guard against her. Doesn’t make much sense. France and Russia are the enemies you need to build sea power against, not a land power like Germany,’ Petersfield said patronisingly.
‘Like the Germans meself,’ said the Duke ruminating. ‘Don’t think much of this new Kaiser though. May be the Queen’s grandson, but too clever by half. Now Marshall’s right there – the Kaiser’s got a bee in his bonnet about our navy and the need to keep up with us. Why, I remember at Cowes—’
‘I can assure you, Marshall,’ said Arthur, interrupting this reminiscence, ‘that Germany has no aggressive intentions. Russia is our common enemy. Why, look at the alliance the Chancellor signed with us last year.’
‘There are rumours that he talks of a war to be fought . . .’
‘Nonsense, my dear fellow. And if so, it would be against Russia. No, they want to stay friendly with us. Believe me, I know these fellows. Went there with Teddy once. Kaiser wants peace and so do the Foreign Office.’
‘Whom did you meet there?’ asked Walter.
‘Caprivi.’
‘Not von Holstein?’ asked Walter slowly.
‘Von Holstein? Who speaks of von Holstein?’
Prince Franz of Herzenberg had entered the room unnoticed, and his face was white.
