by M C Beaton
“I explained to Mother that I have been entertaining army friends at Limmer’s,” said the captain. “Good fellows but not suitable for a lady’s drawing-room.”
Mrs. Devenham gave a little grunt and then said, “Belinda, get your portfolio and show the captain your water-colours. They are amazing fine.”
Belinda fetched a portfolio and opened it up on a round table in the centre of the room. He realized that she rarely sat down. He stood beside her as she extracted one water-colour after another. They were competently executed but, he thought, very dull. He admired each one. There seemed to be a great many. He stifled a yawn and racked his brain for something new and complimentary to say about each.
His initial feeling of relief at the handsome appearance presented by his fiancée was rapidly evaporating. He remembered, with a startling vividness which surprised him, a beautiful face gazing up into his outside the Poor Relation Hotel in Bond Street.
***
Frederica shared a bed with Miss Tonks. Miss Tonks had a bad habit of sleeping on her back and snoring, and so, relieved to find the spinster intended to stay up late the following night, Frederica composed herself quickly for sleep, hoping that she could drop off before Miss Tonks arrived. But the harsh cry of the watch calling the half-hour awoke her and she realized she was still alone. All at once she felt wide awake and restless. She lit the candle by the bed and peered at the clock. Half past one! She climbed out of bed and went to the window, opened it, and looked out. She heard furtive noises from the street below and, curious, Frederica leaned farther out. A carriage was drawn up outside the hotel entrance. Sir Philip, Lady Fortescue, Colonel Sandhurst, and Miss Tonks were standing beside it. As she watched, Miss Tonks drew a pistol from her reticule and said in a clear voice, “Yes, it is primed and ready,” before she was shushed into silence by the others. Then the colonel climbed on the box while the others got inside, and the carriage moved off.
Frederica rubbed her bare arms, feeling suddenly cold. She closed the window and retreated to the bed. How odd! How frightening. What did she really know of these people? Respectable people did not go out in the dead of night armed with pistols unless they were going on a long journey, and the carriage had been an open one, suitable for short drives to the Park, but hardly the equipage for any significant expedition.
She began to wonder whether she had jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire, whether Lord Bewley might not be so terrifying as her new protectors.
***
Lord Bewley stood under the oak tree. Cowardice was not one of his many faults. He felt quite calm. He planned to hand over the money after they had produced Frederica. The letter written to Sir Randolph had been that of an educated man. He had no fear of being set upon by footpads. He expected them to be masked. He wondered why they had chosen this particular night, for the full moon was shining brightly.
He heard a carriage approaching and took a serviceable pistol out of his pocket and held it at the ready.
He cocked his head to one side. The carriage had stopped. Several people, to judge by the sounds. He considered his situation. Perhaps they would kill him. If they were not masked, they surely would expect him to expose them. But instead of being frightened, he felt light-headed and reckless.
He stepped out boldly from the shadow of the tree and then stood stock-still. Two elderly gentlemen, one elderly lady, and one lady of uncertain years stood clearly revealed by the moonlight. His first thought was that some elderly eccentrics had decided to go for a walk in the Park in the dead of night. He looked past them. He looked all about him.
“You,” said Lady Fortescue clearly, “are not Sir Randolph.”
“I am Lord Bewley, at your service.” He walked up to them. “Never tell me that you are the kidnappers.”
“Have you the money?” demanded Sir Philip, always one to get to the point.
“I have the ransom money with me. Where is Miss Frederica?”
“Safe and well,” said the colonel.
“Now look here, you odd lot,” said Lord Bewley, stuffing his pistol into his pocket, “you can’t expect me to pay anything until I have seen her. Who are you anyway? You’re the oddest bunch of criminals I’ve ever seen.”
“You hand over that money,” said Sir Philip, “or you’ll never see Frederica again.”
“No girl, no money,” said Lord Bewley, beginning to sound amused.
“This is hopeless,” said Sir Philip. “What a stupid idea.”
“I think in this case, only the truth will serve,” said Lady Fortescue. “The facts are these, Lord Bewley. Miss Frederica ran away from home to escape marriage to you. We gave her refuge. Sir Randolph owes us a great deal of money and we saw a way to recoup it.”
The moon, which had gone behind a cloud, suddenly shone down again full on Colonel Sandhurst’s face.
“Wait a bit,” said Lord Bewley, peering at him. “I know you. You’re that Colonel Sandhurst. The Poor Relation Hotel. That’s it! You’re that lot.”
“Sir Randolph did not pay his bill. He stayed with us with his wife for six months,” said Lady Fortescue. “He entertained friends. His bill came to nearly four thousand pounds. We are demanding eight thousand to cover that bill and punish him for putting us to this trouble. Frederica is at the hotel. She does not know of this plan. You must take our word for it that she is safe and well. But you must forgo all plans of marrying her. You are too old.”
“How can anyone in this day and age run up a hotel bill of four thousand pounds?” demanded Lord Bewley.
“On one occasion,” said Lady Fortescue evenly, “he gave a dinner for fifty guests, with presents for all.”
“And you let him get away with it? Amateurs.”
“It is the only occasion on which we have been tricked out of so much,” said Sir Philip wrathfully. “We are used to people running up huge bills. You know how it is. I doubt if you have even paid your own tailor this age.”
“I pay my bills,” said Lord Bewley. He stood, legs apart, a powerful John Bull sort of figure.
“So Frederica is hidden away in your hotel.”
“Not exactly hidden,” said Miss Tonks, speaking for the first time. “We all work. She will help as a chambermaid until her father comes to his senses.”
Lord Bewley thought hard. He had to confess he was now relieved that he had had to face not a gang of thugs but this farcical foursome. The whole situation began to amuse him greatly. He did not like Sir Randolph. He himself did not stand to lose anything, for he could claim Sir Randolph’s house and lands anytime he chose and Sir Randolph was surely not going to lose everything over such a small debt—the debt being small to Lord Bewley in an age when men could lose considerably more than that over the gaming tables of St. James’s.
“So if I go along with this scheme,” he said, “do I return and tell Sir Randolph that I have paid over good money and that his daughter is still missing?”
“What you can tell him,” said Sir Philip, “is that Frederica is safe and well. You have our word for that. We will get her to write a letter to her parents, saying that she is staying with a respectable family.”
“But what if I want to marry her?” asked Lord Bewley. “Thought of that, hey?”
“I gather you have never seen her,” said Lady Fortescue. “A fine-looking man like yourself,” she added mendaciously, “can surely get any lady he wants without bothering over some flighty chit of a schoolgirl.”
“True,” remarked his lordship complacently. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you the money, but only what Sir Randolph owed. That’s fair.”
“I think,” said the colonel cautiously, “that we should accept Lord Bewley’s offer.” Lord Bewley counted out the money in notes. Miss Tonks gave a little gulp of relief. But her relief died the moment the transaction was over, when Lord Bewley said, “I may as well move into that hotel of yours. Town house is in need of repair.”
“But Frederica must not meet you!” squeaked Miss Tonks.<
br />
“I’m not supposed to know she’s working as a chambermaid, and if truth be told, after the way she’s behaved, I have no interest at all in the girl. I won’t say I know her.”
Gratitude that they were all still alive, that he had not shot them or called the Runners, that he had proved to be so amiable made the hoteliers agree he could stay at the hotel. And, as Lady Fortescue whispered to the colonel, other work would be found for Frederica. She need never meet Lord Bewley.
***
Frederica was summoned to the sitting-room the following day, where she was alarmed to learn that Lord Bewley, whom she had left home to escape, was now resident at the hotel.
“There is no reason to be afraid,” said Lady Fortescue. “He knows you are here, for we met him by chance last night and decided to be honest with him. He will not betray you. He does not want to marry you but we feel that if you return home, your father might try to persuade Lord Bewley to change his mind. So we suggest you write a letter to your parents, not telling them your direction, but saying you are living with a respectable family and will write again soon.”
A stab of guilt at her own behavior hit Frederica. She remembered that odd expedition last night, Miss Tonks with the pistol. What did she really know of these new friends? She should return home and beg forgiveness. Had they threatened Lord Bewley? But then, he would hardly be a guest at the hotel if they had. And then she saw the handsome face of that army man she had collided with in Bond Street. Somewhere out there in busy London he was to be found. If she returned to the country she would never see him again.
So she said, “I will write the letter. But if I am to work as a chambermaid, I will meet Lord Bewley and I do not wish to do that.”
“As to that,” said Lady Fortescue, “I have decided to put you to work in the kitchens, for only a short time each day. Despard, our chef, is a genius, but temperamental. His underchef, Rossignole, is the easier of the two. He will introduce you to the arts of cooking, something every lady should know. I do not hold with the current generation who brag that they never set foot in their own kitchens. Miss Tonks will introduce you.” Miss Tonks quailed. She was frightened of both Despard and Rossignole because they were both French and everyone knew the French ate babies roasted for breakfast. The fact that this idea was illogical, that one roasted baby on the premises of the Poor Relation Hotel would cause one of the worst scandals of the century, did not occur to her. The British had been at war with the French for so long that even the middle-aged Miss Tonks had been brought up on horror stories of what they were capable of doing.
“No time like the present,” said Sir Philip maliciously, for he knew Miss Tonks was afraid of the chef. “Why not take Frederica down and introduce her?”
“Very well.” Miss Tonks threw him a look of loathing. “Come along, my dear.”
Despard and Rossignole were seated at the kitchen table sharing a bottle of wine and resting from their labours.
“This is Frederica,” said Miss Tonks bravely. “Lady Fortescue wishes her to help for a short time each day in the kitchen and she is to be instructed in the art of cooking.”
Frederica stood nervously behind Miss Tonks. Despard’s white and twisted face assumed an uglier aspect as he sneered, “I have no time for useless females in my kitchen.”
“It is not your kitchen,” said Miss Tonks in a trembling voice. “It is our kitchen.”
Frederica stepped out from behind Miss Tonks. She was wearing one of her own gowns, a pretty white muslin. A shaft of sunlight from the dingy window up at street level shone on her hair, on her wide eyes, on the exquisite and delicate beauty of her face.
“Ma foi!” said Rossignole under his breath. He stood up, as did Despard, and both tugged off their skull-caps. “There is no need to be so rude to Miss Tonks,” said Frederica in a clear voice.
“We get cross and crusty in our work,” said Despard, drawing out a chair, his voice its usual mixture of French and Cockney accents. “Sit down! I myself shall instruct you in my arts. A glass of wine, miss?”
Miss Tonks, finding herself ignored, gratefully left the kitchen. She stood outside the green baize door and leaned her narrow back against it. Beauty, that was the charm which unlocked all hearts. She envied Frederica. In that moment, she wished she looked like Frederica so that Mr. Jason Davy would consider her to be more than a friend. With a little sigh she made her way upstairs to the main hall.
The hall was empty apart from a tall gentleman pacing up and down under the chandelier which, despite the sunlight outside, was burning brightly with many candles, for the hall was dark and Sir Philip had rightly pointed out that the magnificent Waterford chandelier was an advertisement in itself.
“May I help you, sir?” asked Miss Tonks.
He smiled down at her and she blinked rapidly and nervously, feeling she had had enough of beauty for one day, for his face was handsome and his smile blinding in its charm.
“I collided with a servant girl from this hotel, a Miss Frederica Black. I am called to make sure she came to no harm,” said Captain Manners.
“I know of no Miss Black,” said Miss Tonks, and the captain’s heart sank. “Can you describe her?” added Miss Tonks.
“Hair like gold, vastly pretty, grey eyes, young.”
Our Frederica, thought Miss Tonks, but what am I to do? Life is complicated enough. So she shook her head. “I am sorry I cannot help you, sir.”
The captain bowed and left. How dingy and dull London now seemed!
***
Lord Bewley, established in the Poor Relation, awoke early and lay tingling with anticipation. This Frederica would no doubt come in and draw the curtains and leave his morning cup of chocolate beside the bed. He was sure his (in his opinion) masculine good looks would win her over.
The door opened and a female figure entered the shadowy room. He waited until he heard a light step, the chink of china beside the bed and then the scrape of the brass curtain rings. He sat up and blinked in awe. Surely there had never been a fairer creature. Her hair was pure gold, her figure like that of Venus, her eyes a deep, deep blue. He was stunned. He was speechless. She dropped him a curtsy and quietly left the room.
He had to have her! But he would not let anyone know. No coercion. He would woo her as he had never wooed a woman before.
Mary Jones, chambermaid, went into the servants’ hall. “Who’s the codger in the Red Room?” she asked.
“Lord Bewley,” said Jack, the footman.
She gave a slow smile and then giggled. “Strange-looking fellow,” she said. “He kept gawping at me.”
Chapter Three
Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners, in each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.
—WILLIAM WALSH
Sir Philip Sommerville felt there was something strange about Miss Tonks. Although they often clashed, he had been aware before of the spinster’s regard for him and, yes, he had been also aware of her hopes of marriage to him. But of late, she had avoided his company. Piqued and driven to consideration for her feelings at last, he had gruffly invited her to Gunter’s for tea, but instead of her eyes shining with suitable gratitude, she had said quietly that she was busy and had gone quickly away.
Miss Tonks was worried. The production in which Mr. Davy had been appearing had closed and she could not see his name anywhere on the playbills. She had at first assumed that he might be touring the provinces, but surely he would have gone with the same company and they were opening in a new play and Mr. Davy’s name was nowhere to be seen.
Desperate feelings demanded desperate measures. Colonel Sandhurst had told her about the coffee-house in Covent Garden frequented by actors, where he had first met Mr. Davy. Knowing she could not go there
on her own, she had begged Jack, the footman, to accompany her, but Jack had been warned by Sir Philip not to indulge the spinster’s pursuit of some “mountebank of an actor” and so he had said his duties at the hotel did not permit it, adding that he had work to do for Sir Philip, but if madam liked to ask Sir Philip…? And, of course, madam did not.
And then she hit on a plan. She had dressed as a man before when she had pretended to be a highwayman. Well, with great daring, she would dress as a man again and go to that coffee shop and see if there was any news of Mr. Davy. Not wanting to be too profligate, she hired, rather than bought, a suit of men’s clothes, saying that she was going to take part in amateur theatricals. Now in the romances Miss Tonks loved to read, the heroine sometimes dressed as a man and the hero never even recognized his beloved. But Miss Tonks in men’s clothes still looked exactly like Miss Tonks, and furthermore, she did not look at all like a man despite her thin, flat-chested figure, for she carried about with her an air of genteel femininity. But she felt different, very swaggering and adventurous. She managed to slip out of the staff apartment next door without being seen and strode along the London streets feeling very bold and daring.
It was an age when women often dressed in men’s clothes and sometimes even enlisted in the military, quite a number of them taking the secret of their sex to the grave. But these were women who looked like men.
Mr. Davy, seated in a dark comer, looked up as he heard the whispers and sniggers. He peered across at the doorway and blinked. Miss Tonks was standing there looking about her with a tentative, sheepish smile. She was wearing a blue coat, knee-breeches, and clocked stockings. She had an excellent pair of legs, however, and it was these limbs which were becoming the increasing focus of ribald comment.
The actor rose quickly to his feet and tossed some coins on the table. He hurried to join her and, putting a hand under her elbow, he steered her out into the street. “Miss Tonks,” he said urgently, “my lodgings are hard by. It may go against the conventions to take you there, but you should not be abroad in such disgraceful clothes.” Miss Tonks blushed miserably. “You recognized me!”
