by M C Beaton
Still, it all went to show that a girl who had bottom enough to run away from that greedy, debt-ridden father of hers was up to everything and anything. The main thing now was to stop Sir Randolph from interfering in any way. He did not know where his daughter was, and despite a letter from Frederica and a letter from Lord Bewley assuring Sir Randolph of her well-being, he might yet crack and call in the Runners.
So Lord Bewley climbed down from the high bed and went to the writing-table. He penned a letter to Sir Randolph to say that he had discovered Frederica was not indifferent to him and that, provided Sir Randolph did not try to interfere in any way, he, Lord Bewley, would forget about all debts owing.
He signed the letter with a flourish, sanded it and sealed it, and then rang the bell for the footman to take it to the post.
***
Captain Peter Manners should have been getting ready to go out to call on his mother and fiancée. But he had found excuse after excuse to go down to the office at the back of the hall, always hoping to see that beautiful girl again, but she was nowhere in sight. He did not feel any disloyalty to Belinda Devenham, for he had convinced himself that he had only to talk to Frederica again for his intense interest in the girl to go away.
His mother would be furious if he did not call. So, after changing into his best clothes he left his room, smiling at the pretty chambermaid who was strolling along the corridor. She gave him a warm smile in return and he reflected that if she went around smiling at gentlemen guests like that, she might find herself in trouble.
He strode down to the hall.
And there was Frederica in a mob-cap, apron, and print gown crossing the hall.
He was so taken aback at the sight of her that she would have disappeared through the door at the back of the hall had he not suddenly leaped into action.
“Miss Frederica!” he called.
Frederica swung round, miserably aware of her servant’s clothes.
He swept her a bow. “We meet again,” he said.
She had rehearsed all sorts of pretty speeches in her mind for just this moment, but all at once could find nothing to say.
Despite the servant’s clothes, he reflected that she was still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. “Where do you work?” he asked.
“In the kitchens,” said Frederica miserably, knowing that in the servants’ hierarchy, this was the lowest of the low.
“An unhealthy job,” he said quietly, wondering what on earth his mother would think could she see him in such company. “You do not speak like a servant, nor look like one,” he said.
“Good morning, Lord Bewley,” came Sir Philip’s voice from the hall behind them. Frederica’s eyes widened in fright, and with a muttered “Good day,” she turned and fled.
Lord Bewley had seen Frederica, but his eyes had passed over her, eyes which were still full of the beauty of Mary Jones.
Chapter Four
Poverty is no disgrace to a man, but it is confoundedly inconvenient.
—THE REVEREND SYDNEY SMITH
Mr. Jason Davy seemed immune to the jeering remarks of Sir Philip that he did not seem to show any signs of beginning his debt-collecting.
But Mr. Davy was quietly making his own preparations. He collected some handsome visiting cards with the name “The Comte de Versailles” printed in curly letters on them. He had no intention of presenting himself at Lord Braby’s house as a common dun. He knew he would have the door slammed in his face by the butler. He still had the fine clothes Colonel Sandhurst had bought for him when he was playing the part of a gentleman. He was glad he had carefully preserved them. He put them on and admired himself in the glass.
He had rented a fine carriage, saying to Colonel Sandhurst that he would claim money for his expenses only if he were successful.
He made his way out to the rented carriage and the rented coachman. “Grosvenor Square,” he said, “Lord Braby.” Then he leaned against the squabs and tried to put the ordeal to come out of his mind.
It was a dismal day, with a greasy rain falling. The ragged crossing-sweepers shuffled back and forward through the mud. It was, reflected Mr. Davy wryly, a suitable day for such a dismal business as debt-collecting. It seemed to him that he arrived in Grosvenor Square all too soon. He braced himself. He felt just as he did when he was about to walk on-stage.
Jack, the footman, was on the backstrap. Mr. Davy handed Jack his card. “Announce me,” he said with a grin, “and be suitably pompous about it.”
The footman scanned the card and then ran lightly up the steps and performed a tattoo on the door-knocker.
He handed Mr. Davy’s card to the butler and said loudly, “The Comte de Versales to see his lordship.”
The butler drew back and held wide the door and Mr. Davy strolled arrogantly up the steps, with a haughty sneer on his face. The butler bowed low. “I will see if his lordship is at home,” he said.
“Be quick about it, my good man,” Mr. Davy said in a slightly accented drawl. “I have an engagement with His Royal Highness at noon.”
He was led with great ceremony into a saloon on the ground floor and served with wine and cakes. Mr. Davy looked around him with a practised eye. No shortage of money here, he thought cynically. The carpets were of the finest, as were the ornaments and furniture.
Despite his remark to the butler about his fictitious appointment with the Prince Regent and his high-sounding false name, he expected to be kept waiting, but to his surprise, only five minutes after the wine and cakes had been brought in, Lord Braby himself appeared.
He was a thickset, powerful man wrapped in a banyan of gold cloth and with a turban on his shaven head. After the courtesies had been exchanged, Lord Braby sat down and said, “And to what do we owe the honour of this visit, Monsieur Le Comte?”
“It is a delicate matter,” said Mr. Davy haughtily. “I am close to the Prince Regent and must protect his interests, whether I approve of those interests or not. May I rely on your discretion?”
“Of course, of course,” said Lord Braby expansively.
“It has come to my attention,” said Mr. Davy, studying his fingernails, “that my royal friend has a new romantic interest.”
“Indeed?”
“You may have heard that my royal patron has a weakness for ladies of mature years.”
“I think everyone has heard that.” Lord Braby’s rather piggy eyes gleamed with amusement. “Who’s the latest, hey?”
“It is a certain Lady Fortescue.”
“What! That old harridan who is running that hotel in Bond Street? She must be nearly a hundred!”
“You must see now how it is that discretion is paramount.”
Lord Braby shook his heavy head. “If the print-shops ever got hold of this one,” he said brutally, “then Prinny’s going to be even more of a laughing-stock than he is already.”
“Nonetheless, that is his latest affection, and I was present with him at the hotel when I heard this Lady Fortescue complaining about unsettled bills.”
“The vulgarity of it!” cried Lord Braby, but he shifted uneasily in his seat.
“Of course, of course. But such creatures as Lady Fortescue, who forget their standing in life and sink to trade develop a certain… coarseness.”
Lord Braby began to sweat lightly. His formidable wife wanted an invitation to Clarence House. He, Lord Braby, had just sent a very expensive snuff-box to the Prince Regent to elicit just such an invitation. What if His Erratic Majesty sent it back and told him to settle his bills?
“Look here,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “Demned if you haven’t just reminded me that I myself have an outstanding bill for the Poor Relation. You know how it is. Nothing but bills, bills, bills, and my man of business can be very lax. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll send a servant round now with a cheque.”
“I am going that way myself,” said Mr. Davy. “I would normally consider such a task far beneath me, but anything for Prinny.” He sighed with affec
ted languor.
“I’ll see if I can find that demned bill,” said Lord Braby eagerly, and left the room. Mr. Davy smiled to himself. He was sure Lord Braby knew exactly where that bill was and how much it was. He was a not uncommon member of the aristocracy in that he took pleasure in paying out as little money as possible except for his own immediate gratification.
Sure enough, Lord Braby returned after only a short time, brandishing a cheque which Mr. Davy restrained himself with an effort from looking at.
Mr. Davy then set himself to finish his performance by regaling Lord Braby with several amusing, highly fictitious, and highly scurrilous tales about the Prince Regent before taking his leave.
Later that day, by sheer coincidence, Lord Braby received an invitation to a supper at Clarence House for the Prince Regent. All his regrets at having given that Frenchman money for the bill evaporated.
***
Captain Manners returned to his small and, in his opinion, highly overpriced room at the Poor Relation that evening in a bad temper. He had spent a long and boring day with his beloved and he felt it would not have been boring at all if he could have stopped thinking about one common little scullery maid with the face of an angel.
He decided to go out again to his club and solace himself in purely masculine company. As he reached the landing and was prepared to descend the stairs, something made him turn round and look up. He saw the slim figure of Frederica, no longer in servant’s dress but in an expensive muslin gown, looking down at him. The minute she saw him, she coloured and then ran on up the stairs.
All thoughts of masculine company went right out of his head. He turned and began to ascend the staircase.
***
Sir Philip Sommerville was in a waspish temper as Mr. Davy, urged by the others, once more performed the part of the Comte de Versailles. He thought of all the times when he had bravely and quietly and modestly gone about collecting debts, and had he ever received such accolades as this popinjay? And that hen-brained fool, Letitia Tonks, was hanging on the mountebank’s every word. And there was something wrong.
A consummate liar himself, Sir Philip had a finely tuned ear for the lies of others. The story had started well enough, about how the “comte” had claimed to be a friend of the Prince Regent, but from then on, the bit about how the prince had taken an interest in the running of the hotel because of its superb food held a hollow note. What had this actor said, really said? Sir Philip became determined to find out. He began to relax. He would wait and bide his time.
“Why did you masquerade as a Frenchman?” asked Lady Fortescue.
“Because it is hard to masquerade as a British peer. Braby would know every name in the country. Also, it’s a hanging offence… impersonating an English peer. Besides, my supposed friendship with the Prince Regent covered me with respectability.” Mr. Davy saw Sir Philip’s pale and calculating eyes resting on him and added hurriedly, “Enough of my exploits. Let’s have a song!”
But Lady Fortescue’s still sharp hearing had heard a furtive noise outside the door. “Someone’s listening,” she said sharply. “Someone’s outside the door!”
Mr. Davy darted to the door and swung it wide.
Captain Peter Manners stood staring at them and they all stared back. Then he saw Frederica sitting on a sofa next to Miss Tonks, the candle-light on her golden hair. He bowed and said, “My apologies. I appear to have wandered into the wrong part of the hotel.”
It was an age when beauty in men was highly appreciated. And there was no denying that this captain was beautiful, with blue-black curls on his proud head, broad shoulders, a trim waist, slim hips, and—Miss Tonks stole a shy look—superb legs. The one flaw in his appearance was in his feet which, although narrow, were of an ordinary size when, for true masculine beauty, he should have had tiny feet.
“Now that you are here, sir,” said Colonel Sandhurst expansively, “perhaps you would care to join us for a glass of wine.”
“Delighted,” he said promptly.
“We have met in a business capacity but I will introduce you formally all round,” said the colonel. “Ladies first. Lady Fortescue, Captain Manners; Captain Manners, Lady Fortescue.” He then introduced Miss Tonks and then came to Frederica. The colonel hesitated. “And Miss…”
“Black,” said Frederica, rising to her feet and dropping a curtsy. “Captain Manners and I have met before.”
“Indeed! Where?” demanded Lady Fortescue sharply.
“We collided in the street,” said Frederica. “Captain Manners knows I am employed here as a scullery maid.”
“Not quite, my dear,” said the colonel. “Miss Frederica is the daughter of an acquaintance of ours who has volunteered to help in the hotel although she has no reason to.”
The captain’s long lashes veiled his expression. So that might explain the expensive gown the girl was wearing and her beautiful voice and manners. The colonel then introduced the men. The captain looked around for somewhere to sit. “Come sit by me,” said Miss Tonks, and so the captain sat between Miss Tonks and Frederica on the sofa.
Although the captain was as used to London society as he was to army life and knew how to school his expression into a well-bred blank, his thoughts were working furiously behind his polite, bland expression. Everyone knew these hoteliers were aristocrats, with the possible exception of that fellow Davy, who, although grandly dressed in Weston’s tailoring, did not have the correct manners of a gentleman. There was too much animation in his face and he moved like an actor impersonating a gentleman. The captain was very rich and had from an early age been used to cutting people who might encroach on him. It was not snobbery but a necessary social art in an era when everyone tried to get money out of everyone else, from the ragged beggars in the streets to the impoverished Irish peers and the ranks of adventurers of both sexes who used every trick and wile they knew to prey on their victims. That was why the marriage to Belinda had been considered so suitable. She was extremely rich as well.
Mr. Davy began to sing, accompanied on the piano by Sir Philip, who had decided to be amiable because he felt sure that Mr. Davy had lied, and exposing the actor and getting rid of him was now only a matter of days.
The captain listened appreciatively to the mellow tones of Mr. Davy’s voice singing a humorous ballad. This was much more fun than going to the club or sitting listening to the boring prattle of his fiancée. He tried to erase the latter thought from his shocked mind, but it would not go away. Belinda was a bore. And yet, who was to say that this girl next to him—so close that her leg was only inches from his own—would prove to be anything better? What kind of gently bred female sank to the level of the hotel kitchens? He flicked a glance at her. Her eyes were dancing as she listened to the song. He could smell the light flower perfume she wore. Her hair, no longer hidden by that dreadful mob-cap, gleamed in the light, a stray tendril lying against her cheek.
And then Mr. Davy began to sing a love song full of lost hopes and yearning. The proximity of Frederica, combined with the beauty of the words and the voice which sang them, stirred the captain’s very soul. He had an impulse to reach out and take Frederica’s hand in his own and restrained himself with an effort. When the singing was over he would have an opportunity to talk to her and perhaps find that under all that beauty lay a dull and stupid mind.
But when Mr. Davy finished his song and sat down to applause, it was Miss Tonks who promptly engaged the captain’s attention. Her motives were to protect Frederica from discovery. He answered her questions about his army life and then, to his horror, heard Miss Tonks say in a clear voice, “I read the social columns and remember reading of your engagement, Captain Manners. My congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he said bleakly, all too aware that Frederica had risen and crossed to the table in the centre of the room where Betty, Lady Fortescue’s old servant, had just placed the tea-tray.
Then his attention was caught by the colonel, who was eager for any news of the army.
He talked on, all the time aware of Frederica. She was laughing at something Mr. Davy, who had joined her, was saying, her face alight. Who was this Mr. Davy? And all the while the captain chatted easily, until Lady Fortescue rapped her spoon against her cup for silence.
“We have business to discuss, Captain Manners, so perhaps you would care to retire?”
Any gentleman most certainly would, but Captain Manners thought afterwards that he must have become infected by the free and easy ways of these hoteliers because he said easily, “Unless it is very secret, I would like to stay. I am enjoying the company.”
Frederica resumed her seat. Once more she was next to him but he could sense a certain withdrawal from him. The news of his engagement had hit Frederica with all the force of a bucket of ice-water being dashed in her face. She felt small and silly to have indulged in such romantic dreams about this handsome captain. Once more London seemed a strange and alien place.
“Ahem,” said Lady Fortescue, “we, that is the Poor Relation, have been asked to do the catering for the Duchess of Darver’s party in a week’s time.”
“A week!” exclaimed Sir Philip. “No one gives us a mere week.”
“Her Grace had already made arrangements to employ Gunter’s, but then was told that we were more fashionable. Despard and Rossignole, our excellent chefs, say that they can cope provided we find a temporary chef to cope with the dinner here on that evening.”
“Can’t find a chef at such short notice,” grumbled Sir Philip. “Has to be a special chef.”
“Most of our guests will be going to the duchess’s party, in any case,” pointed out Lady Fortescue. “Someone quite ordinary will suffice for that evening.”
“I myself will be going,” put in Captain Manners.
“I have learned quite a bit about the preparation of sauces,” said Frederica. “Perhaps I could be of help.”
“Oh, but you must come with us to the duchess’s,” said Miss Tonks eagerly. “It is such fun on these occasions. We do not dress as servants. We dress in our very finest. We have waiters and footmen hired to do the real work, but we are expected to serve a little in person to add a cachet to the proceedings.”
