by M C Beaton
“Out of the question,” said Lady Fortescue. “Frederica must not be seen in society.”
“As to that,” said the colonel, “there surely can be no harm in her going. I happen to know Lord Bewley is not going to be present.”
“Oh, why don’t we just wash all our dirty linen in public,” said Sir Philip acidly, pointing to Captain Manners, who was listening with interest to this interchange.
“Well, well, we shall see,” said Lady Fortescue hurriedly. “Captain Manners, much as we have enjoyed the infinite pleasure of your company, I beg to remind you that the hour is late.”
“Of course.” He rose and bowed. The ladies curtsied and he took his leave, a very puzzled man. He wandered thoughtfully back to his room, all thoughts of going to his club forgotten.
Was there some shameful scandal about Frederica that she must not appear in society? He shook his head. There could not possibly be. She looked so young and innocent. And why should Lord Bewley figure in it all? Instead of losing interest in her, the brief meeting had fuelled that initial tug of attraction into an obsession. But he would not yet admit that to himself.
***
On Friday Captain Manners accompanied his mother, Mrs. Devenham, and Belinda to Vauxhall. He had invited his friend, Jack Warren, to accompany them, for both his mother and Mrs. Devenham were widows and the captain felt the need of some masculine support.
Mrs. Devenham and Belinda had insisted on attending Vauxhall after the “vulgar” amusements were over, this being considered fashionable, although it disappointed the captain, who still enjoyed a good fireworks display and thought the amusements of Vauxhall were the only reason for going.
They were seated in a box eating wafers of ham and drinking rack punch, a concoction whose base of strong arrack was considered even by hard drinkers to be potent. Unusually enlivened by the punch, Belinda was glowing, and the captain had to admit she looked very fine. He could only wish her conversation were as enlivening as her appearance. She concentrated on studying the passers-by and criticizing the gowns.
But the captain was forced to admit that perhaps he was too nice in his tastes, for Jack Warren happily joined Belinda in her criticisms. Captain Manners glanced idly around at the other boxes and then focused on a couple who were laughing and drinking. He recognized Lord Bewley, he who, for some reason, must not see Frederica. Lord Bewley was entertaining a buxom wench who was dressed in a cheap gown ornamented with cotton lace. Captain Manners was sure he had seen this female before and then realized with a little shock that she was the chambermaid from the hotel.
Nor did the gross-looking Lord Bewley appear to be setting up a mistress, for although they were companionable together, he was treating her with little marks of deference, standing up to adjust her shawl about her shoulders and carving her slivers of ham himself.
The hoteliers were no doubt gathered in that sitting-room of theirs, thought the captain. It would have been jolly to join them.
“What do you think of lavender gloves?” he realized Belinda was asking him.
“For men or for ladies?”
“For men.”
“I do not have very strong feelings on the matter, Miss Belinda,” replied the captain with that mocking gleam darting in his blue eyes that Belinda could not like. She always felt that the captain was laughing at some secret joke.
“Oh, but I do,” said Jack Warren gallantly. “I have a pair myself, and to that end I ordered a waistcoat and had it made with some very fine twill I got in Italy which has a thin lavender stripe running through it.”
“Some of the material in Italy is very fine,” said Mrs. Devenham. “When Mr. Devenham was alive, he brought back some bolts of very good silk. Gold colour shot with bronze. I have a gown of it you simply must see, Mr. Warren.”
Jack flicked open his snuff-box and took a delicate pinch. “I am all anticipation,” he said.
“I would like to promenade for a little,” said Belinda.
“We shall both go for a little walk, my dear,” said Mrs. Devenham, patting her hand. “The night air makes my bones stiff if I sit in one place too long.”
Lady Manners leaned forward. “Perhaps Mr. Warren would be so good as to escort you. I wish a quiet word with my son.”
Jack went off with a lady on either arm.
“Now, Peter,” said Lady Manners sternly. “What are you about?”
“I do not understand you, Mama.”
“No? I arranged this engagement for you to Miss Devenham and thereby secured you a beautiful lady with a handsome dowry. And yet there is an indifference in your attitude towards her which displeases me.”
“As you say, you arranged it, Mother. Love did not enter into the equation.”
“Love. Tcha! Why cannot you be more like your friend, Mr. Warren, who is gallantry itself. I also fail to understand why you will not stay in your family home but needs must go to that dreadful Limmer’s which is full of Corinthians.”
“I am no longer at Limmer’s. I am at the Poor Relation.”
“I know we are very wealthy, but there is no need to throw good money away,” said Lady Manners tartly. She showed no evidence of her son’s good looks, or indeed of ever having had them. She was a round woman—round figure, round plump cheeks. “But as you are there,” she added, “I know the Devenhams have been longing to have dinner there, for the cooking is renowned.”
He had a sudden vision of Frederica sweating in the kitchens and being told he was entertaining his fiancée abovestairs in the dining-room. But he said aloud, “I will arrange it for one evening, but they are fully booked and it is very hard—”
“Fiddlesticks! I happen to know that residents have first priority when it comes to inviting parties. I am disappointed in you. Furthermore, you are not making your mark on society.”
“I do not need to make my mark on society,” said the captain with a certain hauteur. “I am in society.”
“But not a leader. You must cultivate some eccentricity. There is a captain in the Guards who has achieved a certain notoriety by engaging to climb around the furniture of a room without once setting foot on the floor.”
“Coxcomb,” commented the captain.
“You are being a trifle difficile, my son. Even the cream of society cultivate their little eccentricities. The Marquess of Queensberry once sent a message fifty miles in thirty minutes by having it thrown from hand to hand in a cricket ball. Buck Whalley walked to Jerusalem in a long blue coat, top-boots, and buckskins. Now Lord Harewood’s claim to fame is that he imitates the prince in everything—dresses the same, has the same mannerisms; and Lord Petersham is famous for his snuff-boxes, or no one would pay him a bit of attention; and old Lord Dudley speaks exactly what is on his mind. And who is that fellow who walks into every room on his hands?”
She paused to draw breath and the captain said mockingly, “I am a sad disappointment to you, Mother. In truth, I do not know any fellow who walks into the room on his hands, nor do I care to.”
She put her hand on his and said fondly, “You are the most handsome man in London, but you lack style. Mr. Warren is all charm and gallantry to Belinda and laughs so delightfully at everything she says.”
“That could be because she does not bore him.”
“What an awful thing to say.” His mother looked at him in sudden amazement. “Never say you are looking for an intelligent female!”
“God forbid,” he said lightly, but the irony in his voice was lost on his mother, who looked relieved. “Here comes Belinda. Do try to be a little more charming.”
And so the captain adjusted his shirt frills, braced himself and set out to be pleasant to Belinda, and almost succeeded in banishing Frederica’s pretty face from his mind.
***
Lord Bewley felt at peace with the world as he strolled under the trees with Mary. He had called her Frederica and she had exclaimed in surprise that her name was Mary Jones and he had grinned to himself and decided to go along with what he thoug
ht of as an amusing masquerade. He had enjoyed the evening earlier in Astley’s, relishing his companion’s naïve delight in every spectacle. Had Lord Bewley not been convinced he was walking with a young lady of good background, he would have dragged her into the bushes and had her skirts over her head in no time at all, and so it was as well for Mary that he did not know that she really was a chambermaid. Mary was thinking that it all went to show that all the lectures she had received at home and in the hotel on the vicious, licentious manners of gentlemen towards their underlings was not true. Why, Lord Bewley treated her like a real lady!
***
Earlier that evening, Lady Fortescue was aware of a strange atmosphere when she entered the dining-room on the arm of Colonel Sandhurst. She, the colonel, and Sir Philip served the first course before letting the waiters take over. It had been one of the main attractions of the hotel before Despard’s superb cooking became the main item. Every table was full. But it was not that. It was the way all eyes turned avidly in her direction when she entered, the way heads bent towards each other and excited whispering arose.
“Dear me,” she said loudly to the colonel while her black eyes raked the room, “do I have a smut on my nose or is my gown undone?”
“Nothing like that,” said the colonel mildly.
The whispering withered and died under Lady Fortescue’s haughty glare. But like bad children, the diners would occasionally steal sly glances at her and then giggle.
Lady Fortescue summoned Sir Philip. “Someone has been spreading scurrilous gossip about me. I smell it. Find out what it is and scotch it!”
“Gladly,” said Sir Philip. He saw young Fetter, a Bond Street lounger if ever there was one, sitting with a party by the window. Fetter, he knew, went to Limmer’s after dinner and could be found in the coffee room. Sir Philip decided to follow him there and winkle any gossip out of him.
Chapter Five
I used to get my sulphur-coloured gloves from the Palais Royal. When the war broke out in ’93 I was cut off from them for nine years. Had it not been for a lugger which I specially hired to smuggle them, I might have been reduced to English tan.
—SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
Miss Tonks and Frederica were alone in the sitting-room the following evening. Dinner was in progress in the hotel dining-room downstairs and the others would not join them until it was over. Mr. Davy had gone off to see some actor friends, or rather, Miss Tonks hoped they were actor friends and not actress friends.
Both were hemming handkerchiefs. “Captain Manners is very handsome, is he not?” said Miss Tonks, biting off a thread with her rather rabbity teeth.
“Yes,” said Frederica bleakly. Now that she no longer had the captain to dream about—for how could one dream about a man who was engaged to another?—she felt increasingly uneasy about her situation. What was to become of her? The only future for any gently bred girl was marriage. She could beg the hoteliers to let her stay with them, but in doing so she would dash all hopes of marriage. It had been forcibly borne in on her the last time she had seen the captain that no man of the ton was going to stoop to marry a girl who had so far forgotten her position in life as to work in the kitchens of a Bond Street hotel.
“It is a pity he is engaged,” pursued Miss Tonks, “for I feel he would have made an ideal partner for you.”
“I have put myself beyond the pale by working here,” said Frederica. “Not that I am ungrateful to you all, for I would rather do anything than be forced to marry Lord Bewley. I saw him. He is even worse than I imagined.”
“As to that,” said Miss Tonks, “our first cook, Harriet James, became the Duchess of Rowcester.”
Frederica begged to hear more and Miss Tonks regaled her with stories to prove that in some odd way working at the hotel had meant a grand marriage for her old friend rather than social disgrace. But Frederica, who had not been out and therefore did not know any social gossip, listened indulgently, and thought the spinster was telling fairy stories. Grand gentlemen did not risk social censure. She had learned that much on the hunting field. She remembered hearing of a lord who had married his cook. She was allowed to be a good cook, but the men had said it was a pity because naturally one could no longer invite this lord anywhere and so he had seen the sufficient folly of his ways and removed his unfashionable spouse to Italy, to a place where there was only the British consul and his wife to snub them instead of the whole of English society.
“If you do not want to go with us to the duchess’s,” said Miss Tonks, disappointed that her stories had not seemed to bring any sparkle back to Frederica’s eyes, “that is perfectly in order. But it will be such fun. Lady Fortescue suggests we call on Madame Verné tomorrow to purchase a ball gown for you. It is very short notice, but sometimes they have one that has been ordered but find that the lady has gone abroad. Perhaps you feel it might ruin your chances socially when you make your come-out at the Season.”
“As far as I know,” said Frederica, carefully smoothing the handkerchief she was hemming on her knee, “I am not to have a come-out. Should I return home, I would still be forced into marriage with either Lord Bewley, or some other man.”
Miss Tonks was about to say that Lord Bewley had no intention now of marrying her but remembered in time that Frederica knew nothing about that ransom or that any of them had discussed her with Lord Bewley, and so said brightly, “Then, in that case, do say you will come to the dressmaker with me tomorrow.”
Frederica’s eyes held a flicker of amusement. “I thought one did not go to the shopkeeper but that the shopkeeper came to one’s home.”
“True, very true,” said Miss Tonks seriously. “But I am become quite sharp in the ways of business and can haggle the better when I am on the premises. Ah, I hear the others.”
Frederica felt a little tug at her heart as she looked towards the door. She thought she had put the captain out of her mind, and yet, it would somehow be wonderful if he walked in again to join them. But Sir Philip was first through the door and looking very triumphant. Shortly afterwards, he was followed by Colonel Sandhurst and Lady Fortescue.
Betty and John, Lady Fortescue’s old servants, came in bearing the tea-tray. “Those cakes are mine,” cried Frederica. “I am advancing into pastry.”
Shrugging off a mental picture of a pretty Frederica wading through a giant bowl of dough, Sir Philip said, “I have news of our Mr. Davy which will shock you all!”
“Now what?” asked Miss Tonks acidly. “You’ve always had your knife into that man, and do you know why? You’re jealous because he managed to get that money out of Lord Braby, and with no trouble at all!”
Sir Philip waved his hands, looking in that moment to Frederica like some elderly monkey, for the palms of his hands were stained with cochineal, a fashion which had recently been exploded but which Sir Philip still favoured from time to time.
“Just wait till you hear this,” he crowed. “Our famous Mr. Davy pretended to be a certain Comte de Versailles.”
“We know that,” growled the colonel, “and very clever it was, too.”
“What you don’t know”—Sir Philip’s pale eyes fastened on Lady Fortescue—“is that Mr. Davy told Lord Braby that his aristocratic interest in unpaid debts owing to the Poor Relation rose from the fact that his oh-so-dear friend, the Prince of Wales, was spoony about Lady Fortescue here.”
There was a shocked silence.
“Nonsense,” said the colonel finally.
“True,” cackled Sir Philip, enjoying the consternation on their faces. “And this is the fellow you are all so keen to have join us.”
“There must be some mistake.” Miss Tonks looked pleadingly at the others.
“I do not think so,” said Lady Fortescue slowly. “That explains why we have had so many from court circles at our tables and, yes, it also explains why everyone has been paying so promptly. In fact, Lady Tarrant had not paid her hotel bill and yet she sent the money round this afternoon.” Lady Fortescue began to laugh
, her black eyes sparkling, and Frederica, looking at her, realized that Lady Fortescue must have been handsome in her youth, for under the wrinkles and paint lay the shadow of lost beauty. “How splendid!” Lady Fortescue cried. “How delightful to be made to feel so wicked at my great age. I am much indebted to Mr. Davy.”
“Have you no care for your reputation?” cried the colonel. “I’ll horsewhip that mountebank!”
Lady Fortescue continued to laugh, a surprisingly girlish laugh. “Oh, don’t you see,” she said finally, “it is all so ridiculous that society will come to its senses, particularly when they find out that this comte does not exist and realize Lord Braby has been gulled. Everyone will laugh at him, which he richly deserves, and will admire us the more.”
“You mean you are going to let him get away with this?” Sir Philip could hardly believe his ears.
“I shall speak to Mr. Davy quite severely, of course.” Lady Fortescue threw a flirtatious look at the colonel. “Do not look such daggers, my dear. A storm in a teacup. A nothing. A trivial bit of gossip which has lasted long enough to get the bills paid.”
“Well, as there are no longer any outstanding bills,” said Sir Philip waspishly, “what’s the point of giving this poxy actor bed and board?”
“He is just as important to the hotel as any of us,” said Miss Tonks hotly.
“Why?” Sir Philip stared contemptuously at her. “The cachet of this hotel is because we’re top ton. What’s the cachet in having an actor waiting table? There’s enough of them doing that already, yes, and at every chop-house in London, too.”
“You’re jealous,” said Miss Tonks. “Yes, jealous. Because he’s younger than you and just as clever.”
“Let us not squabble,” said Lady Fortescue. “I shall reprimand Mr. Davy myself as the matter concerns me. Mr. Davy is still on trial. Agreed?”
