Back in Society (The Poor Relation series)

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Really?’ said Jamie, thinking that Miss North was every bit as tricky as Frances.

  But for a moment, the comte’s usually lazy eyes were sharp and shrewd. ‘Which one of us did he aim to kill?’ he asked.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Jane wretchedly. ‘I now think I must have imagined it all. And yet . . . and yet when I called to you, he shouted to his coachman and sped off.’

  ‘Odd,’ said Jamie, his eyes dancing. ‘But London is full of footpads.’

  But the comte, covertly studying Jane’s pallor, was thinking of a meeting he had had earlier at Horse Guards where he had been told of a certain letter from the Duke of Rowcester in which the duke had explained some conspirator he believed to be an English gentleman was out to kill the Comte de Mornay. At Horse Guards, they knew that the comte’s spying activities against Napoleon had in the past been a thorn in the side of the emperor’s friends and supporters. They had urged him to use caution but at the same time to try to find out the name of this English traitor.

  ‘Did you notice anything about the carriage, Miss North?’ he asked. ‘Any crest, any distinctive hammer-cloth? Surely the coachman was not masked?’

  ‘It was just a plain carriage,’ said Jane, ‘and the coachman just looked like any other coachman.’

  ‘No groom, footman or tiger on the backstrap? No livery?’

  Jane shook her head.

  Jamie gave a light laugh. ‘We will watch very carefully how we go in future, Miss North. Our meetings seem destined to be dramatic. Firstly, poor Miss Haggard here faints nearly at our feet in Curzon Street and now you are on hand to prevent us being murdered.’

  Jane looked at him haughtily. ‘I did not make the whole thing up. Now, since your presence here is highly unconventional, gentlemen, I suggest you take your leave.’

  But at that moment Harriet came in, followed by her maid, her eyes darting from one to the other. ‘Explain,’ she demanded curtly.

  So Jane explained again, conscious all the time of the amusement in Mr Ferguson’s eyes. Her story began to sound ridiculous in her own ears.

  ‘How odd,’ said Harriet coldly. ‘Now, pray take your leave, gentlemen. You should not be here. We will no doubt see you at the Farleys’ ball.’

  ‘That will be our pleasure,’ said the comte. With elaborate bows, both men made their farewells.

  ‘Minx,’ laughed Jamie as soon as they were clear of the house. ‘How inventive! How cunning! And how flattering. Are you not flattered that such a beauty should tell such lies to catch your attention?’

  ‘She had had a bad shock, my insensitive friend, or did her unusual pallor escape you?’

  Jamie stopped short. ‘You cannot mean she was telling the truth!’

  ‘Trust me, mon ami. The beautiful Miss North really believed she saw a man with a gun.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill one of us?’

  But the comte had no intention of explaining anything. ‘London is full of villains and footpads,’ he said, tossing a coin to a diminutive crossing-sweeper.

  Harriet had retired to write to her husband, and Jane and Frances were once more left alone. ‘So you did not make it up?’ asked Frances, her eyes round.

  Jane shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I really believe I saw a man with a gun. But in broad daylight and in Park Street! I feel so ashamed of myself. I must have imagined the whole thing. And your Mr Ferguson thought I had planned the whole thing to get their attention.’

  ‘And so you did. No, I do not mean you lied. But you did get their attention, and now we know they are going to be at the ball.’ Frances pirouetted about the room. Then she sank down next to Jane in a flurry of taffeta. ‘But she will no doubt be there, Fiona Dunwilde, and I shall have to watch him making sheep’s eyes at her. Tell me she will have changed, Jane. She is quite old now and the Scottish climate is reported to be harsh. The Scotch drink a great deal of claret and spirits, and so she may have a red nose and broken veins on her face.’

  ‘We will know when we see her,’ said Jane absent-mindedly, thinking all the time of that masked face at the window of the coach.

  In their private sitting room that evening, the hoteliers gathered to discuss their future plans, the main one being that they were to organize and arrange the serving of the supper at Lady Farley’s ball.

  ‘I do not see why we should not tell Harriet we are going to be there,’ complained Miss Tonks.

  ‘She has much on her mind,’ said Lady Fortescue. ‘She is doing us a favour by bringing Jane out. We do not want her mind distracted by wondering in advance how to cope with her old friends acting the role of servants.’

  ‘We ain’t servants,’ grumbled Sir Philip. ‘We’ve engaged servants to do the work. It’s Despard’s famous cuisine Lady Farley is after.’

  ‘But we ourselves have to appear to serve,’ explained Lady Fortescue patiently. ‘It is part of our cachet.’

  ‘Cachet be damned,’ growled Sir Philip. ‘It’s time we got back in society and took up our rightful places.’

  ‘Which we could do,’ said the colonel eagerly, ‘if we were to sell this hotel.’

  ‘Society isn’t quite going to forget we were once in trade,’ said Lady Fortescue.

  ‘If you’ve got money,’ said Sir Philip cynically, ‘society will cheerfully forget everything.’

  ‘Then why isn’t Almack’s full of Cits?’ asked Mr Davy.

  ‘Because Cits never were in our class to start with.’ Sir Philip glared at him. ‘They’re all common . . . like you.’

  ‘That will be enough of that.’ Miss Tonks bridled. ‘Let us change the subject. I gather our prince is not to be present at the ball.’

  ‘He was asked but he don’t want to go,’ said Sir Philip. ‘He uses this hotel like a small palace. He likes his own people about him. Lady Farley could have had him if she had invited his whole retinue. He never moves without ’em. How’s Harriet?’

  ‘The duchess sent a note by hand this morning,’ said Lady Fortescue, ‘to say that the duke had written her a wonderful letter. She says she will be so pleased to see him that she plans to wear some barbaric family necklace he is so proud of for the first time so that he will see her decorated with it on his return.’

  Sir Philip felt quite cold with fear. He knew all at once that the necklace to which Harriet had referred was the one in the glass case in the muniments room at the duke’s country home, the one he had thieved to raise money to start the hotel and replaced with a clever replica. Nestling as it was now in the dim light of the muniments room, the fake was safe from detection. But he had a sudden vivid little picture of a radiant Harriet wearing it and the duke smiling, taking out his quizzing-glass, and then beginning to shout he had been tricked.

  ‘Think I’ll stretch my legs,’ he said, getting to his feet. Out in Bond Street, he hailed a hack and told the driver to take him to Holborn, upon which the driver promptly demanded payment in advance for venturing into an area which bordered on the Rookeries, those slums so full of crime and vice. Normally Sir Philip would have cursed and haggled but he was too worried to argue and settled for the fee of a shilling.

  It seemed to take an age to get to Holborn but at last he was deposited outside the shop – or where the jeweller’s shop used to be. He climbed stiffly down, calling sharply to the driver to wait. A sign above the door said ‘Welsh Bakery.’ Although the shutters were up, he could see chinks of light from inside the shop streaming through. He rapped furiously on the door with the silver knob of his stick and fretted and fumed as slow shuffling feet could be heard approaching from within. Bolts were drawn back, the door was opened a few inches, the end of a blunderbuss pointed at him, and a hoarse voice said, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Where is the jeweller?’ demanded Sir Philip, who had no intention of giving his name.

  The door opened farther, revealing the baker himself, a small, squat, powerful man dusted with flour. ‘Gone,’ he said, ‘two months since, and nothing but the constable and peop
le like yourself a-hammering and trying to find him. The Runners have been round as well. Arsk at Bow Street.’

  The door was slammed in Sir Philip’s face. He stood irresolute on the greasy pavement, until the driver hailed him with ‘I ain’t going to wait about here all night.’ Sir Philip climbed back into the smelly hack and asked to be taken back to Bond Street, his thoughts in a turmoil. The villainous jeweller had decamped and with him his stock and along with his stock that necklace which Sir Philip had been going to reclaim, and along with it all the money Sir Philip had been paying him in instalments to buy it back. Sir Philip decided to wait until daylight and then question his underworld contacts for news of the jeweller.

  But although he searched and searched on the following day among the narrow streets and stews of London, no one had heard anything about the jeweller. Only the fact that he had to return to the hotel and change and go to Lady Farley’s to take up his duties made him give up his frantic search.

  Harriet was more like the débutante than Jane herself, reflected Jane as they set out for the ball. The duchess looked radiant, her green eyes sparkling like the emeralds about her neck. Beside her, Jane felt diminished, sad, and underneath it all she had a niggling feeling of dread that someone at the ball would recognize her. The only thing that gave her courage as they approached the large mansion in Grosvenor Square was a determination to do her best to shine to please her generous hostess and to try to help Frances with her romance. Frances, Jane knew, envied her, Jane’s, looks. And yet Jane envied Frances her happy nature, her confidence, even her mad plans to secure the man of her dreams.

  Lady Farley’s town house was imposing, with a line of liveried footmen on either side of the red Turkey carpet leading up to the front door, but Jane’s home was imposing as well, the earl liking to entertain with great ceremony, and so she did not feel intimidated.

  They left their wraps with their maids in the ante-room off the front hall and together they mounted the staircase to the ‘ballroom’ on the first floor, which was in fact made out of a chain of large saloons, with most of the furniture removed for the occasion. Lady Farley, a widow, stood at the top of the stairs with her son, the Honourable Clarence Farley, to receive the guests. She murmured a few gracious words and then Harriet and Jane walked into the main saloon, which was draped in gold silk and set about with banks of hothouse flowers. Frances came up with her mother to greet them and introduced Jane to her father. Jane had not until that moment met Mr Haggard. He was an older, masculine version of his daughter, his frizzy hair pomaded and powdered, and he had the same twinkling eyes and childlike air of geniality.

  Frances drew Jane aside. ‘She is here!’ she whispered.

  ‘Lady Dunwilde?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Which is she?’

  ‘There. Dancing with that colonel.’

  Jane looked covertly over her fan. Lady Dunwilde was a striking matron with auburn hair and eyes so dark grey, they looked black. She had a voluptuous figure shown to advantage in damped muslin. Beyond her, Jane noticed Mr Jamie Ferguson leaning against a pillar and staring intensely at the love of his life.

  ‘Only see how he looks at her,’ hissed Frances. ‘We have our work cut out. This dance is over. Oh, pray someone asks me. I do not think I could bear to sit against the wall all evening, an object of pity. But if no one asks me, that is what I shall have to do. Be still, my heart, and fan me ye winds! Here comes your comte with my beloved. Smile!’

  But Jane looked at the approaching comte with the same pleasure with which she would have observed an approaching snake. He was formidably handsome at the best of times, but in all the glory of evening dress and jewels, he seemed to eclipse every other man in the room. He bowed before Jane and said, ‘Miss North, will you do me the very great honour of allowing me to lead you in a set of the quadrille?’

  Jane curtsied low and said she would be delighted, although, the comte reflected wryly, she looked anything but happy.

  They were joined in their set by Frances and Jamie. Jane noticed that Jamie was saying something in a low voice to Frances, and then how Frances’s eyes flew to Lady Dunwilde and how she nodded. So they are going on with their plan, thought Jane. Frances is to make a confidante of Lady Dunwilde.

  The comte, who had addressed her twice, asking if this were her first London ball, looked down at her, amused at his own sharp feeling of pique. He was used to ladies hanging on his every word. ‘And only remark how Lady Farley has just slit her throat,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ replied the preoccupied Jane politely, having become aware at the last moment that she was being addressed.

  The music began and the couples twisted and turned in the intricate measure of the dance, which did not allow for any opportunity for conversation. Frances danced with great expertise and elegance, Jamie noticed, thinking indulgently that she was indeed full of surprises. When the dance was over, they promenaded in the round, as was the custom. Jamie contrived to come alongside Lady Dunwilde and her partner. He bowed low. ‘Lady Dunwilde, may I present Miss Haggard; Miss Haggard, Lady Dunwilde.’ Frances curtsied and then said, ‘I am delighted to meet you, Lady Dunwilde. You are even more beautiful than I had been led to believe.’

  Oh, silly little Miss Haggard, thought Jamie. No one could be pleased with such a blatantly insincere compliment. But to his surprise Lady Dunwilde smiled graciously and patted Frances’s cheek. ‘Dear child,’ she murmured. ‘Come and chat with me.’

  With every evidence of gratified delight, Frances trotted off at Lady Dunwilde’s side. They sat down against a bank of flowers on those uncomfortable seats called rout-chairs. ‘Tell me,’ said Lady Dunwilde, fanning herself languidly, ‘have you been long acquainted with Mr Ferguson?’

  ‘For about perhaps a little over a month,’ said Frances, omitting the fact that apart from the day before, she had seen nothing of Mr Ferguson, despite her efforts, during that month.

  Lady Dunwilde turned those very dark eyes of hers on Frances. ‘You must not have hopes in that direction, my child.’

  ‘Why not, my lady?’

  She sighed. ‘He was much in love with me before I married Lord Dunwilde . . . and he still is. Alas, an undying passion, I fear.’

  ‘It seems a pity that such devotion cannot be rewarded,’ said Frances.

  Lady Dunwilde’s lips curved in a thin smile. The fan slowly moved. ‘Oh, perhaps he may yet get his reward.’

  Frances quickly raised her own fan to hide the sudden flash of dislike in her eyes. ‘Where is Lord Dunwilde?’

  ‘At home at present, although he will join me later. He is a martyr to the gout. But you must go and join the young ladies, and do tell Mr Ferguson that there is always hope.’

  Frances rose and curtsied and gave Lady Dunwilde her best smile. ‘Of course, my lady. Always at your service.’

  ‘Do you know, I have taken quite a fancy to you, dear child. I shall call on you.’

  ‘I am honoured and flattered, my lady.’

  The fan flicked in a dismissive manner.

  As Frances skirted the floor, she met Mr Ferguson just as that gentleman was bearing down on Lady Dunwilde. ‘What did she say?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Did she speak of me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Frances stared down at her little kid shoes.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘You had better ask me to dance and I will tell you.’

  ‘But it is the waltz and . . . and I wanted to ask Lady Dunwilde.’

  ‘Oh, no, I would not do that, sir. I think you should hear what I have to say first.’

  ‘Very well.’

  He swept her onto the floor. Frances followed his steps, as lightly as a feather. He bent his head over hers. ‘Now tell me.’

  ‘Mmmm?’ murmured Frances dreamily.

  ‘Tell me what she said.’

  Frances rallied. ‘Lady Dunwilde asked me how long I had known you and I said over a month, which is quite true, don’t you know. She said you had been ma
dly in love with her.’

  ‘Oh, my heart! And what did she say then?’

  Frances looked up and met his eyes steadily. ‘Lady Dunwilde said she had made the right decision in marrying Lord Dunwilde. She said that she believed you to be still spoony about her and that was a sign of great weakness in a man, in her opinion.’

  ‘The devil she did!’

  ‘But Lady Dunwilde is quite a kind matron, I think,’ Frances said earnestly, ‘and it is gracious in one of her years to befriend me.’

  ‘You are to see her?’

  ‘She is to call on me.’

  They danced on in silence after that. When the dance was over, supper was announced. Jamie gloomily took Frances into supper. His friend, the comte, he noticed, was escorting Miss North.

  The comte sat down next to Jane at one of the long tables, waited until she had been served with food and wine, and then said lightly, ‘And you should be careful of that collection of spiders your duchess keeps in the attics. Some of them are, I believe, quite poisonous.’

  Jane only heard the bit ‘be careful’ and assumed it was some caution about the dangers of the streets of London, for her worried mind slid away from what he was saying. There was a lady present who looked like one of her father’s friends, a lady who kept sending curious little darting glances in her direction.

  ‘And I am madly in love with you,’ went on the comte. ‘Will you marry me? I think we should deal very well together. Do you not think so?’

  Worried and abstracted, Jane only heard his voice asking the latter question and said politely, ‘Yes, I do agree.’

  Those blue eyes of his flashed with humour. ‘Good. That is settled. Will you tell the duchess I shall call on her tomorrow to ask permission to pay my respects? And, of course, I must call on your father and mother.’

  ‘Mother? Father?’ said Jane, coming out of her abstraction. ‘What are you saying? My mother is dead.’

  ‘Your father, then.’

  ‘Why? Why are you talking about my father?’

  ‘It is usual under the circumstances. Since we are to be married, I should seek his permission.’