Though Orphanstrange would not dignify this statement with an answer, he did cast Minette a speaking sideways glance. A damsel who looked less like a gentleman’s ward would be difficult to find. Minette was eighteen years of age, with sparkling green eyes and rosy cheeks, an impudent little nose and a thoroughly mischievous face—and a figure that owed much of its opulence to a fondness for sweetmeats. Currently, that opulence was draped about with a light and filmy Grecian gown which left much bare and more than hinted at the rest. Minette’s dark hair was dressed in the Grecian fashion also, with full classical coils behind and light curls in front. Roman sandals hugged her plump little feet. A stern expression sat charmingly on her face as she engaged in conversation with the cooking stove. There was good reason for her supplications, Minette’s culinary experience being scant. “Ah, ça!” she sighed. “To think that Marmaduke would leave us without even enough to eat.”
“Master Marmaduke wasn’t all that far advanced in years.” Orphanstrange felt compelled to speak out in his late employer’s defense. “He wouldn’t have expected to stick his spoon in the wall just yet.”
“And so he might not have, had he not gotten drunk as a wheelbarrow and missed his footing on the stair!” Minette was prone to consider her benefactor’s untimely demise as a personal affront. “And at a time when he was again under the hatches, what’s worse! Not that Marmaduke wasn’t always a trifle scorched—but we would not be all to pieces had he not been rolled up when he popped off.” She returned to the elm table, again hefted the knife.
The kitchen of Mountjoy House was a large cavernous chamber with coconut matting on its stone-flagged floor. In addition to the elm working-table, it was equipped with a great deal of dark wood furnishings and copper utensils which would have benefited from a brisk polishing, and with three cooking stoves which needed blacking as badly as the grate. Opening off the kitchen was the scullery, with its big wooden sink. A passage led to the larder, with its brick floor and empty slate shelves. There was not even brown sugar left with which to bait the beetle traps.
“Alors! We are alone in this great house, and thus far it has availed us nothing to peer into every corner and tap upon the walls.” Minette absently applied her knife to the tabletop, which stood in need of cleaning as much as the rest of Mountjoy House. “Me, I would think we are engaged in the chase of a wild goose, had not Marmaduke said so often he was leaving his greatest treasure behind. Since he did not plan to go anywhere, perhaps he was making one of his little jokes. If there is no treasure, I will never forgive him!”
Orphanstrange’s sensibilities were as raw as his knuckles; he roughly bade his companion cease talking like a nodcock. “‘Tisn’t likely that Master Marmaduke would do a thing like that! A proper reverence for the Ready-and-Rhino he had. You’re just in a pelter because you think he put one over on you, miss, and mayhap he did, but you aren’t the only one as has been served an ill turn. Begging your pardon, you’d do better to help me look for whatever it is Master Marmaduke hid away than to whittle at that table, because he said his secret was worth a fortune in the right hands.” Orphanstrange wrinkled his brow. “On the other hand, when Master Marmaduke said that, he was in his cups.”
“Then he spoke truth. The only time Marmaduke told the truth was when he was foxed, as best I could tell.” Minette crossed her arms beneath her magnificent bosom, a great deal of which was bare. “Eh bien! I shall assist you, though this knocking about on walls seems to me very wearisome—but if we do not find the treasure or manage some manner of miracle, we will both be in the suds. You will have to seek other employment, mon ami, and you will not like that. There is very little chance that you may find a good position after it is discovered you were employed by Marmaduke. People will think it is a case of ‘like master, like man.’ And as for me—” Minette wrinkled her mischievous little nose. “It is not an easy thing to discover a gentleman who wishes to make one his ward. I shall have to set up as a high-class gentleman’s companion, I expect. Hélas! I do not wish to become a ladybird. It makes a person long to swear the devil out of hell.” She made a good effort at so doing, under her breath.
For the space of a few moments the silence was broken only by Minette’s Gallic imprecations and Orphanstrange’s knuckles rapping against the walls. The coconut matting rustled beneath his slight weight. Without enthusiasm, Minette moved to a dresser upon which were displayed pottery mugs and plates and gingerly peered within. What Mountjoy House lacked in human occupants, it made up for in beetles and cockroaches, mice and rats. She straightened, having discovered nothing more exceptionable than a tureen fashioned after a rabbit, and a green glass jug.
“Mon ami,” Minette began, then started as Orphanstrange clutched her arm. “Que diable—”
Orphanstrange pointed a trembling finger at a dark corner of the kitchen, where a section of the floor had begun to slowly rise “Mon dieu!” shrieked Minette, and flung herself for protection into the valet’s arms. Since Orphanstrange had conceived the same notion at very nearly the same moment, they knocked each other right off their feet.
Minette shoved irritably at the valet, who was sprawled atop her, his sharp elbow jabbed uncomfortably into her midsection. “Remove yourself, imbécile. And pray cease to tremble. It is only Delphine.”
“Delphine?” Orphanstrange dared open one of the eyes he had screwed shut against the expected sight of his employer’s ghost. Emerging through the opened trap door was a wizened diminutive lady, clad in the garments of some long-forgotten year. Relieved, he clambered off Minette. “Beg pardon, I’m sure, miss— but it gave me such a start! Thought it was Master Marmaduke, I did, come back from the dead.”
Minette inspected herself for broken limbs, happily found none. “Marmaduke wouldn’t dare come back from the dead, for fear of what I’d say!” she snapped, staring in an unfriendly manner at the newcomer. “Tiens! Delphine has been exploring the tunnels again, I see. I do not trust her one tiny inch.”
Orphanstrange attempted to brush off the accumulated dirt and dust and refuse he had acquired whilst rolling on the floor. “We made an agreement. Whoever of us finds Master Marmaduke’s treasure, we’ll split it three ways.”
“You and I made an agreement.” With a jaundiced eye, Minette watched Delphine’s leisurely approach. “Me, I think she would rather keep it for herself. If she has not already! Do not forget that Delphine alone knows all the secret rooms and passageways and hidey-holes in this old house for she was a child here when the renovations were made. Even Marmaduke did not know the whole of it! Unfortunately, Delphine’s memory is as unreliable as her promise.” Minette raised her voice. “Bonjour, Delphine.”
Daintily, Delphine advanced out of the shadows, revealing herself as a female of incredibly advanced years. She wore a very youthful jacket and skirt of zebra-striped cloth, with mariniere sleeves, and a hat à la tartare atop her powdered curls. The costume was a trifle frayed at the seams, being almost two decades past its prime. The same might have been said of Delphine.
Increased age had not dimmed her dark eyes, however, nor dulled her sharp tongue. “Fie!” she scolded, shaking an admonishing finger under Minette’s nose. “You’re supposed to be looking for Marmaduke’s treasure, baggage, not playing slap and tickle with this bandyshanks. You might have a thought for other people. I demned near swooned from the shock.”
Minette glowered. “I am not a baggage,” she enunciated very clearly, chin thrust out belligerently, fists on her plump hips.
“No, and you ain’t a well-brought-up young woman, either!” Delphine gave Minette’s outthrust chin a sharp pinch. “I could’ve told you how it would be with Marmaduke, but would you listen? No! You may blame yourself for your predicament, flibbertigibbet.”
“I am not a flibbertigibbet,” protested Minette, though less volubly than before. She turned to Orphanstrange. “The old one has finally gone off her hinges, mon ami.”
Delphine turned her powdered head sideways. “What’s that yo
u say? I ain’t as sharp of hearing as once I was. Speak up, chit.”
Lest Minette oblige, Orphanstrange intervened. “We were looking for Master Marmaduke’s treasure, ma’am! You startled us, popping out that way,” he explained, voice raised to a mild shout. “Did you find anything?”
“Merely a bold fizgig behaving as she shouldn’t!” Delphine perched upon one of the short benches placed on either side of the hearth, her raddled features stretched into a malicious grin. “Don’t you trust me, varlet? Or do you think if I discover Marmaduke’s treasure, I may not be disposed to share? You may just be right.”
Orphanstrange was too much the diplomat to respond to these remarks. To Minette, he suggested that their spirits might be uplifted by a meal of soup and bread. “I’m hungry!” announced Delphine, whose hearing was on occasion excellent. Her gaze, as it rested upon Orphanstrange, was not especially friendly. “Mugwump!”
Minette’s spirits were not the least bit elevated by the simple repast she set out upon the large gateleg table drawn up between the two benches in front of the fireplace. Minette preferred more exotic fare, such as Russian caviar and Spanish olives, reindeer tongue from Lapland and brandied blackberries. She plopped down upon the bench opposite Delphine.
That ancient turned her malicious attention upon her plate. “Stab me! What’s this pap?”
Minette knew she would never earn her living as a cook, but at least this time the meal had not burned. “It’s the only food you’ll get in this kitchen. I don’t care a fig if you don’t wish to eat it. But you can’t blame me if you starve!”
Once more Orphanstrange stepped into the breach, although he privately agreed with Delphine about the quality of the soup. It was fit only for paupers— which, in point of fact, they were. “We have little time,” he pointed out. “Master Marmaduke’s heiress will come to claim her legacy any day. At which time we’ll all three be without a roof over our heads.”
“And without further opportunity to discover Marmaduke’s treasure.” With a notable lack of enthusiasm, Minette plunged a spoon into her own soup.
“You two may be without a roof over your heads, but I shan’t.” Dislike as she might her meal, Delphine attacked it with gusto, in the process liberally splashing soup upon her zebra-striped skirt. “I don’t mean to be turned out. I can go on comfortably enough no matter who’s living in the house, and they’ll never know I’m here, because no stranger will ever find his way about.”
That was true enough; Mountjoy House was a veritable warren of tunnels and passages and secret rooms. One of these latter, hidden among the attics, Delphine had claimed for herself. The old woman would be better housed in Bedlam, Minette thought.
She propped her plump elbows rather rudely on the table. “I don’t see why you should be allowed to stay!” she protested. “A poor relative handed down from one generation to the next. Marmaduke didn’t invite you to live here with him. The truth is he inherited you!”
“I am family.” Having disposed of quite half the loaf of bread and a large amount of soup, Delphine leaned back on her bench and emitted a genteel belch. “Not some graceless tatterdemalion who cozened an old reprobate to take her in off the streets.”
Minette was quick to defend her benefactor: “Marmaduke wasn’t old! And I wasn’t on the streets.” She nibbled on a knuckle. “Not really. Marmaduke was très sympathique.”
“Marmaduke,” retorted Delphine with every appearance of enjoyment, “was très bacon-brained.”
Before the ladies could be carried away by the heat of their mutual antagonism, as frequently happened, Orphanstrange put forth the suggestion that Marmaduke’s heiress might be compassionate.
“ ‘Compassionate’?” Delphine settled herself even more comfortably upon the bench. “You think that the wench won’t turn us out? Fiddlestick! Of course she will—and so would you if the shoe were on your foot.”
“Oh! We must look all the harder for Marmaduke’s treasure,” sighed Minette.
“How we are plunged into grief!” Delphine yawned. Before Minette could respond, her eyes closed, and she slipped slowly sideways.
“Ma foi! Again she sleeps,” exclaimed Minette in disgust. “I am sorely tempted to leave her here. It would not be long before she was found out, I think, and then she would be well served. But I am not of such a mean nature. I will allow even the viper-tongued Delphine to benefit from my cleverness.”
Whatever cleverness Minette possessed did not exhibit itself in domestic matters, reflected Orphanstrange as he finished off the soup. He inquired what maggot his companion had taken into her brain.
Minette did not allow this lack of faith to cast a blight upon her optimism. Marmaduke would have made provision for his little family, she knew, if only he had not met his maker prematurely via a misstep on the stair. Therefore it was for Marmaduke’s little family to see that his unstated wishes were carried out. “Me, I am above all practical! First, we must find a screever. You know, one who writes letters for those who cannot write themselves.”
“A screever.” Carefully, Orphanstrange set aside his empty dish. “What manner of letter, miss?”
With a lazy finger, Minette rearranged bread crumbs on the tabletop. “A letter from Marmaduke to his heiress, naturellement!”
CHAPTER THREE
While Vashti Beaufils exchanged pleasantries with her cousin’s solicitor and Minette exchanged hostilities with Delphine, yet another pertinent encounter was taking place, this latter between Yves Santander and his godfather. The setting for this meeting was the most select of gentlemen’s clubs, White’s.
Yves Santander, Lord Stirling, was generally accorded a very handsome man. His physique was trim and muscular, his stature tall; his hair was golden; his features were unexceptionable, most notable among them cerulean blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and a—or so the ladies claimed—very well-formed mouth.
Just now, as Lord Stirling gazed upon his godfather, the set of his mouth was wry. “A trifle scorched, are you? Again?” he fondly inquired.
“No more than usual,” cheerfully replied Lord Stirling’s companion, a corpulent, untidy gentleman with rosy cheeks and bristling brows. “Even if I were, I wouldn’t put you to the touch, Yves.”
To this generous profession, Lord Stirling offered no rejoinder. The corpulent gentleman raised one bristling brow. “Ah. I conclude that I already have put you to the touch. What an old reprobate I am, to be sure. You should not concern yourself with my pecuniary embarrassments, Yves; I am always badly dipped. But I didn’t ask you to meet me here so that we might speak of that. I seek your opinion of a different matter altogether—and not a pretty one.” He frowned.
They made a striking couple, Lord Stirling very elegant in his single-breasted morning coat, striped waistcoat, pristine neckcloth, tight pantaloons and Hessian boots; and his companion looking like a country bumpkin in a long dark-gray coat and unpressed trousers and bursting waistcoat. In both instances, appearances were deceptive. Lord Stirling was no dilettante; and his godfather was a great statesman who, in between delivering brilliant speeches in the House of Commons, had dissipated several fortunes and kept a series of lively young mistresses, and was now referred to alternately as an Awful Warning and a Noble Ruin.
Lord Stirling’s thoughts dwelt upon those lively young mistresses and the tendency of his godpapa to squander fortunes not his own. “Open your budget!” he invited cautiously.
With singular sweetness, the corpulent gentleman smiled. “Set your apprehensions at rest; I don’t mean to involve you in any of my imbroglios, Yves.” The smile faded. “Although I suspect you would rather this imbroglio was mine, once you hear the whole. It is an awkward business.”
“So I conclude.” It was odd for his godfather— equally loquacious in the House of Commons and in the pursuit of vice—to be so indirect. Yves’s tone was ironic. “I wish you would get on with it.”
The corpulent gentleman did not immediately comply, instead fussed with his bursting
waistcoat, upon which could be detected food stains and snuff. Difficult to envision the Noble Ruin in his younger days, with his fellow Macaronis sporting blue hair-powder and red-heeled shoes. “What is your opinion of the peace?” he suddenly inquired.
Expecting his godpapa to confess to difficulties either of the pocketbook or the heart, Lord Stirling was taken aback. “It is infamous, of course. The whole war with France has been unjust and disgraceful, and never more so than in its termination. I don’t expect the peace will last; relations between France and England are already strained. Why do you ask me? You have been in Paris recently.”
“So I have.” Untidily, the corpulent gentleman took snuff. “Little Boney occupies the Tuileries in state equal to Louis XVI and goes about in a carriage drawn by white horses, attended by a splendid body of guards. I was privileged to meet him. The young man is considerably intoxicated with success.”
Lord Stirling began to wonder if his godpapa might not also be a trifle foxed. “Devil take it, Richard. This not-so-pretty affair of yours concerns Bonaparte?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The corpulent gentleman rested his hands upon his straining midriff, touched his fingertips together, looked wise. “The peace has given Boney opportunity to engage in even more grandiose scheme of conquest. He has sent out expeditions to examine every region where England has a settlement, you will be interested to know. He has even sent spies here, their mission to prepare plans of our chief ports, complete with all pertinent details.” He twiddled his thumbs. “Fortunately, the French agents became known.”
This much, if not common knowledge, was not news to Lord Stirling, who became increasingly curious about his godpapa’s reticence. “Anyone known to have entered the country for such purposes is forthwith asked to leave it. And so?”
Lady in the Stray Page 2
