Larcenous Lady

by Joan Smith

  When she returned to London, dripping with the glamor of foreign travel and wearing risqué gowns, she’d smile condescendingly on Lord Belami and whatever provincial lady he had married. Then he’d be sorry. He’d be trotting at her heels like a pup, and she’d dismiss him carelessly.

  “Deirdre, bring the bucket!” the duchess called, interrupting her niece’s reverie. And Deirdre brought the bucket.

  Chapter Two

  The crossing that could take three hours under optimum conditions took eight. The duchess made her influence felt at customs and was rushed through with no problem. She had been thoroughly briefed half a century before and knew the Silver Lion was the best posthouse. It was to this place of faded elegance that she took her niece.

  “I’m reduced to a shade after that wretched crossing,” she complained. “We shall have a bite to eat and go up to bed.”

  Deirdre dressed with care for her entrée into cosmopolitan society. A very dashing gown of deep blue silk exposed her arms and shoulders to whistling drafts as the ladies descended to the dining room but created quite a stir amidst the oglers.

  “If your vanity has been satisfied by the admiration of this gaping crew, you might put this nice warm shawl on,” the duchess suggested, placing a decrepit mauve shawl around her niece’s shoulders.

  Deirdre kept it in place till the meal was served, knowing that once her aunt was involved in fork work, she’d spare no notice for anything else.

  Pronto was detained at customs. “I know I had that curst passport in my pocket,” he said a dozen times, but a dozen searches didn’t produce it. He finally had to send his valet to open the trunks and root about till it turned up, carefully marking his place in Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans, which he’d been reading all winter.

  “I’ll carry it for you,” Belami said impatiently when they were finally released, and put Pronto’s papers with his own.

  Night had fallen when they left customs. A damp, cold wind whistled through the streets. “There isn’t a carriage to be had,” Belami said. “We’ll head straight for the Hotel d’Angleterre. It’s the best place. We can hire a carriage there for the trip to Paris.’’

  The rooms at the Angleterre were all filled. “We’ll have to make do with the Prince of Orange,” Belami decided. There, too, they arrived too late. “Damme, it looks as if we must stay at that fleabag, the Silver Lion.”

  “If we don’t find some food soon, my stomach will collapse,” Pronto complained. “It’s been empty so long it thinks my mouth is sewed shut.”

  As Pronto spoke only garbled French, it was Belami who went to the desk to arrange accommodations. This left Pronto free to scout out the dining room. The first person he saw was the duchess of Charney, sitting like a ghost at the table. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and a strange ringing invaded his ears. “By jingo, I’m seeing things. I’m weak with hunger.” He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Now he was seeing double visions. Deirdre Gower sat beside her aunt, eating what looked like a very tasty ragout. His mouth watered, but even hunger didn’t divert his thoughts. What the devil was Charney doing here? She was supposed to be at Fernvale, sick as a dog. The old liar—it was all a ruse to break off the wedding. His next problem was whether or not to tell Dick.

  When they went upstairs to view their rooms, Pronto hung about Belami’s door, nibbling his thumb in a way that alerted his friend to trouble. “What’s amiss, Pronto?” he asked.

  “I was just thinking, Dick, as a hypo what-do-you-call-it question, you know. What would you do if Charney and Deirdre was here?”

  Belami’s lips clenched and a flash of lightning sparked from his eyes. “I’d leave.” Pronto thought of the ragout and the search for another hotel in the miserable wind. “Why do you ask? Are you trying to spoil my appetite?”

  “No, no. Nothing of the sort.”

  Belami frowned and began to dress, wondering if Pronto was ill. As soon as he left Belami, Pronto shot back downstairs like a bullet. He knew he was becoming nearly as clever as Dick, and his next Machiavellian inspiration proved it. He had a “complimentary” bottle of wine sent to Belami’s room, and insisted they try it before dinner. When at last they entered the dining room, Pronto flashed a glance at what he mentally called “the scene of the crime” and saw with a rush of relief that the table was vacant.

  “By Jove, this is something like.” He smiled broadly and strode forward. “Table pour deux, monsieur.’’ With a knowing look at his friend he said, “Time to start parlaying the old bongjaw. Vin et viande—that’s what we want.”

  The wine, when it arrived, was a remarkably good Beaujolais. It would be a crime to destroy it by unpleasant news, so Pronto put off telling his tale till after dinner. In the comfortable haze of two bottles of wine and a postprandial brandy, the problem eased to insignificance. A clever rascal like himself could keep them apart.

  “We’ll leave early tomorrow,” he told Dick. “Lost out on a decent hotel by dragging our feet. We’ll check out of here at seven and nip over to the Angleterre for breakfast and hiring the carriage.”

  “The Tour du Guet should be worth a look while we’re here. It’s thirteenth century.”

  “Then it’s too old to bother with. Bound to be falling apart. We’ll nick straight off to Paris.”

  “If you like,” Belami agreed, but he knew Pronto’s tardy habits and didn’t expect to see him at seven. They dawdled over coffee and brandy, enjoying the babel of foreign conversation around them and the unusual details of dining in a foreign country. At ten, they had sat long enough and rose to retire.

  At the bottom of the stairs, they stood aside to allow three ladies to descend. Belami noticed they were speaking English and said “Good evening,” with a smile that explained his forwardness. Fellow countrymen in a strange land automatically formed a freemasonry against the natives.

  Smiles were returned as the group passed. The party was composed of two young ladies and one older—mother or chaperone. The older lady was tall, gray-haired, and thin. It was at the daughters that Belami looked more sharply. The younger was blond-haired and blue-eyed, small but buxom with a childishly round face. She shyly averted her eyes as they passed.

  Belami hadn’t much interest in wilting violets. It was at the older, taller one that he continued looking. Her raven hair reminded him of Deirdre. Except for the blue eyes, she bore little resemblance to the other girl. She met his gaze boldly, as an equal. He liked those statuesque ladies with bold eyes. She had a prominent nose, well-shaped, and a firm chin.

  He lingered a moment belowstairs, noticing that the chaperone was having difficulty making herself understood by the clerk. He advanced and introduced himself. “I speak French. May I offer to act as your interpreter?” he inquired politely.

  “Why, thank you, milord.” The chaperone smiled gratefully. “I am trying to inquire for a carriage to Paris for tomorrow.”

  “It’s the Hotel d’Angleterre you must go to. I’ll be going there myself tomorrow morning. I’d be very happy to make the arrangements for you, Mrs.—

  “Mrs. Sutton, and these are my daughters, Elvira and Lucy,” she said, indicating the elder first.

  “Miss Sutton, delighted,” Belami said, with his best bow.

  The haughty beauty curtsied stiffly and gave him a scathing glance. This lack of encouragement intrigued Belami. They remained a few minutes talking. Mrs. Sutton announced that she was taking her girls on an educational trip abroad. “My Elvira is artistic,” she explained.

  Belami used it as an excuse to observe the haughty Elvira. He wasn’t imagining the flash of anger in her beautiful blue eyes. They were a deep blue, much prettier than Lucy’s. “Then I expect you’ll be stopping at Florence,” he said.

  “We mustn’t keep the gentlemen, Mama. Thank you for your assistance, Lord Belami,” Miss Sutton said in a firm voice, and taking hold of Lucy’s arm, she turned to ascend the stairs.

  “Thank you so much,” Mrs. Sutton repeated. �
�I shall be awaiting word here tomorrow morning regarding the carriage.”

  “Good-looking gels,” Pronto remarked a moment later. “But we’ll not cozy up to ‘em till we’re out of Calais.”

  “Why not?” Belami asked. “I never knew you to spurn a lady’s advances, Pronto. Lucy was rolling her eyes at you.”

  “No, at you. If you’d stopped mooning at the other one long enough, you’d have noticed. No time to be chasing women.”

  “That’s part of the reason we’re here, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s the reason we’re going to Paris and Italy. You’ve got to keep your nose clean in Calais.” The poor devil wouldn’t get a wink of sleep if he told him about Deirdre before morning. They began climbing the stairs, talking as they went.

  “Are you worried that the customs bogeyman will come after you?” Belami joked.

  “That’s it.” Pronto leaped on this excuse. “I didn’t like the sharp eyes of him. Could open an oyster with a glance. Regular gimlets. We’ll be up and out of here at seven o’clock.”

  The walls of the Silver Lion were thick. No more than a murmur penetrated to Deirdre’s room as the gentlemen passed, laughing and talking. Something in the tone of the voices, also the firm tread of one, the shuffling gait of the other, reminded her of Dick and Pronto. But then everything reminded her of Dick. He’d never put up at a wretched old place like this. How different this trip would be had she come with him on their honeymoon. She wouldn’t be in bed at ten o’clock, listening to her aunt snoring. They’d be out, seeing the city. And afterward, they’d come home together. She wouldn’t be lying all alone, with a hot tear trickling down her cheek.

  The duchess had left word to be awakened at eight. At eight-thirty she was in the dining room, spooning a very inferior and overpriced gruel into her mouth and discussing how they were to proceed on their journey. “The public diligence is the cheap—quickest way to continue,” she outlined. “Only a hundred and eighty-three miles. The guide book says it makes the trip to Paris in fifty-four hours. The time will fly by with so much to see.”

  “There will be twenty or thirty other people in the coach, and half of them will be French,” Deirdre pointed out. Foreigners, she knew, were anathema to her aunt.

  “An excellent opportunity for you to practice the language. That’s why I brought you along.”

  “A post chaise would only cost two and a half guineas,” Deirdre mentioned hopefully.

  “Aye, but you have to pay extra to have the heavy luggage sent by stagecoach.”

  Deirdre knew a stone was easy squeezing compared to her aunt’s purse. The duchess was reputed to be worth a large fortune, but her joy in life was to hold on to it, not squander it on mere necessities. Her bonnet was older than the century, and the sable-lined pelisse could give the bonnet a decade.

  Deirdre glanced at the tattered copy of the Liste Générale des Pastes de France and smiled. “Oh, look, Auntie. The public diligence leaves at six in the morning. We’ll have to spend another day here—and the rates so high,” she added slyly.

  The duchess grabbed the book from her hands and examined it with her falcon’s gaze. “Nuisance! Why did the clerk not tell us? They’re all in it together, fleecing travelers. There’s nothing else for it. We must find some English ladies to share a chaise with. Those Suttons we met at dinner last night—they spoke of hiring a post chaise, did they not?”

  “Yes,” Deirdre said reluctantly. She rather wanted some privacy in which to nurture her wounded heart. On the other hand, company might be the very thing to help her. The older daughter had seemed friendly. The younger though—Lucy—she had been less forthcoming.

  When the Sutton party entered the dining room a little later, the duchess lifted her arm and beckoned them to her table. “So comforting to see an English face,” she said, beaming. “Pray join us for breakfast, ladies.”

  “How soon do you plan to proceed to Paris?” the duchess asked Mrs. Sutton, as soon as they had settled in.

  “This very day. An English gentleman we met here last night is arranging a post chaise for us this morning.”

  “I hope he has more luck than we.” The duchess sighed forlornly. “I sent a messenger over to the hiring stable, and there wasn’t a thing to be had. It looks as though my niece and I must loiter here till something turns up.”

  She shot a sharp glance at Mrs. Sutton as she composed this piece of fiction. She read the considering expression in her companion’s eye—the careful weighing up of pros and cons. Commoners were aware of the distinction inherent in noble friends. On the other hand, the carriage would be crowded for a longish trip.

  Without a second thought, the duchess consigned her own and Mrs. Sutton’s servants to following them in the diligence. “Our last hope of getting out of this wretched place today is joining someone who has had the good fortune to obtain a post chaise. Of course we would have to do without our servants for a few days while they follow behind. I wonder if there is anyone in the hotel willing to go snacks with me.”

  While Mrs. Sutton looked doubtfully at her daughters, Miss Sutton spoke up. “Mama,” she said, “if we leave our servant behind, we could travel with the duchess and Miss Gower.”

  “Good gracious!” the duchess objected loudly, “I hope you don’t think I was hinting! Crowding you good ladies was the last thing in my mind. Of course a poor cadaver like myself wouldn’t take up an inch, and Miss Gower is slender as a reed.”

  “Let us do it, Mama,” Miss Sutton encouraged. “The duchess will be company for you, and Lucy and I will have an opportunity to know Miss Gower better.”

  Before the duchess and Deirdre left the table, the matter was resolved, right down to the details of financing. The duchess was swift to point out that there were only two in her party, whereas the Suttons would occupy three-fifths of the rig. It worked out very neatly: a guinea for her share, a guinea and a half for the Suttons. They rushed upstairs to tend to their packing while the Suttons had a hasty breakfast.

  “Truth to tell, I didn’t think Mrs. Sutton was the sort to insist on our paying when the sum in question was so small—only a guinea,” Charney said to Deirdre. “Incredible how some people squeeze every penny.” But on the whole she was pleased with her bargain and Deirdre was not unhappy.

  They left Haskins, their female servant, in charge of the trunks and quickly stuffed their essentials into a pair of bandboxes to go on the post chaise. They hastened downstairs to join the Suttons. Within a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Sutton glanced up from her coffee and said, “Ah, there is Lord Belami now, come to tell me about my carriage.”

  Now why did that cause the duchess to gag and the young lady to turn white as a sheet? The Suttons looked on with the liveliest interest, observing that Lord Belami had turned into a stone statue, staring as though he wished them all at Jericho. No one spared a glance at Pronto Pilgrim, who stood with his eyes bulging and his lips open. Fat was in the fire now.

  “Er, Dick,” he muttered, “the ladies are waiting. Best buck up and get on with it.”

  Belami unclenched his fists and willed down the urge to fly at the duchess’s scrawny throat. The public nature of the meeting demanded a show of common decency. He strode stiff-legged to Mrs. Sutton and her companions.

  “Good morning, ma’am. Ladies,” he added, with a very small bob of his head to the others, “I’ve arranged for your carriage, Mrs. Sutton. You have only to send a note to the Angleterre when you want it.”

  Mrs. Sutton began introductions. “We’ve all met,” Dick said brusquely.

  Deirdre instantly turned to crystal. She daren’t look at Dick or she’d betray herself, but a tumult of emotions heaved within her—embarrassment, curiosity, joy, shame, anger, regret. What must he think? He’d think they were following him. She lifted her eyes and smiled uncertainly at her old friend, Pronto. Her eyes, once up from her lap, found courage to turn to Dick. Strange how she could read exactly what was in his mind when he wore that bland mask. He stared with
unwonted attention at Mrs. Sutton as he explained the details of the carriage. His voice was unnaturally loud, his speech erratic.

  She saw a flicker of his eyes toward her and quickly looked away. Had he looked at her? Her eyes skimmed back, but he was talking to Miss Sutton now.

  “I hope you had a good sleep, ladies?”

  “Fine, thank you,” Miss Sutton answered coolly.

  The duchess, never one to minimize a scene, had recovered her wits and pitched herself into the fray with joyful sourness. “So you are taking your trip after all, Belami. We had no notion you planned to abandon your London dissipations. Our news at Fernvale was quite otherwise,” she said, with awful emphasis on the “dissipations.” “The only reason Miss Gower and myself are here is for my health. My doctor recommended a warm climate for my lungs.”

  Belami’s mobile brow lifted, and he directed a scathing glare at her grace. “I’m under no misapprehension that you put yourself to so much trouble on my account, your grace. Europe is large enough to accommodate us all.” His glare flickered left to include Deirdre in this chilly civility. She felt battered to see so much hatred and anger. It was all over then. A lifetime was too short to overcome that much ill will.

  “I wish you all a happy trip, ladies,” he said, bowed gallantly, and left.

  Pronto jiggled uneasily, said “Heh, heh. Nice to see you again, Deirdre,” and went darting off after Belami.

  “Jackanapes!” the duchess growled in a perfectly audible voice.

  “Good gracious! That was mighty uncomfortable!” Miss Sutton exclaimed. “I take it you ladies have had some unhappy doings with Lord Belami.”

  “My niece gave him his congé last month,” the duchess said. Dirty linen was not washed in front of commoners, though a few pieces of it might beguile the long trip to Italy if she felt in the mood.