by Joan Smith
Pamela squirmed in discomfort. His plan sounded delightful, but it strained the bounds of propriety. “If I go to Aunt Foster, she won’t hear of my not staying with her.”
“Then it will be best if you come directly to my house and drop her a note telling her you’re in town. We might find a moment to visit her.”
“I don’t know what Mama would say.”
“Are your parents quite set on this match with Nigel?”
“Well,” she admitted bluntly, “I am twenty-two years old and have no other parti in sight. It’s high time I was bounced off.”
Breslau smiled politely. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Pamela. As you said yourself, however, Nigel is scarcely breeched. A few years’ seasoning would do him a world of good. You don’t mind my calling you Pamela? As you are to visit me, it seems not encroaching. You do remember my name? Westbrook, but my friends call me Wes.”
“I haven’t said I would! I scarcely know you. We only met yesterday.”
“True, but already last night you knew me well enough to call me Wes. Do you know me less well today?”
“The strange thing is, I do feel I know you less well.” She frowned. “I thought you were…” She came to a confused pause.
“Do continue. There’s nothing I enjoy discussing more than myself.”
“That’s exactly what I mean! That’s the way you seemed yesterday, so horrid and satirical and proud.”
“But in England, you must know, we consider pride one of the virtues. An Englishman without his pride is like a sky without a sun.”
“Or a dog without fleas. How could a girl possibly—I mean, I didn’t even bother trying to—to—”
“I noticed,” he said blandly. “My fleas were quite upset that you didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“We both know what you mean, Pamela. Let us not belabor the obvious. Dare I hope your feelings have undergone a change?”
“I’m not sure they have,” she said tartly. “The only reason I wanted to come to London with you was because of the marquise, you know.”
Breslau patted her fingers. “Cheer up. The excitement isn’t over. You may yet have the pleasure of taking the stand at a murder trial.”
“I shall now answer a question you asked a moment ago, Lord Breslau. My feelings have not undergone a change where you are concerned. You’re as odious as I first thought.”
Breslau’s playful manner evaporated. The eyes that gazed unblinkingly into hers were serious. “I’m not, you know. I’ve merely chosen a bad moment for frivolity. It’s possible Fleur is in serious trouble, and till we learn the truth, I shan’t pester you with any more nonsense.”
For a quarter of a mile the only sound was the clatter of the horses jogging along and the running of the carriage wheels. Pamela was almost sorry she’d protested against his playful manner. The silence made it too easy to think, and what she thought was that she shouldn’t stay at his house. There was no real excuse for it, yet she felt keenly that the visit would be much more exciting if she stayed with him.
“My Aunt Foster lives on the corner of Half Moon and Curzon streets,” she said as the carriage entered London.
Breslau showed her an impassive face. “Is that where you wish me to take you?”
She bit her bottom lip uncertainly. “I really should.”
“Last chance,” he tempted with a charming smile. “I plan to go to Drury Lane this evening and make enquiries.”
“What will you do this afternoon?”
“Go to Fleur’s apartment, call on some of her friends, lunch at a little restaurant near the theater. I daresay your Aunt Foster would rather you not accompany me on such outings, though I guarantee no harm would befall you.”
Her Aunt Foster would swoon at the very thought of her calling on an actress. Every fiber of her body was eager for the excitement. If she visited her aunt, the best to be hoped for was a visit to some elderly friend, or a drive to Bond Street.
“Well?”
“The Fosters aren’t actually expecting me yet,” she said.
“Then you must come with me. You wouldn’t want to land in on them unannounced. We’ll go directly to Belgrave Square. You will want to freshen up before lunch.”
A smile of relief broke, and Pamela had difficulty keeping her voice normal. “You’re right, of course. It wouldn’t do to land in unannounced on my aunt. I’ll land in on yours instead. Are they very stiff, Breslau?”
“Where do you think I got this horrid disposition? The whole family is starched daily.”
“Then I’m glad we shan’t be spending much time with them. What is the restaurant like? Will I see many actors?”
“Mrs. Siddons still drops in from time to time. Would your mama object to your meeting her?”
“Oh, no! Mama is not so bad as Lady Raleigh and Mrs. Foster. She would be thrilled to death. It’s Papa who would hit the roof.”
All restraint vanished, and the remainder of the trip was highly enjoyable. Lord Breslau had the pleasure of hearing himself called Wes, and the added pleasure of a gasp of surprise when the horses drew up in front of one of the finest mansions in London.
When Pamela spoke, she had trained her voice to nonchalance. Only her staring eyes betrayed her. “Is this where you live?” she asked.
“It is, but as you pointed out, we shan’t have to spend much time here. The restaurant is much less pretentious.”
Miss Comstock’s eyes were as big as saucers, and her heart was thumping in agitation when Lord Breslau took her elbow and escorted her to the front door.
Chapter Eight
Breslau House was every bit as intimidating as its exterior suggested. After Pamela had been shown to a chamber and refreshed her toilette, she descended to a saloon the size of St. Michael’s Church at home. Sofas and seats were ranged around the walls like the waiting room of a superior hotel lobby. Two elderly ladies of forbidding aspect, dressed all in black, sat near the grate. Their heads turned in unison and they stared toward the doorway. Pamela felt an unworthy urge to take to her heels. Suddenly Breslau appeared behind her.
“Stage fright, Miss Comstock?” he teased. “Come now, show your metal. You have an audience of only two, both of whom are eager to be pleased.”
That was her salvation. The ladies, pensioners of Lord Breslau’s, vied with each other in showering questions and compliments on her. They could conceive of no reason for her visit except that she was Breslau’s intended, and were determined to find favor with her.
“From Kent, you say? The flower garden of England,” Miss Agatha exclaimed.
“I knew it from your complexion,” Miss Anscombe nodded wisely. “Kent gives the finest flowers and complexions.”
When the smiles and compliments became excessive, Breslau rescued her. "Miss Comstock is a friend of the Raleighs’. I am delivering her home for them, as I have to go to Kent soon on business.”
“I see!” The ladies exchanged a satisfied nod, and damped their enthusiasm down to an acceptable level.
Breslau explained that he and Miss Comstock would not be home for lunch. The aunts expressed a lukewarm interest in having the pleasure of meeting at dinner.
“There, now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said as they went to the carriage.
“Are they always so effusive?”
“Only when they fear they are meeting my wife-to-be.”
“Is that what they thought!” Her amusement was hardly less than her genuine shock.
“You see the danger in associating with an eligible bachelor of good morals.”
“Or even one of uncertain moral fiber.” She smiled boldly, and to his considerable consternation immediately dropped this promising subject. “Are we going to Fleur’s apartment first?”
“My groom went there while we freshened up. Fleur’s maid said she’s not at home, and hasn’t been since leaving for Belmont. We’ll drop around after lunch to see if there’s been any news.”
Pamela found
it hard to concentrate on the case when there were so many interesting sights to be seen in the city. Breslau had changed from traveling carriage to city chaise, which bowled along the Strand at a smart pace, passing other elegant carriages. Bows and nods were exchanged through the windows. The ladies’ toilettes made Pamela realize that what passed for high style at home was quite inadequate to the job in London.
“I feel like a country mouse,” she admitted. “And to think I left my lovely new rose gown at home, hardly worn.”
It gave Breslau an excuse to examine her closely. His smile suggested he had no aversion to country creatures, especially when they came with such sparkling eyes. “Why did you not bring it to Belmont?”
“The neck is a little low. Lady Raleigh would have disliked it, but more importantly, Nigel would have approved.”
“If that is a hint of shopping trips to come, you must hold me excused. My aunts would be delighted to oblige you, however.”
“How can you say so without consulting them?”
“The voice of experience. They are always happy to oblige me, never more so than when they come uninvited. You see how malleable I am in ladies’ hands. It takes very little to turn me up sweet.” Breslau was hardly surprised that this leading comment proved unsuccessful in instituting any flirtation. He was coming to know Miss Comstock.
As the carriage turned left into Drury Lane, the setting changed. The street here was a peculiar mixture of the grand and the mean. The courts and blind alleys leading off the main road suggested unabated squalor, yet the street itself was lined with what looked like mansions. The corner buildings in particular were blazing walls of plate glass, bedizened with gilt cornices and bright doorways.
“Gin mills,” he explained. This brought a gleam to her eyes. “All the grandeur is on the outside. Our first stop will be the Drury Lane Restaurant on Russell Street, near the theater. Hardly elegant, but better than these dens. Fleur frequents the place. She likes to queen it over her inferiors.”
“Speak no ill of the dead, Breslau.”
“I hope you like bubble and squeak, and treacle tart for dessert.” This sounded entirely appetizing to Pamela.
The carriage soon stopped and Breslau led Miss Comstock into a cheerful cafe that was abuzz with the animation of actors at leisure. Men with curls hanging over their foreheads and ladies interestingly overdressed were in abundance. No formality whatsoever existed. The inhabitants roamed from table to table for a chat, often carrying a glass or plate with them, eating as they went. Breslau’s entrance caused a buzz of excitement. Pamela, too, came in for her share of jealous attention.
They were led to a choice table by the window. “Is Mrs. Siddons here?” she asked, looking around.
The Tragic Muse was not present, but there was plenty to keep Pamela occupied. Before their dinner arrived, a pretty young woman with straw-blond hair and a worried face approached their table.
“You’re not supposed to be back till tomorrow, Lord Breslau!” the woman charged.
“As you see, I’m here a day early.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to present the woman to Pamela. Having brought a lady to such a disreputable place, he could hardly assume a belated air of propriety. The question of why he had brought Pamela nagged at his mind. Was he trying to shock her? To nudge her out of her assumed indifference? Or was it a test of her eligibility to be his wife? A lady who was horrified at the doings of the theater was not the lady for him.
“This is Rose Flanders, Miss Comstock. I believe you’re familiar with the name. I’m taking Miss Comstock to see your performance this evening, Rose.”
“Oh, you’re the actress who is replacing the marquise during her—her holiday,” Pamela said, smiling to hide her near lapse.
“Are you an actress?” Rose asked jealously.
“Me?” Pamela exclaimed. “Oh, no.”
Rose looked relieved. Breslau cleared his throat and immediately began fishing for information. “Have you seen Fleur around, Rose?”
“Isn’t she with you? I hope she ain’t planning to take over my role tonight. You said I was to have two nights.”
“Fleur isn’t with me. You shall have your two nights, as promised. How did it go last night?”
“It was just grand. You could hear the clapping all the way to Covent Garden. But where’s Fleur? She said she was going to the country with you and that swell that’s writing her life story.”
“I had to return to London early. I thought Fleur might have cut the visit short as well. You haven’t seen her about then?”
“Not a hair or whisker. Oh, I bet she’ll come scrambling back early. Some nosy Parker wrote and warned her what a grand success I was.”
As the woman prattled on, Pamela observed her more closely. Rose didn’t look a day older than herself. Her gown was a lively red-and-green striped, cut very low in front, but with a shawl that received an occasional tug as a token to propriety. Despite her grammatical lapses and country expressions, Rose spoke with an elegant accent and had a fine, carrying voice.
“Rest assured, tonight is yours,” Breslau told her.
This appeared to satisfy Rose, and she joined them for a glass of wine before lunch arrived.
“I’m rather anxious to find Fleur, if she’s in town,” Breslau said. “She isn’t at her apartment.”
“She wouldn’t be, would she?” Rose said matter-of-factly. “With all her blunt, she’d be out shopping.”
“Her servant says she hasn’t been home.”
“Maybe she went straight to her gentleman friend.”
“The general?” Breslau asked.
“That’s nought but cream-pot love. She’d never go visiting him—nor would he let her in the door. No, Fleur has a colt’s tooth in her head. It’s that young Spiedel fellow she goes running to when she has a moment free.”
“Would you happen to know where he lives?”
“I saw them slipping into a flat on the corner of Drury Lane and Macklin Street once. I fancy that’s where he sleeps.”
“Have you seen him around recently?”
“That one is always around. He was loitering backstage last night. He was in the café this morning, but now I think of it, Fleur wouldn’t be with him. They had a falling out the last night she was here. I heard a terrific row in her room.”
Pamela and Breslau exchanged a meaningful look. “What seemed to be the trouble?” he asked.
“Likely she caught him carrying on with one of the young girls.”
While this was interesting, Spiedel had not been at Hatfield, and Breslau soon turned his questions in another direction. “It’s possible Spiedel caught Fleur with another man. She’s been seeing another young fellow, I think.”
“No, has she?” Rose asked eagerly.
“I’ve seen her speaking to a handsome young lad.”
“Henry Halton, you mean?” Rose asked at once.
“A tall, good-looking man. A gentleman, to judge by his appearance. Black hair, slender build.”
“That’s Henry, handsome as can stare, but the fight wasn’t about him. He’s seeing Meg Crispin steady now. I can tell you Fleur ain’t with him, for he’s gone to visit his aunt in the country. She must have sent him a walloping present. Meg says he was hiring a traveling carriage and four horses at Newman’s Stables yesterday afternoon.”
Pamela nearly choked on her wine. Breslau gave her a quelling look.
“God bless you,” Rose said, and gave Pamela a slap on the back. “He’s supposed to be back next week, but he won’t know nothing about Fleur. What makes you think she left the house party early? She’ll stay till the last dog’s hung if I know anything. How the gossoon that’s writing her story ever got hisself talked into taking her home to meet his ma is more than I know.”
“She left early,” Breslau insisted.
“Then the lady of the house hinted her away,” Rose announced with grim satisfaction.
The food arrived and Rose stood to le
ave. “Well, nice meeting you, your ladyship.” She curtsied to Pamela and left.
“Where did she get the idea I’m a lady? A noble lady, I mean,” Pamela added swiftly when a satirical grin tugged at Breslau’s lips.
“It must be your lack of conversation that convinced her. You will have noticed that actresses chat more freely.”
“Yes, and very much to the point. That argument between Spiedel and Fleur…”
“Interesting, but he’s been in London all along. Our mysterious stranger must be this Henry Halton—a carriage and team of four, a sudden trip to the country.”
“We should have asked where he lives, Wes!”
“I’ll have a word with Meg Crispin later. I don’t want to arouse too much curiosity in Fleur’s activities.”
Breslau looked around the room and spotted Meg Crispin at a table with a group of actors. He excused himself, and was soon back with the information, but not before two young fops had sidled up to Pamela’s table. Breslau’s return sent them packing.
“Halton lives on Wild Street. It’s a slum nearby,” he said. “Were those yahoos bothering you?”
“Not at all, they were very friendly. We might as well go to Wild Street first.”
“That’s not a place I can take you. I don’t relish the visit myself.” He came to a frowning halt. “Why would Halton want to harm Fleur?”
They were interrupted by a young playwright who shoved a bulky manuscript into Breslau’s hands with an assurance that he would never have read anything like it, and his address was enclosed.
When the opportunist left, Breslau looked at the dessert menu. “Treacle tart? The apple tart is also fairly edible.”
“I’ll try the treacle. The bubble and squeak was excellent, by the by.”
He smiled approvingly. “Cheap, too. That is the major criterion of the clients here.”
“That’s a universal criterion.”
While they were waiting for dessert, an actor and two actresses came begging for work. Breslau made an appointment to audition them in a week’s time.
“I shouldn’t think you come here very often, when people pester you so much,” she said.
