by Carola Dunn
Teresa fell silent, then embarked upon a lively flirtation with her cousin. If he noticed a quality of desperation in her mood, he did not mention it. He responded in kind, and more than one dowager nodded wisely and muttered dire warnings about marriages between cousins.
Chapter 14
The day after her coming-out ball, Teresa slept till past noon. She awoke with a slight headache, real this time, which she put down to overindulgence in champagne.
She remembered watching Andrew leave with Muriel, placing her cloak solicitously about her slender white shoulders.
She remembered laughing with Cousin John and drinking more champagne and dancing, dancing, dancing till dawn lightened the sky.
She remembered waltzing with Andrew—but on that memory she did not dare let herself dwell.
Today she had missed her morning ride with him, but the next day was the one set for her conference with the coffee merchants. Though she had been indignant when Andrew insisted on going with her, now she felt she would be glad to have his support, as well as being simply glad of his presence.
* * * *
On the morrow, they drove with Marco and Annie to the Gloster Coffee House in Piccadilly. It was indeed respectable as coaching inns went. Founded a century and more ago the coffee house had, like many another, become a gathering place for merchants and other men of business. Though it was now the London headquarters of the Portsmouth stage line, it was still frequented by dealers in coffee and tea.
Lord Edward’s banker had invited seven of the most prominent importers of coffee to meet there that morning. He had not, however, warned them that a female hoped to do business with them. Enticed by his promise of something out of the ordinary, they were all waiting in a private parlour, set aside for their use, when Teresa arrived at the inn.
The landlord ushered her into the parlour, followed by Annie, Andrew, then Marco carrying the little wooden chest of coffee beans they had brought from Costa Rica.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Teresa said. “I am Miss Danville. I hope to persuade you to buy coffee produced on my father’s hacienda in Costa Rica.”
A small, skinny man in an old-fashioned long coat and tie wig snorted and marched out with a scowl on his face, muttering something about modern females not knowing their place. The other six remained, their expressions varying from astonishment through scepticism to admiration.
“Delighted, I’m sure,” said a corpulent merchant, ogling her. “Out of the ordinary indeed! Always a pleasure to do business with a pretty young woman.” He winked.
“I warned you,” Andrew whispered, then proceeded to demonstrate his estimable abilities as a diplomat. Without offending anyone, he put the stout cit in his place and convinced the sceptics that it would be worth their while to stay and try Teresa’s wares.
She hurried to open the chest and soon they were all sniffing at handfuls of the roasted beans. She set Marco to grinding them in a mill provided by the innkeeper, who had also set out one of the new Biggin coffeepots with a built-in filter. Teresa sent Annie to the kitchens to fetch boiling water and soon the delicious aroma of brewing coffee filled the room.
The merchants sipped her brew, compared it to the best varieties served in the coffee house, tasted again, scribbled notes.
“’Tis as rich as Jamaica Blue Mountain,” observed one, impressed.
“Better,” said another.
They besieged Teresa with questions about quantities, shipping routes, agents, and political complications. Oscar had prepared her well during the voyage from Limón to Port Royal and she managed to answer all queries to their satisfaction. She shot a glance of triumph at Andrew, who nodded encouragement, grinning.
Finally, all six merchants promised to send draft contracts for her perusal. She gave them her direction at Stafford House, thanked them, and took her leave. They all bowed low as she swept out, followed by her retinue.
Andrew immediately took her to task. “You ought not to have given your uncle’s direction,” he said. “Your banker could have dealt with the matter without involving your relations.”
Teresa was too pleased with herself to take offence at his reprimand. “I daresay you are right, but never mind,” she said gaily. “Boggs already knows I am shockingly involved in trade, so I shall ask him to pass the contracts to me privately. Now, I am too excited to sit tamely in the carriage. Pray let us walk a little.”
Marco shook her hand and congratulated her, while Andrew told the groom to meet them in Berkeley Square. They strolled down Piccadilly. The street was full of stagecoaches leaving the Bull and Mouth for Shropshire, the Spread Eagle for Liverpool, half a dozen other inns for destinations all over the country. Teresa and Annie studied the shop windows. They were particularly fascinated by the signs at the money-changer’s: “Napoleons sold and bought. Light guineas taken at full value. Old silver taken with rapture. French silver taken with alacrity, quite novel. Napoleons, louis d’or and gold of every sort and denomination taken with peculiar adroitness.”
“They even bought the coins I brought back from North Africa,” Andrew told them. “I must bring in my Mexican silver one of these days. Now, how about an ice at Gunter’s to celebrate the success of your business?”
At the Sign of the Pot and Pineapple, in Berkeley Square, Andrew insisted on treating Annie, too. The maid’s dark face shone with delight as she tasted her cream fruit concoction, made with ice shipped all the way from Greenland. Teresa thanked Andrew with a grateful look for the pleasure he had given her abigail. She herself could not choose between Cedrati and Bergamet Chips, and Naples Divolini, so she had some of each, followed by an ice.
“Engaging in commerce is good for the appetite,” she observed. “Now that I have justified my journey to England, I shall not feel guilty about spending Don Eduardo’s money on frivolities. Next stop, Mrs Bell’s on Charlotte Street for a bonnet from Paris.”
“I shall walk,” chorused Marco and Andrew with identical shudders.
* * * *
The Parisian bonnet, Teresa’s first venture into choosing her own apparel without advice, was deemed charming by the duchess and Miss Carter. More important, it was approved by the duchess’s dresser, Howell. With renewed self-confidence, Teresa dashed from rout to ball to Venetian breakfast. Every day she had a choice of entertainments and had to refuse many invitations for lack of time. It was hard to believe that this was merely the Little Season, with half the Ton absent in the country.
Teresa did make time to visit the sights of London. After she had travelled thousands of miles to the greatest city in the world, it would have been a pity to see nothing of it but the streets and squares and shops of the fashionable quarter.
Lord Danville, a mine of historical information, escorted her to the Monument, Mansion House, Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s Cathedral. Lord John took both her and Marco to Astley’s Amphitheatre to see the circus, to Mrs Salmon’s Waxwork and Barker’s Panorama and a balloon ascension. On a trip to the Tower, John took Marco to the Armoury, while Tom paid out some shillings so that Teresa might peek at the Crown Jewels, scarcely visible by lamplight behind bars. Then they all went to the menagerie.
Teresa found the scruffy lions a sad contrast to the magnificent, if terrifying, jaguar of the Costa Rican jungle. As for the rest, she had to admit to Andrew that he was right, it would take a lifetime to know London well. Cartago was indeed a village in comparison.
Marco was as busy as his sister. His tutor, Mr Netherdale, had a scientific bent, so that as well as the classics he was studying mathematics, chemistry, and astronomy. In his free time, Cousin John introduced him to the city’s masculine haunts and pastimes.
“Better keep quiet about all this, young ‘un,” he advised. “Females don’t appreciate cockpits and prizefights and boozing kens.”
Marco, who approached these activities with the same intellectual curiosity he applied to his studies, kept quiet about “all that.” However, he went straight to his sister when
he returned, shaken, from attending the slavers’ trial with his tutor.
“Whatever is the matter?” she asked, urging him towards a chair by the fire in her dressing room. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I wish Captain Harrison were a ghost. He is a dreadful man, Teresa, truly evil. They had to drag him out, shouting vicious threats. I cannot repeat his words, but he vowed revenge on those who had wrecked his business and brought him to gaol.”
“I am sure it must have been frightening, my dear, but after all, he can do nothing as long as he is in prison. What happened during the trial?”
“He named the man who financed his voyage, the owner of the Snipe. Do you remember Captain Fitch was sure the ship was not his own, or he would have made more effort to avoid scuttling her? The owner is called Carruthers," Marco told his sister. "Sir Andrew says the law will never touch him because he is a peer, and the papers will not even mention his name for fear of libel suits. There is no proof beyond Harrison's word and he is a convicted criminal."
"Lord Carruthers!” Teresa gasped. “I have met him. Both John and Tom said he was a bad lot, though he is received in Society. I suppose he must know that I was instrumental in bringing his enterprise to naught. How shall I ever face him again!"
"Perhaps he does not know. I am sure he cannot have visited Harrison in Newgate for fear of being taken up, and he was not at the trial, Sir Andrew said. Besides, you were not actually mentioned by name. Harrison referred to you as 'that hoity-toity female!'"
"Did he, indeed!"
"Sir Andrew says it is best not to tell anyone about Lord Carruthers lest he come to hear of it. He was a great gun in the witness box, Teresa. It was mostly on his evidence that Harrison and two others were sentenced to transportation. They could not nab them on the murder charge because there was no proof that they deliberately sank the Snipe," he added with regret. "Mr Netherdale says they will be held in a hulk on the Thames until a convict ship sails for Australia."
“Then I am sure we have no cause for worry. And Andrew is certainly correct that it would be foolish to broadcast our knowledge of Carruthers’ misdeeds. Pray tell no one, not even Cousin John, and warn Mr Netherdale to hold his tongue.”
“Mum’s the word,” Marco agreed, looking much more cheerful than on his arrival.
* * * *
Teresa rode with Andrew in the park the next morning, and he confirmed Marco’s report. “It troubles me that Harrison considers you the chief author of his downfall,” he added, frowning. “Of course, even if he should communicate with Lord Carruthers, you are safe under the protection of one of the premier peers of the realm. Still, though you can hardly wear your pistols in the ballroom, I hope you still carry them when you are out riding or walking in the park.”
“I never thought to hear you say that,” she commented with a laugh. “But yes, I have them in my pockets at this moment.”
“I am glad to hear it. Though I do not wish to alarm you. I cannot think it likely you will have the slightest use for them.”
Touched by his concern, she remembered these words when she sat next to Lord John at dinner that night. Her graceless cousin had not forgotten that he had challenged her to a shooting match.
“I have had a capital notion,” he whispered in her ear, a wicked sparkle in his eye. “I shall smuggle you into Manton’s Shooting Gallery disguised as a boy.”
“You shall do no such thing,” she replied indignantly. “I hope you are bamming me. I may be an ignorant foreigner, but I know an outrageous suggestion when I hear one!”
He sighed mournfully and shook his head. “How tame-spirited, cousin. I had thought better of you. I shall have to borrow a target from Manton’s and set it up in the garden. I can hang it from the tree. Will the day after tomorrow suit you?”
She murmured acquiescence, preferring not to enquire whether he intended to ask Manton’s permission for the loan.
The next evening he informed her that all was arranged for the following morning. She felt a sudden qualm about the propriety of the contest, even in a private garden, but surely even Lord John would not lead her into anything truly outrageous. After all, his suggestion of smuggling her into Manton’s had been in jest.
She was shocked when she went down to the garden next morning to find seven or eight of Lord John's fellow Corinthians. Most of them were occupied in wagering on the outcome of the contest, singularly foolish, she thought, since they had no idea of her ability. Two of them were arguing over a candelabrum. They moved it here and there, lighting the candles only to have them blown out by the slight breeze. Since it was mid-morning, broad daylight, Teresa could not imagine what they were about.
Lord John hurried up to her. "You will not mind that I brought along a few of the fellows," he said, meeting her frown with an ingenuous smile.
"This was to be a private affair," she answered indignantly. “I cannot think it proper…”
"But it is private! Private garden, wall all round, in my own home, too. Can't possibly be any objection. Now you stand here, I'll give you five feet."
"No you will not. I shall stand beside you." Challenged, Teresa forgot her concern.
She put two bullets into the bull's eye, to resounding cheers, and quickly reloaded while her cousin took his turn. He equalled her, so they moved farther away. Again she hit the centre, as did he.
"Equally matched, by Jove!" called one of the spectators.
"Here, we've got these devilish candles lit at last," another announced. "They're burning pretty steady. Try for 'em, ma'am."
"You have to shoot out the flame," John explained when Teresa turned to him in puzzlement.
Her hand steady, enjoying herself now, she took aim, fired. A candle went out. It was Lord John's turn. He shot and another flame died. Teresa extinguished her second—and Lord John missed.
The cheers she expected did not come. Her audience was gazing towards the house, faces aghast, and backing away.
"Good God, Cousin, what are you about?" Lord Danville's horrified voice came from behind her.
She turned. The viscount stood on the terrace, Andrew at his side. Boggs, two footmen and three maids peered from the ballroom. A noise from above made her raise her eyes. At one window of the drawing room she saw the gaping faces of Lady Castlereagh, Lady Kaye and Miss Carter, at the other Jenny Kaye, Daphne Pringle and Mr Wishart.
Somehow Teresa knew that behind them on the sofa the duchess was having a spasm. She wondered why, knowing Cousin John as she did, she had not thought to enquire as to whether he had mentioned the match to his parents and warned the household.
Andrew had come to take Teresa for a drive in the park with Muriel. At Lord Danville's grim suggestion, he whisked her away immediately.
The viscount then used every ounce of his authority as heir to a dukedom, called in several favours, and issued a couple of threats to exact promises from all his brother's friends that not a word of this morning's doings should pass their lips. Rejecting John's shamefaced assistance, he then went up to the drawing room to face the ladies.
Only Lord Danville's reputation as a serious gentleman of sober tastes enabled him to persuade the Ladies Castlereagh and Kaye that their eyes had deceived them. It was unthinkable, he pointed out, that a young lady of good family should deliberately engage in a shooting contest. His cousin Teresa had heard the shots and gone to investigate. His reprobate brother had then thrust a pistol into her hand and urged her to fire it, which, being an obliging girl, she had done, fortunately without loss of life. She had been very much shocked at the resulting explosion and he had sent her off with her friend, Miss Parr, to recover.
The ladies expressed their hope that Miss Danville's nerves had not suffered irreparable damage from Lord John's thoughtlessness.
Miss Kaye and Miss Pringle, who had been near the window from the first, exchanged a glance and assured his lordship that they were much too fond of Miss Danville to breathe a word. Mr Wishart cast him a cynical look
, but he was a good friend and Lord Danville had no fear of his discretion.
The visitors left, and the viscount turned his attention to his prostrate mama. Fortunately, she was more than willing to cast all the blame on her errant younger son.
Meanwhile, below stairs, Boggs had threatened with instant dismissal all servants who so far forgot themselves as to gossip about their betters. By the time Teresa, chastened by Sir Andrew's tongue-lashing and Muriel's manifest horror, returned to Stafford House, the incident had been thoroughly hushed up.
Chapter 15
Andrew did not call for several days thereafter, a much greater punishment for Teresa than her cousin's scold or her aunt's vapours. When he did come to Stafford house, it was with a grave face that had nothing to do with her behaviour. He asked to see Marco, and was closeted with him in the library for some time before he sent a footman to ask Teresa to join them.
Entering the room, she was glad to see him looking quite cheerful. He greeted her with pleasure and a hint of amusement that intrigued her.
Marco looked puzzled. “Andrew wants me to explain to you about the gaming hell,” he said. “I….”
“Gaming hell?” Teresa repeated weakly. She sank into the nearest chair, feeling pale. “Is that where Cousin John has been taking you? Oh Marco, I hope you are not wasting Don Eduardo’s money on gambling.”
Andrew sat down beside her and took her hand, patting it soothingly. He was openly grinning now. “Before you castigate your brother, wait until you know the whole story,” he suggested. “I had very much the same idea when I heard rumours that he had been seen playing faro with Lord Carruthers at Seventy-seven, St James’s Street. The place is a notorious hell.”
“With Lord Carruthers!”
“A notable gull-groper, among his other faults.” Seeing her look of blank incomprehension, he explained, “A Captain Sharp. One who fleeces the unwary at games of chance. I have persuaded Marco to confess to you lest you should hear rumours and worry about it.”
