Lysander's Lady

by Patricia Ormsby

  ‘You don’t imagine I am going to permit you to accompany me to Ryder’s Court?’

  ‘I don’t see that you have any choice in the matter,’ she countered. ‘I hold the receipt and I am the legal owner of the necklace. They cannot throw me into—wherever they throw female felons into.’

  After a moment he saw the sense of this argument and, though looking far from pleased, refrained from pursuing it further.

  ‘Another glass of sherry, ma’am?’

  Miss Honeywell, feeling that any courage, even of the Dutch variety, was preferable to none, recklessly assented. He watched her, a curious expression on his face, as she drank it.

  ‘May I ask what had you in mind to do if you sold the necklace? Join Bredon in Italy?’

  To her annoyance she felt the hot colour flooding her cheeks. ‘Lord Bredon has not made me an offer, sir! Nor, in his position, is he likely to do so.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ He spoke in so disbelieving a way that she was strongly tempted to tell him just who had captured Bredon’s affections, but was saved from this imprudence by the return of Bates with the post, which he laid upon the table.

  ‘A letter for you, miss.’ His shrewd glance darted from one to the other. Something was not as it should be, that was very plain. The young lady looked distressed and Mr. Lysander not at all in command of himself. Perhaps, after all, the gossip belowstairs was not without foundation. Mrs. Hignett, the housekeeper, was of the opinion that Miss Honeywell was just the right sort for Mr. Lysander, though Miss Peveril, her ladyship’s dresser and a finical damsel if ever there was one, considered he should look higher for a bride. Horace, the first footman, expressed the general view when he stated that Miss Kate was a real lady and up to snuff in every way.

  For his own part and Knowing Mr. Lysander as he did, Bates preferred to reserve judgement. His wayward thoughts were sharply arrested by the stricken expression on Miss Honeywell’s face as she picked up her letter.

  ‘I—thank you, Bates. If you will excuse me, sir, I will go to my bedchamber and change my mantle. I find it a trifle over-warm for such a day. I shall not keep you above a minute or two.’

  Without waiting for a reply, she fled from the room and, once in the safety of her bedchamber, ripped open the letter. It contained a short note: ‘I thought it best to do it this way and not involve Bayliss.’

  There was a signed and witnessed enclosure, dated three years previously, bequeathing her the necklace. With a gasp of relief, she set light to a candle and burnt the covering note, then was halfway out of the door on her way downstairs when she recalled the supposed reason for her flight. Hastily she returned to change her mantle for an elegant caped pelisse of Norwich crape with antique cuffs and ornamental mancherons upon the shoulders. Her bonnet was replaced by a handsome affair of fine straw, trimmed with ruched velvet and satin ribbons, and a dainty silk parasol substituted for her serviceable umbrella. If she was to present herself as Miss Katherine Honeywell from the Cape, cousin to Lord Bredon and legitimate owner of the necklace, then she had best look the part.

  That her efforts were not in vain was evident by the gleam of approval in Mr. Derwent’s eyes when she re-entered the book-room. She produced her letter with a flourish.

  ‘Here is my authority for selling the necklace, sir.’

  He read it over carefully then, to her astonishment, went to the fireplace and with one finger rubbed a little wood-ash over it and folded and re-folded it several times.

  ‘That’s more like,’ he said as if satisfied. ‘It now looks as if it might be three years old.’

  ‘He—well, of course, he wrote it during his recent visit,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘And of course it was not contained in that letter you received just now?’

  ‘No, I—’ Words quite failed her and he shook his head reproachfully.

  ‘You don’t tell a good rapper, ma’am. Bredon is still in England, is he not?’

  ‘I—I believe he is,’ she faltered. Then, impulsively, she laid a hand on his arm. ‘May I beg for your discretion in this, sir?’

  For a long moment he looked down at her, then he raised his arm and touched her hand to his lips. ‘You have my word on that, ma’am,’ he said quietly.

  As they went out to the waiting carriage, Bates cast an anxious eye at the longcase clock in the hall.

  ‘Dinner will be served at seven o’clock, Mr. Lysander.’

  ‘Request her ladyship to have it set back a half-hour. I am taking Miss Honeywell to view the Park when it is free of its fashionable throng. I shan’t need you, Harvey.’

  Marvelling at his effortless mendacity, Kate allowed herself to be handed into the tilbury and they set off at a brisk pace, leaving Harvey standing on the flagway, staring after them thoughtfully.

  ‘Something in the wind there, would you say, Mr. Bates?’ The butler stiffened, for to be discussing his master’s affairs with so lowly a creature as a groom was not at all to his taste.

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sure, but if I was you, Mr. Harvey, I wouldn’t venture to speculate,’ he reprimanded haughtily, and made a dignified retreat into the house while Harvey, grinning broadly, strolled off. Mr. Derwent and Miss Honeywell, oblivious to having aroused such domestic interest, went on their way.

  By a lucky chance Mr. Jacobson and Mr. Rossbourne were inspecting the necklace and comparing it in detail with the illustration in their musty tome when the shadow of someone entering the shop caused them to look up from their studies.

  Perceiving their visitor to be a young woman, well-dressed and of pleasing appearance, Mr. Jacobson’s hand, which had instinctively moved to cover the necklace, was withdrawn, thus affording Miss Honeywell a clear view of what he was attempting to conceal.

  ‘Oh, such an unusual ornament!’ said she at once in the most friendly manner possible. ‘May I look? Is it for sale?’ Mr. Rossbourne was the first to come round the counter and offer the lady a chair, first dusting it off carefully with his far from clean handkerchief.

  ‘Unusual indeed, miss,’ he agreed politely. ‘But not, perhaps, quite the thing for a young lady such as yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know that.’ Miss Honeywell settled herself upon the chair as if she had all the time in the world at her disposal. ‘So much jewellery is so commonplace, and this is altogether out of the way.’

  Mr. Jacobson, who had observed that the lady wore no trinkets whatsoever, came to the instant conclusion that she was either a very deep one or a pigeon for the plucking. Having no faith in the business acumen of the fair sex, he inclined to take the latter view.

  ‘You came here unescorted, m’lady?’ he enquired in the tone of one slightly scandalised by such indecorous behaviour.

  ‘My escort will be here presently. The carriage could not come so far because of that wagon drawn up opposite.’ This facile explanation was less than the truth. In fact Miss Honeywell had been at pains to persuade Mr. Derwent that the best course was for her to enter the shop alone.

  ‘We may well be looking upon the gloomy side of things,’ she had urged him. ‘They could know nothing of the necklace’s history, and all I have to do is produce my receipt and claim it back.’

  Mr. Derwent did not hold so sanguine a view and stipulated that, if she did not emerge within ten minutes, he would join her, by which time he fancied Mr. Jacobson would have shown himself in his true colours. This viewpoint was fully borne out by subsequent events..

  ‘I’m afraid, m’lady, this is an expensive trifle.’ Mr. Jacobson was beginning to rub his hands together ingratiatingly when a sharp nudge from Mr. Rossbourne warned him that this habit was not generally acceptable in genteel circles.

  Miss Honeywell had picked up the necklace and was scrutinising it as if she had never seen it before in her life.

  ‘What do you mean by expensive?’ she asked idly.

  A quick look was exchanged between the partners. ‘The necklace is not for sale, m’lady,’ said Mr. Jacobson sadly.

 
‘No? But if it was?’ she coaxed, gazing at him out of melting blue eyes.

  ‘It’d be all of five thousand pounds.’ Mr. Jacobson’s voice took on a reverential note.

  ‘Capital!’ said she briskly. ‘I am the lady for whom Mr. Dacres was acting this morning and here is my receipt. I shall be very happy to sell you the necklace for five thousand pounds.’

  Mr. Jacobson gave all the appearance of being slightly stunned by this revelation, but he rallied bravely. ‘If I may say so, a young lady such as yourself can have no knowledge of how these affairs are conducted,’

  ‘No, do tell me,’ she invited affably.

  ‘In the first place,’ pontificated Mr. Jacobson with the air of one enlightening a hopeful pupil, ‘the selling price and the buying price are two very different matters. It may take weeks or even months to find a buyer. Then we may not succeed in getting our price, the antiquarian market is a difficult one, quite unlike dealing with gems in the ordinary way.’

  ‘So you cover a possible loss by grossly underpaying the vendor,’ nodded Miss Honeywell, all attention. ‘I do understand that, but what should happen if it was shown that the article was sold without proper authority?’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Mr. Jacobson severely. ‘From the results of my enquiries I am given to understand that this article belongs to Lord Bredon.’

  ‘Yes, it did, but he bequeathed it to me—I am his cousin, you see.’

  Mr. Jacobson stroked his imperfectly shaven chin. ‘And can you prove this, m’lady?’

  ‘Yes, indeed I can.’ Miss Honeywell resolved to make the most of this unexpected opportunity. ‘Now, will you please tell me what you will pay me for it—quickly, before my escort joins us, for he does not approve of my coming here at all.’

  Mr. Jacobson, presuming her escort to be Mr. Dacres, was not unduly perturbed. ‘Two thousand pounds is the most I can offer you, m’lady,’ he sighed regretfully.

  ‘And you selling it for five thousand? Now that is carrying profit-making to an extreme!’

  ‘There are—difficulties attached to this particular piece, as I have no need to tell you.’ Mr. Jacobson was at his most plausible. ‘I would need very clear evidence of how and when the article came into your possession.’

  ‘Else you would feel it your duty to have recourse to the law?’

  Mr. Jacobson visibly winced and raised his hands in horror. ‘As if we would do anything so vulgar!’ he protested.

  ‘You mean,’ she said slowly, ‘that if I accept your offer you will say nothing about how you came by the necklace? Now that, sir, is tantamount to blackmail!’

  This outrageous statement brought Mr. Jacobson to the point of forgetting his urbanity, and he came round the counter to join his partner. Though she stood her ground, outfacing the two men, Miss Honeywell was excessively grateful that Mr. Derwent chose that moment to make his appearance. In fact he had been standing outside for a full minute, listening with mounting appreciation to the conversation. At sight of him Mr. Rossbourne’s jaw dropped a fraction, and he administered a swift kick of warning to his partner’s shin.

  ‘I believe we have heard enough, ma’am.’ Mr. Derwent tossed a guinea on the counter. ‘That for your valuation, Jacobson. Shall we go, Miss Honeywell?’

  Kate, deftly sweeping the necklace into her reticule, declared herself to be all readiness-to accompany him. But Mr. Jacobson, seeing his hopes of profit disappear, was not minded to give in so easily.

  ‘If I should be questioned about the necklace, m’lady? You understand I have shown it to one or two interested parties.’

  ‘You can refer the interested parties to me,’ said Mr. Derwent. ‘Here’s my card, you’ll know where to find me.’

  ‘You should not have done that!’ she reproved him when they were once more outside in the street.

  He shrugged. ‘It makes no odds. If he sees I do not fear any trouble of his making, it might discourage him from attempting it. Not that I think he will, for he cannot profit by it and that is all such persons care for. No, I am persuaded we need not anticipate any difficulty from that quarter.’

  In which assumption Mr. Derwent was not perfectly correct, but then he had no reason to suspect that Mr. Jacobson’s enquiries had been of so exhaustive a nature as to excite interest in other spheres than those directly concerned with the buying and selling of jewellery.

  That evening the Dowager was attended by her son when she took her goddaughter to Drury Lane to see Mr. Kean perform in one of his well-tried parts. Miss Honeywell was not vastly impressed by the ungraceful little man who, in her opinion, declaimed more than was agreeable, and though the remainder of his audience appeared to be spellbound, she often found her attention wandering. On one of these occasions she glanced back at Mr. Derwent, who was seated slightly behind the ladies in the box to find that he, too, had not been enslaved by Mr. Kean’s histrionics, but seemed content to fix his regard upon her in a way that directed her eyes back to the stage very promptly. It also caused her to employ her fan in the hope that her heightened colour might be put down to the heat of the crowded theatre.

  She was granted small opportunity for repining over her lack of success in disposing of the necklace for, despite having had the benefit of Mr. Derwent’s opinion of gentlemen who took young ladies in general and his mother’s goddaughter in particular to unsuitable neighbourhoods, Mr. Dacres was quite unabashed when he presented himself on the following morning.

  ‘Can’t blame Lysander for riding a bit rusty,’ he conceded. ‘Cucumberish of me, I give him that, but no cause for him to ring such a devil of a peal over me.’

  Miss Honeywell, while secretly gratified by Mr. Derwent’s concern, made soothing noises, but dismissed any thought of calling upon Mr. Dacres for further help in the matter. Upon her expressing a wish to view Richmond Park, he declared that nothing could be better on so fine a morning, and with his groom in attendance they at once set off on the best of terms with each other.

  A certain amount of disturbance was in evidence in Charles Street when they returned there some hours later. Several small boys and two dogs, supported by a couple of horsey-looking men, were appraising the merits of an outstandingly elegant sporting vehicle, occupying much of the space in front of the Dowager’s door..

  ‘By Jove, it must be—it is Lysander’s new curricle!’ exclaimed Mr. Dacres. ‘ ’Pon my word, that’s prime and bang up to the mark!’

  Miss Honeywell felt a certain sinking of the heart. ‘Then the race will be held almost any time now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, before the week is out, most likely,’ he assented carelessly, accepting her knowledge of the event without question. Miss Honeywell’s uneasiness escalated still further, for it seemed to her to be imperative that Lord Bredon should run away with Lady Sophia before the race, so that Mr. Derwent should feel no obligation to treat kindly with Lord Wayleigh in the event of that gentleman losing the wager.

  ‘I trust you enjoyed your expedition, ma’am.’

  With a start she came out of her reverie to discover Mr. Derwent waiting to assist her to alight. One look at his face informed her that he was furiously angry, and his tone when he addressed Mr. Dacres was scarcely civil.

  ‘I understand we will be seeing you for dinner tonight, Augustus. At this rate I must enquire of my mother what are her charges for board and lodging!’ He handed Kate out with no more ceremony than if she had been a bundle of faggots. ‘Her ladyship wishes a word with you, ma’am.’

  The Dowager was in her boudoir and in a very disturbed frame of mind. ‘Kate, it won’t do, my dear! To drive out to Richmond with a gentleman and only his groom to attend upon you! It will set everyone talking.’

  ‘I cannot imagine that any doings of mine could be of sufficient interest to set anyone talking.’ Miss Honeywell, who had been feeling a shade dubious about the propriety of her actions, thrust her guilty feelings to the back of her mind and assumed an expression of outraged amazement. ‘What you mean is tha
t Mr. Derwent does not care for it—and why should he appoint himself my social mentor, may I ask?—and has set you on to give me a scold!’

  As this was precisely the case, her ladyship could only protest feebly. ‘He feels a responsibility because he is the man of this house, and he is in the right, you know. Such behaviour will cause people to think you a very fast sort of young woman.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Miss Honeywell laughed at the very idea. ‘Surely you do not suspect Mr. Dacres of being a rake?’ The Dowager, who had dandled Mr. Dacres upon her knee when he was a chubby, dimpled babe, hastily denied any such suspicion, and feeling that Lysander was making a great fuss about nothing, sought to make excuse for his exceptious attitude.

  ‘I do believe he means to have Lady Sophia’s answer tonight,’ she explained. ‘Which would account for his being so—so capricious.’

  The devil he does! thought the startled Miss Honeywell. So he has offered for her and she is holding him on a leading rein! She dropped a kiss on her godmother’s furrowed brow.

  ‘I promise you, ma’am, that my behaviour this evening will be unexceptionable. Now, if the flowers have arrived for the table, I had best see to them.’

  The Dowager, however, had further news to impart. ‘Miss Bellamy has taken a fever so neither she nor her parents can attend tonight, but I was fortunate enough to run into Elizabeth Harveston at Ackerman’s today, and she most kindly consented to help make up my numbers. A delightful girl, scarce six months widowed. This will be her first appearance in society since she was deprived of her spouse.’ The name of Elizabeth Harveston meant nothing to Miss Honeywell, so she readily congratulated her ladyship on her good fortune and went about her affairs, though every so often she found her thoughts straying from the task in hand to linger upon Mr. Derwent, and the reasons for her so frequently incurring his displeasure.

  Unexceptionable though her conduct might be, Miss Honeywell’s entry into the saloon that evening was something quite out of the common way. She had timed it to coincide with the arrival of the first guests. These were Lord Bambury, an old beau of the Dowager’s, and his son, and they, with Mr. Derwent and their hostess, were standing by the fireplace exchanging pleasantries when she swept in with a little cry of apology for her tardy appearance.