I accepted another slice of sponge, thinking it was a wonder Sebastian hadn’t been fat as a tick with eating Mrs. Webb’s cooking. “Business, I suppose?” I asked casually.
“Indeed. Mr. Fox is a scholar, you see. Biblical texts and so forth. It was all quite over my head. I asked him once about his work, and I don’t mind to tell you, the explanation he gave was more than I needed to hear. Quite too much for me to understand! But he was a clever young gentleman, our Mr. Fox. His studies were naturally interrupted by the war, but now that peace has come, he has the chance to join an expedition in the Holy Land.”
“Indeed?” I asked faintly, my hopes beginning to fade. I had traced him to Hampstead only to find I now had the whole of the Holy Land to search instead.
Masterman asked quietly, “Whereabouts in the Holy Land?”
Mrs. Webb spread her hands, her lips thinning a little with distaste. “Oh, bless you, dear, I couldn’t say. I don’t believe I know one of those foreign places from another! Geography was never my strong suit.”
She folded her hands over her belly and gave me a piercing look. “Now, dear. About that room?”
* * *
Mrs. Webb was not at all pleased with our excuses for not taking the room. She expressed again her willingness to put in an extra bed and take something off the rent, but it wasn’t until I told her quite firmly that I could only live in an east-facing room on account of my morning devotionals to the Egyptian sun god Ra that we were hurried out onto the front steps and the door closed behind us with a bang.
“Rather quick on your feet, aren’t you, miss? I thought you’d given away the game when you mentioned a nanny, but you turned up trumps. You even got your chin to tremble,” she said in admiration.
“Contrived contrition,” I said with a brisk nod. “An entirely useful skill honed in far too many boarding schools.”
“Still,” she went on, “you rather burnt that bridge, didn’t you?” Masterman asked mildly. “What on earth possessed you to tell such a whopping lie? Sun god Ra indeed.”
I shrugged. “It got us out of there. Useful lies aren’t that great a sin.”
“Well, if we’re on the subject of sins, I ought to confess I took this.” She reached into her handbag and took out the copy of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens.
“Masterman!”
Her expression was impassive. “I’m sorry, miss. I ought not to have done it, but when I nipped back up to...” She paused delicately to allude to bodily functions. “Anyway,” she hurried on, “when I came out of that room, I thought I would just have another look around while you were busy getting along with Mrs. Webb like a house afire. And I thought we ought to take it. It’s a connection to him, do you see? It’s the one piece of proof we have of his real name. We haven’t even an idea of where he is except the Holy Land, and that’s a mighty big haystack for a single needle, if you ask me.”
“Of course it is, but we can approach it logically,” I told her automatically.
She stood on the pavement, regarding me with something between suspicion and admiration.
“Are you always like this, miss?”
I blinked at her. “Like what?”
She sketched a gesture taking me in from head to toe. “This. You’re the original optimist, aren’t you?”
I shrugged. “I suppose. I always think things will turn out for the best, and somehow they usually do. Besides, what if we are able to find out where he went? Do you realise what it means, Masterman? It’s the Near East—Richard the Lionheart and Saladin in the Crusades, it’s Lady Jane Digby riding off on a camel, and djinns on flying carpets, and Scheherezade spinning her tales, and Ali Baba with his thieves, and Lady Hester Stanhope perched on a mountaintop.”
I had taken her arm in the course of my little speech, and she disengaged my fingers gently.
“I’m quite certain some of those aren’t real people,” she said darkly.
“Of course not. That isn’t the point. The point is that some of them were real. They lived there, and they were legends, larger than life because they gripped life with both hands and looked it right in the eye. That’s the sort of life I want.”
I squared my shoulders as I gripped the book, feeling a rush of savage, untrammelled certainty. “This is it, Masterman. This is the adventure I’ve been looking for. The chance I’ve wanted to make something more of myself. I owe Sebastian a debt. And I mean to repay it. I’m going to find him. And if he truly is in trouble of some sort, I’m going to help him, just as he helped me.”
Masterman stood toe to toe with me, and there was resolve in her eyes. “Not without me, miss. Not without me.”
Five
And somehow, through our mutual resolve, a partnership was born. I had made up my mind to find Sebastian, and Masterman had made up her mind to help. The first order of business was to make inquiries at the steamship offices, and since it was already past teatime, we arranged to spend the night in London at a small but respectable hotel. Masterman booked the room and I hurried in with my cloche pulled low to avoid being recognised. It wasn’t likely that any of Mother’s friends would frequent such a quiet place, but I was in no mood to take chances. We left early the next morning to divide and conquer. We separated with conspiratorial nods, and I took the offices of the five largest companies, smiling sweetly and asking to see the passenger lists for departures to Palestine, Syria, the Lebanon, the Transjordan, Turkey, and Egypt. I thought I had narrowed the search considerably, but there proved to be far more ships departing than I had expected. The tiny printed names blurred together as I reached for yet another list from yet another bored clerk.
I worked on, studying the endless lists and pushing through a headache and stiff shoulders. I stifled a yawn and just as I was about to put aside the last list, a name jumped out at me. Fox, Sebastian. I yelped, earning myself a dark look from the clerk, but I blew him a kiss and asked him for paper and pencil. He sweetly obliged, and I copied out every scrap of information, the name of the ship, the date of departure, the class of cabin he had booked.
Beckoning the clerk over, I showed him the list. “Can you tell me exactly where this ship stops?”
Bored once more, the clerk silently handed over a slim pamphlet with the ship’s itinerary shown on a small map as well as a list of amenities and attractions. I thanked him and left, mind whirling. It was time for lunch and Masterman and I were not supposed to rendezvous until teatime. It was the perfect opportunity to take her advice and brave one of society’s favourite hotspots. I made my way to the Savoy, forcing myself to think of the rather delectable Poulard de France Dorothy instead of the stares and glares I was bound to attract. I was just about to enter the restaurant when I heard a voice behind me.
“I don’t believe it—Penelope Hammond!”
I whirled around, wincing a little at the sound of my name echoing through the lobby, but as soon as I saw the source, I broke into a grin. “Cubby Ashley!”
Lord Edward Ashley, known to his friends by his childhood nickname of Cubby for his resemblance to an amiable bear, kissed me swiftly on the cheek. “It’s good to see you in person,” he told me. “The direst rumours are going round about you at the clubs.”
“I can imagine,” I said dryly. “Don’t tell me you’re listening to such nonsense.”
“Nonsense? My dear girl, I’ve got a fiver on you being covered in scales under all your clothes.”
I tweaked his arm. “Ass.” But I said it with affection. “It is good to see you, too, Cubby. I do feel rather awful about the wedding.”
“Yes, well, you didn’t just run out on Gerald, you know. There I was, all got up in my rig for standing up with him—and dashed splendid I looked, too. It isn’t every day I make the effort,” he added with a twinkling smile. Before I could speak, he darted a glance around. The lobby of the Savoy was a crowded pla
ce and we were already beginning to attract attention. “I say, Penelope, I would like to catch up. I don’t suppose you’d have lunch?”
“Of course,” I said promptly. “But not here. I’m afraid my nerve has rather deserted me. I’ve just seen Lady Knapely walk in, and she’s one of Mother’s chums. I couldn’t bear running into Mother just now.”
With the furtive hilarity of children on holiday we hurried out and down the street to a quiet little corner house, where we ordered quickly and settled down to the business of catching up.
“All right, Cubby. Out with it. I know why I didn’t want to stay at the Savoy, but why were you so eager to get out of there. What’s afoot?”
To my astonishment, the gentle giant actually blushed.
“Cubby! You’ve got a girl,” I deduced. “And you didn’t want to be seen in public with a scandal like me in case your girl heard about it. Confess all—I’m right, aren’t I?”
The blush deepened. “More than a girl. I’ve got a fiancée.”
“How wonderful!”
“Not really,” he said with a grin. “You see, Father had a bride all picked out for me.”
I held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. Some heiress to shore up that castle of his.”
Cubby nodded. “You know how it is. The Ashley title is five hundred years old but we haven’t a bean. The whole north tower actually collapsed last month.”
I winced. “Oh, dear. And I suppose your father found a nice girl with pots of nice money, did he? What was she—American? Railroad heiress?”
“South American with a squint and mouse-brown hair. And it’s not railroad money at all. Nitrate mining,” he told me between spoonfuls of soup.
“What is a nitrate and why does one want to mine it?”
He shrugged. “Something to do with arms. Her father made a bloody fortune in the war, which I think is quite low really.”
I smiled into my soup bowl. “Cubby, you’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. For you to say something is low, it must have been awfully vile.”
“Yes, well, you know how it was. I was over there in the trenches. I lost friends, more than I care to count. And to marry a girl whose father made his money that way—” He broke off, wincing. “I hadn’t the stomach for it. At least, not until you.”
I put down my spoon. “Until me?”
“When you had the courage to leave Gerald at the altar. Serves him right, the pompous prig.”
“Cubby, Gerald is your best friend and your cousin,” I reminded him. “And what I did wasn’t courageous. It was the rankest cowardice.”
“It was not,” he said stubbornly. “If you knew you had doubts, the right thing, the only thing, was to get out before it all became official. I call it good sense.”
“Good sense, bad form,” I murmured.
“Yes, well, society doesn’t know everything,” he said firmly.
I tipped my head thoughtfully. “Cubby, tell me about your new fiancée. Does society not approve?”
“It does not,” he told her. He put down his spoon and leaned forward, his eyes bright. “She’s the prettiest girl in the world. She’s kind and thoughtful, and well, I simply wouldn’t want to live if I couldn’t have her.”
“You’re quite the romantic, Cubby,” I said, smiling. “But if she’s so wonderful, why the objections to the match? Hasn’t she any money?”
“Not tuppence to rub together, I’m afraid. She’s the vicar’s daughter,” he said with a rueful face. “Mother is about to have an apoplexy, and Father’s threatened to cut me off without a shilling, but I don’t care. I love Gwen, and I’ll marry her or no one. It’s been the most terrible secret, utterly awful not to be able to talk about it, and you’ve always been so friendly. I feel somehow you understand that I mean to do this. I must do this.” Cubby’s chin had taken on a decidedly mulish cast, and I tried not to imagine the outrage of the Marchioness of Drumlanrig at having a daughter-in-law called Gwen.
“I’m sure they’ll come around,” I said, certain of no such thing. But it seemed the only polite remark to make under the circumstances, and Cubby brightened noticeably.
“But you see, Gwen is a bit uncertain of me just yet,” he went on. “She’s feeling out of sorts at how awful my family are being, and it’s made her doubt herself. If she were to find out I’d been lunching with someone as notorious as—”
He broke off, blushing again as I gave an indignant screech. “I’m not notorious! A moment ago, you said I was courageous.”
“And I meant it. But people do say things about you. I mean, what sort of girl leaves a viscount’s heir at the altar?”
“And what sort of man throws over a nitrate heiress for a village maiden?” I retorted.
But I could never stay mad at Cubby, and having at least one friend to talk to made me feel marginally less like a pariah. By the time we had tucked into large plates of apple tart with cream, we were perfectly friendly again—friendly enough that I ventured to give him an almost truthful response when he asked about my plans.
“I mean to travel,” I told him. “I’m thinking of someplace nice and sunny. Perhaps the Holy Land.”
He sat back, patting his rounded belly in satisfaction. “Rather a long way just for some sun.”
“Yes, well, I’ve always been mad about Biblical antiquities,” I said blithely. “Nineveh and Bethlehem and Sodom.” At least I hoped those were real places. Cubby blinked and I hurried on. “Anyway, now that the war’s over, I can see the region properly.”
“Ah, taking a Cook’s tour or something?”
I thought quickly. A Cook’s tour would cost the earth, and I doubted my funds would stretch to passage for me and Masterman, as well. I could have asked Reginald and he would have given the money happily, but something in me rebelled for the first time. If I asked Reginald, it meant involving Mother, who would ask endless questions and even, possibly, insist upon coming along. But if I found the means myself, I was answerable to no one. I could go as I please. I could be truly independent for once. The thought was as intoxicating as the finest champagne, and I blurted out before I could stop myself, “Actually, I mean to get a job.”
Cubby blinked. “A job? Really? Well, that’s splendid,” he said, a shade too heartily. “What sort of job?”
I shrugged. “Companion, I suppose. It’s what I’m fit for. I can answer letters and walk dogs and arrange flowers. I don’t think I should make a very good governess or nurse,” I finished with a shudder.
“No, I don’t think so,” he agreed with a kindly smile. His expression turned thoughtful. “I say, it’s the strangest coincidence, but I might know of something.”
“Really?”
“My great-uncle on Mother’s side, curious old chap. Always haring off to parts unknown. He was a great explorer in years past, but now he’s content to potter about his old haunts. He was quite ill this past winter, as a matter of fact, we were certain he was a goner. But he’s pulled through and wants to go back to the Levant. Apparently he had a roaring time of it when he was younger and wants to see it all again before he dies.”
“And he needs a companion?” My heart began to beat quickly, tightly, like a new drum.
“Not exactly. He means to write his memoirs and his handwriting is truly awful. Even worse than mine and no one has read a word I’ve written since 1912. I don’t suppose you can type?” he finished hopefully.
I smiled thinking of the secretarial course I had very nearly completed. “As a matter of fact, I can. After a fashion,” I added in a burst of honesty.
“Well, that’s just ripping,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “I do love when things work out so neatly, almost as if it were meant to be. Now, if I know Uncle Cyrus, he’s using this memoir as an excuse to have someone younger to come along on the trip. He’s very fond of youn
g people,” he advised. “You see, Uncle Cyrus likes to tell stories, bang on about the old days. My theory is he’s told them all too many times and his valet won’t listen anymore. He wants a fresh pair of ears,” Cubby finished with a nod.
“I have fresh ears,” I told him. I was suddenly quite desperate to go to the Levant with Uncle Cyrus. “Would you mind asking your uncle if he still has a position open?”
He shrugged. “Not at all. Always happy to do a good turn for a pal.”
I hesitated. “And when you ask, can you tell him my name is March?”
Cubby’s spaniel-brown eyes widened as he shaped a soundless whistle. “I say, a bit of intrigue there. Going incognita, are you?”
“No, as it happens. Hammond isn’t my legal name. Mother was divorced from my father, you know. His name was March.”
“Not one of the Sussex Marches?”
“The same.”
He gave another bark of laughter. “But they’re all mad as hatters.”
“Yes, well,” I said dryly, “sometimes I think this particular apple mayn’t have fallen far from the tree. But it will damp down the scandal if I start using my real name again, don’t you think?”
He shrugged. “How the devil should I know? I have no intrigues. I am pure as the driven snow,” he added, pulling a face.
I gave him a suspicious glance. “Oh, I don’t know, Cubby. I should think you were capable of an intrigue or two if you put your mind to it.”
He paled for a second, but as soon as the colour in his face ebbed it flooded back, and he took a quick sip of his coffee. I grinned.
“Only joking. I am sure Miss Gwen can be certain of your fidelity. You’re the last fellow to have a señorita tucked away on the side.”
He threw me a grateful look. “Yes, quite. Where are you staying?”
I wrote down my details on a bit of scrap paper and handed it to Cubby. “Thank you, Cubby. I won’t forget this.”
Night of a Thousand Stars Page 7
