The Bride Hunt

by Jane Feather

  “No, it wasn’t,” her sister stated. “He was not in the least put out. The girl was being curious and he had no real problem with it at all. It amused him. I just don’t think he’s serious . . . ever has been . . . about this bargain. He’s going to insist on his eighty-twenty split.” She shrugged and refilled her coffee cup.

  “Well, we can but persevere,” Chastity said with customary optimism. “I was wondering about Lavender Riley, or even Priscilla Heyworth.” She regarded her sister with a raised eyebrow, waiting for the objections she instinctively expected.

  Instead, Prudence shrugged again and said, “They’re possibilities, I suppose.”

  “So, what was in the letter?” Chastity gestured with a piece of toast to the crumpled sheet that had not yet caught flame.

  “A surprisingly polite request that I make myself available all day tomorrow for a more intensive preparation session.”

  “In his chambers?”

  “No, he says he will collect me here at the house at eight-thirty in the morning.”

  “He does like to make an early start, even on a Sunday,” Chastity commented. She folded the newspaper carefully along the crease. Lord Duncan had not yet come down to breakfast, and he abhorred an obviously previously read newspaper.

  “Well, he made it clear last night he has to work on this brief in his leisure. I can hardly insist on mine, even though tomorrow is Sunday.” She took up her coffee cup again.

  “Good morning, my dears.” Lord Duncan entered the breakfast parlor, his complexion ruddy from his morning ablutions, his white hair impeccably coiffed. “Jenkins has promised me kippers,” he said, rubbing his hands. “A morning that starts with kippers can only lead to good things.”

  “You’re very cheerful this morning, Father,” Chastity observed, placing the newspaper at his plate. “Considering that it’s pouring with rain.” She gestured towards the long windows, where rain slanted against the panes.

  “Oh, what’s a little rain?” his lordship said. “I’m going with Barclay to meet with his solicitors and the barrister. They want me to take the stand as a character witness.”

  Prudence took an overly large gulp of hot coffee and choked, tears filling her eyes as she buried her face in her napkin.

  “Really,” Chastity said rather weakly. “How good of you.”

  “Good God, it’s hardly good to stand by a friend in need. Oh, delicious, Jenkins, thank Mrs. Hudson for me.” Lord Duncan sniffed hungrily at the aroma rising from the plate of steaming kippers placed before him. “And brown bread and butter, of course.” He patted his embonpoint, where his silver watch and chain rested in state.

  Prudence poured coffee for him and passed the cup. “Will it be a long meeting?”

  “Oh, no idea,” her father said. “Judging by the exorbitant fees these fellows charge, it ought to last all day.” He attacked a kipper, scraping aside the larger bones before taking a forkful that he consumed with an air of bliss. “Manna,” he murmured. “Sheer manna. Can’t think why you girls don’t eat them.”

  “Too many bones,” Chastity said. “By the time I’ve fiddled with them, the kipper’s stone cold and I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “Oh, you just chew ’em up,” Lord Duncan said, suiting action to advice. “The little ones don’t do you any harm.” He opened the newspaper with a flick and perused the headlines.

  “Will you be in for luncheon?” Prudence inquired, spreading marmalade on her toast.

  “Shouldn’t think so, m’dear. If we’re done with these lawyer fellows in time, Barclay and I’ll lunch at the club. What’s today?” He glanced at the date on the newspaper. “Oh, Saturday. Odd that they work on a weekend.” He shrugged. “Not to worry. It’s steak and oyster pie today. We’ll definitely be lunching at the club.”

  “You haven’t forgotten we’re having dinner with Constance and Max this evening?”

  “Oh, no. Pity Barclay couldn’t accept the invitation. Some relative or other come to town.”

  “I think Con’s invited the Wesleys though,” Prudence said. “You know how much you like to play bridge with them. Con will partner you.”

  “Oh, yes, it’ll be a capital evening, I’m sure. Capital.” He returned to his paper.

  Prudence glanced at Chastity and folded her napkin. “If you don’t mind, Father, we’ll leave you to your breakfast. Chas and I have a few errands to run this morning.” She pushed back her chair and dropped a kiss on her father’s cheek as she headed for the door, Chastity at her heels.

  In the hall, she paused, tapping the folded thumb of her fist against her chin. “We have to do it this morning, Chas.”

  “Go through the papers?”

  “Yes. There’s no knowing when we can be sure Father will be out of the house again for a decent stretch of time.”

  Chastity nodded. “Should we send a message to Con?”

  “Yes, get Fred to run around to Westminster. With three of us looking, if there’s anything to find we’ll find it.”

  Chastity hurried off to the kitchen. Fred, the errand boy and general handyman, was polishing shoes by the range and chatting amiably with Mrs. Hudson. “Lord Duncan’s delighted with his kippers, Mrs. Hudson,” Chastity said.

  “Oh, I thought he’d find ’em tasty,” the housekeeper said. “’Tisn’t often the fishmonger has ’em on his cart when he comes of a Thursday, but this week he did. And they weren’t too expensive neither. Twopence halfpenny apiece.”

  “Well, they gave his lordship more than fivepence worth of pleasure,” Chastity told her. “Fred, when you’ve finished with the shoes, could you run around to Mrs. Ensor and ask her if she could visit this morning? As soon as she can.”

  Fred spat on one of Lord Duncan’s evening shoes. “I’ll be done here in ten minutes, Miss Chastity.” He polished vigorously, working the spittle into the leather.

  “Miss Con will be here for lunch, then, Miss Chas?” Mrs. Hudson inquired.

  “Yes, but bread and cheese will do fine.”

  “Oh, I might turn my hand to a bit of pastry,” the housekeeper said. “Seeing as there’s no dinner to cook this evening. There’s a nice piece of ham in the pantry and I think I could lay my hands on a bit of stewing veal. How would you fancy a veal and ham pie?”

  “Very much,” Chastity said.

  “And a jam roly-poly for pudding.”

  “You spoil us, Mrs. Hudson . . . even on our budget.”

  “Oh, ’tis not difficult, Miss Chas, if you’ve an eye for a bargain,” the woman said with a pleased smile. With an answering smile, Chastity left the kitchen, reflecting that they should all count their blessings when it came to Jenkins and Mrs. Hudson. But, of course, they did, every waking minute.

  She had stopped smiling when she reached the upstairs parlor. “We have to stop Father from taking the stand,” she stated as she entered. “What if he recognizes your voice, Prue. Even if you disguise it, you’re his daughter.”

  “I know,” her sister said. She was standing at the window watching the drumming rain and the sodden trees in the square garden. “And Gideon will be cross-examining him. It’ll be hideous, Chas.” She crossed her arms over her breasts.

  “Everything we tell Gideon about Father will be armor for his cross-examination.” Chastity shook her head. “I don’t see how we can do it, Prue.”

  “We have to,” her sister said simply. “We have to find a way. We can’t lose, Chas, you know that. If we do, Father will be devastated . . . broken.”

  “Then you’re going to have to act as you’ve never acted before,” Chastity said, now briskly accepting the reality. “You need a voice, one that won’t slip under pressure, and won’t bear any resemblance to your own.”

  “The one thing we have in our favor is that it would never occur to Father in his wildest nightmares that we would have anything to do with the case,” Prudence said, turning away from the window. “Even if he had an inkling that there was something familiar about the veiled witness for the defe
nse, he would never associate her with one of us.”

  “I only hope you’re right.” Chastity came over to the window to stand beside her sister, and they stood looking down onto the street until a hackney disgorged Constance, under a big umbrella.

  Constance didn’t pause on the pavement to look up at the parlor window as she might have done on another day, but scurried up the steps to the house. The door opened as she reached the top, and she nearly ran into her father, similarly equipped with a big, black umbrella.

  “Good morning, my dear,” he said hastily while waving his umbrella at the cab that had just delivered his daughter. “Can’t stop. I’ll take your cab.”

  “I’ll see you this evening, Father,” Constance said to his retreating back. She turned to the door, shaking the rain off her umbrella.

  “I’ll take that, Miss Con.” Jenkins deftly removed it. “It’ll dry in the back scullery. Weather’s not fit for ducks.”

  “That it’s not,” Constance agreed, taking off her hat in the hall. “Are my sisters upstairs?”

  “Waiting for you, Miss Con.”

  Constance nodded, and ran up the stairs. “So, what’s happening?” she asked as she opened the door. “That was a rather urgent message to someone who’s giving an important dinner party this evening.” She was laughing as she spoke, but her laughter died when she saw her sisters’ expressions. “Trouble?”

  “Of a kind. But we also need your help this morning.” Prudence explained the situation.

  “Damn and blast,” Constance said. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, he would,” Prudence agreed with a resigned shrug. “Loyalty to his friend.”

  “And we’re going to blow that loyalty to smithereens,” Chastity stated.

  They were silent for a minute, then Prudence said heavily, “Well, let’s go and find the evidence to do that. I asked Jenkins to light a fire in the library.” She went over to the secretaire and opened one of the small drawers. “I have a key to the safe.”

  “When did you get that?”

  “Months ago. Jenkins had it copied for me. I can’t keep control of the finances if I don’t know what Father is spending. All his bills are in the safe, so I see them before they come due. That way I can make sure there’s enough in his bank account to cover them . . . or at least make sure that he’s not too overdrawn.”

  Constance put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Prue, why didn’t you tell us?”

  “This is my job. I didn’t see any reason to burden you both with the more dubious aspects of its operation. I don’t like the idea of snooping and prying into Father’s personal affairs, but since he won’t give me any information freely I had to find a way to get it without his knowledge.” She tossed the tiny key from hand to hand, her expression hard to read.

  “Prue, love, this isn’t a burden you carry alone,” Chastity said. “We would have supported you in this if you’d told us. You don’t need to feel guilty.”

  “Maybe not. But I do. Let’s go and dig ourselves deeper into this slough of deceit.” She strode to the door.

  “So, how was your evening, Prue?” Constance asked as they entered the library. “Does our barrister seem to have a handle on the case?”

  Prudence closed the door behind them, and then after an instant’s hesitation, locked it. “He’s very aggressive with his questions but I’m sure he’s right that opposing counsel will be and I need to be forearmed.” She leaned against the door for a moment. “He also says that we can expect them to put detectives onto finding our identities.”

  Her sisters turned to stare at her. “Detectives?” Chastity repeated.

  Prudence nodded. “I suppose, if you think about it, it’s almost inevitable.”

  “Where would they start?” Constance wondered. “Oh, The Mayfair Lady, of course.”

  “Yes,” Prudence agreed. “That was what I was thinking. They could start asking questions at all the places that stock it. No one knows us, of course. When we go to collect our money, we’re always heavily veiled, but . . .” She shook her head. “It’s still alarming. Maybe on Monday we can go to some of the outlets we use—Helene’s Milliners, Robert’s of Piccadilly, a few of the others—just to see if there’s been any unusual interest or inquiries.”

  “We’ll do the rounds,” Constance said.

  “That might put our minds at rest. Help me with the Stubbs.” Prudence went to the far wall and moved aside a large George Stubbs painting of a racehorse. Constance held it to one side while her sister unlocked the wall safe behind and took out its contents, passing them to Chastity.

  “There’s so much stuff in here . . . I’m sure a lot of it’s out-of-date.” She reached into the depths of the safe for the last few pieces of paper, then closed the safe door. Constance let the painting swing back into place.

  Chastity put the pile of papers on the cherry wood desk that stood in the bay window looking out onto the walled back garden. “Shall you go through these, Prue, while Con and I go through the desk drawers?”

  “Yes. We’re looking for anything that resembles a legal contract. Any piece of paper that has a law-firm heading . . . or something that sounds like one.”

  “Jaggers, Tulkinghorn, and Chaffanbrass,” Constance said, sitting at the desk and opening the top drawer.

  “You’re mixing your authors,” Prudence observed, gathering up the pile of papers liberated from the safe and crossing to the sofa in front of the fire. “Chaffanbrass was Trollope, not Dickens.”

  “I know,” Constance said. “They just had a nice ring to them.” She drew out a folder from the drawer. “So when are you seeing our barrister again?”

  “Tomorrow.” Prudence leafed through her pile. “At some godawful hour. I’d like to have something concrete to show him.”

  “I wonder why he’s not meeting you in his chambers,” Chastity said, on her knees in front of the cupboard in the side of desk. “If he’s preparing you for the witness stand, why’s he coming to fetch you in his motor?”

  “I have no idea,” her sister said. “The man’s a mystery to me.”

  “Of course it is Sunday,” Constance pointed out.

  She looked up, aware that Prudence wasn’t listening. “What is it? Have you found something?”

  “I don’t know,” Prudence said slowly. “There’s a note here, signed ‘Barclay.’ No date.” She turned it over. “It refers to ‘our agreement.’ ” She frowned. “‘As per our agreement of last week, the payment schedule should be advanced to take advantage of the present favorable market. I am advised by the principals that interest rates will rise in the next month to our disadvantage.’ ”

  “But it doesn’t say what the agreement is?”

  “No, Chas. Nothing specific. But it seems that he’s asking for money. I wish there was a date on it.”

  “Let me see.” Constance came over to the sofa. Prudence handed her the note. “Well, it’s not recent,” Constance said. “The paper’s got an old stain on it . . . here, at the bottom.” She indicated a brown smudge. “See how it’s faded?”

  “The paper’s a bit yellowed too,” Chastity observed, peering over her sister’s shoulder. “And the ink’s faded.”

  “We’d make very good detectives,” Prudence said. “So, let’s assume that this is about three years old, about the time of Father’s investment in the Trans-Saharan Railway. We’re talking interest rates, payment schedules . . .”

  “But no indication of what for,” Constance said.

  “Perhaps they had a verbal agreement,” Chastity suggested. “If Barclay was up to something fraudulent, maybe he didn’t want anything on paper.”

  “Surely Father wouldn’t agree to something so huge without something in writing?” Constance said.

  “Wouldn’t he?” Prudence responded glumly. “A man who’d believe in a chimera in the Saharan desert?”

  No one could find an argument for that. “Let’s just go through everything thoroughly, just to make sure w
e don’t miss anything,” Prudence said, folding the note carefully. “I’ll give this to Gideon tomorrow. Maybe he can see a way to use it.”

  At the end of another hour, she looked at the piles of paper with something like despair. “That’s it,” she said. “We’ve gone through everything with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “There must be something else we can do.” Chastity threw another shovel of coal on the fire.

  “The bank,” Prudence said suddenly. “We have to get access to his bank records.”

  Constance said from her perch on the arm of the sofa, “The bank manager must know you because you do all the dealings with the household accounts, maybe he’d be willing to let you look at Father’s personal records.”

  Prudence shook her head. “Not Mr. Fitchley. He’s a real stickler for the rules, and I’m sure he’d think an unauthorized examination of a personal account would be unethical.” She paced restlessly to the window and stood looking out on the rain-drenched garden, drumming her fingers on the sill. “But maybe there’s a way to get Father to sign an authorization for me,” she said slowly.

  “How so?” Chastity asked.

  Prudence turned from the window and stood resting her palms on the sill behind her. “He signs things I put in front of him,” she said, sounding so reluctant, it was almost as if the words were being dragged from her. “Bills, orders for the household, those kinds of things. Usually he doesn’t bother to look at them.” She watched her sisters as comprehension dawned.

  “It’s so deceitful,” Chastity said with a tiny sigh. “I really hate the idea.”

  “We all do, love,” Prudence said. “But I don’t see any other way. I’ll write an authorization and slip it into the middle of a pile of other papers and catch him this evening before we go to Con’s. He’ll have had a good lunch with Barclay, and by then he’ll probably have had a whisky while he was dressing for dinner. He won’t give anything a second glance.”

  “It is horrid,” Constance said, “but I don’t see we have any choice. Once you get the authorization you can go to the bank on Monday morning.”