‘I’m sorry to see that your circumstances are so reduced now, Doña Magdalena,’ he said. ‘Don Antonio would be distressed that he had left you in such squalor.’
She bristled at his impertinence; she preferred to believe that she lived in simplicity rather than squalor. Besides which, she knew that Antonio had been so angry with her in the final months of his life that he wouldn’t have cared a damn about her blessed circumstances.
‘How much did Don Antonio leave you?’ he asked, suddenly.
She wasn’t sure that she had had heard him correctly and asked him to repeat the question.
‘How much money have you got?’ he said with a hint of irritation. ‘How many reals do you own?’
She lowered her eyelashes to hide the anger in her eyes while she considered how best to respond to such base rudeness. ‘Not many in England,’ she finally said. ‘Most of what I own is back in Spain in the hands of the French.’
‘Does that include your late father’s estate in Langreo? Do the French have that too?’
Deciding that vagueness was probably the best policy to deflect him, she sighed and threw her hands in the air in a gesture of confusion. ‘I have no idea. You will have to excuse me, Don Felipe. Antonio dealt with issues of money and finance. I really have no idea – and I’m struggling to find out about what is left of my property and wealth in Spain.’
He lowered the veiled lids further over his eyes. She sensed that his mind was calculating something. ‘You will need help when the war is over, to reclaim what is yours.’
‘Most probably.’
‘You women are foolish when it comes to money and inheritance,’ he continued dismissively. ‘None of you ever know what it is you own. People will try to cheat you all the time.’
She forced a look of bewildered sadness onto her face. ‘Yes, you’re right, Don Felipe. I will probably need help to put my affairs into order once we return to a liberated Spain. I just find the whole thing upsetting. Thank you for your concern.’
‘I would see it as my duty to help you in these matters, Doña Magdalena. Don Antonio would have expected no less from me.’
‘Again, that is kind of you, Don Felipe. Very neighbourly.’
A broad grin of satisfaction spread across his handsome face. Suddenly he leant forward and took her hand in his. She tried to pull it away but his grip was like iron. ‘Perhaps we should consider the possibility that we can be more than neighbours?’
‘What—What do you mean?’
Fortunately, Teresa appeared at that moment, with a tray of steaming coffee and mismatched china crockery.
Don Felipe released Magdalena’s hand and took his cup without a glance at or a word of thanks to Teresa. He sat back in the chair. Across from him, Magdalena shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, conscious that his eyes were lazily undressing her.
‘You’re a mature and very beautiful woman, Doña Magdalena,’ he said. A lascivious smile now played on his lips as his veiled eyes once again shamelessly travelled over her breasts, her curvaceous hips and long legs. Magdalena felt like a prize heifer in a cattle market.
‘Thank you, Don Felipe,’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘But you’re also a realist. You know how the world works. Your estates, which border mine, are extensive. Then there is your father’s estate to consider. A woman could never manage such responsibility alone.’ His voice assumed a businesslike tone. ‘You will need a man, a protector, when you return to Spain. Firstly, you will need to re-establish your right to your land – and then you will need help to manage the estates, someone to handle the finances and make the decisions.’
‘You may be right,’ she said, warily. She had a strong suspicion what he would say next and braced herself.
‘Yes, you will need to remarry. You need a husband.’
She opened her mouth to mention that she was still grieving for Antonio but his next statement took her breath away.
‘And I’m in need of wife.’
Not even three years of practising deceit at the Spanish court had prepared Magdalena for that. She hardly knew the man. Her composure slipped and she choked on her coffee.
‘Is this a proposal, Don Felipe?’ she asked lightly, once she had dabbed her coffee-spattered cloak with her handkerchief. She desperately tried to think of something she may have done or said in the past, which had led him think that she might welcome such an outrageous offer.
He shrugged. ‘It is something to consider, to think about,’ he said, casually.
‘But I’m older than you Don Felipe!’ she exclaimed.
He shrugged again. ‘There are only a few years between us. You may no longer be a young girl, Doña Magdalena, but you’re still an attractive woman. I assume you’re still fertile? You and Antonio only had the one child. Why was that?’
She sat in stony silence; every fibre of her body was screaming in outrage at his rudeness and arrogance. When she didn’t reply another lascivious smile spread across his face. ‘Well, no matter. We’re both well endowed – with land.’ His meaning was clear.
‘I thank you again for your interest in my welfare, Don Felipe,’ Magdalena replied. ‘You’re too kind to this poor, old widow. However, I’m still too wracked with grief for Antonio to even think about remarriage. I need more time to mourn for him.’
Felipe shrugged. ‘There is time,’ he said, ‘plenty of time. I doubt that the war will be over this year. I suspect that you may be living in penury for some time longer, Doña Magdalena. The constraints of your situation may become intolerable.’ He narrowed his eyes and watched her reaction to his next words carefully. ‘And I assume that Don Antonio made no provision for Sebastián’s school fees for next year?’
‘I’m sorry that you feel that the war may drag on longer,’ she said, desperate to change the subject.
‘Yes, Viscount Wellington is a fool,’ he said. ‘The English have lost their advantage and retreated into Portugal for the winter. Our own resistance is in disarray.’
‘That is disappointing.’
The padded shoulders of his cape rose again in another dismissive shrug. ‘The Cádiz Cortes were foolish to put their trust in the British.’ Suddenly he stood up and fastened his greatcoat. ‘Take up my sister Juana’s invitation, Doña Magdalena,’ he said. ‘Stay with us for a while at our home in Bedford Square and we shall get to know each other better.’ He flashed a looked of distaste at the shabbiness of the room. ‘Leave this miserable place and enjoy our hospitality, our comfort.’
‘I will . . . consider it,’ she replied, relieved that he was departing. She held out her hand. He ignored it, leant down and cupped her chin in a firm grip. Before she could protest he had forced his mouth down onto hers. Her body recoiled at his touch. The hard insistence of his emotionless kiss sent a shiver of distaste down her spine. She gasped as his slimy tongue probed into the secret recesses of her mouth like the antennae of a fat snail.
She pushed him off. ‘I must protest, Don Antonio,’ she said angrily as she forced herself to her feet. ‘You presume too much!’
The sardonic smile returned to his lips. ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ he said. ‘This Detective Lavender, he’s your lover, yes?’
She bristled with indignation. ‘Really, Don Felipe! Of course not!’
‘If he isn’t, then he wants to be. But it is no matter.’ Felipe gave that annoying shrug again and Magdalena had to clench her fists to stop herself slapping his face. ‘You’re a widow, not a virgin. You should foster your acquaintance with Lavender,’ he said vaguely. ‘He may be useful. He has access to many people and places with information which could be useful to us.’
His sudden change of tack threw her for a moment. ‘Who is us?’ she asked.
He smiled, his eyes veiled once more behind his lowered lids. ‘Us – or we – are those in Spain who want to see this blessed war ended once and for all,’ he said quietly.
Don Felipe took her hand, raised it halfway to his mouth
then paused and stepped closer, intimidating her with his masculine presence and strength. Once again she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stiffen. ‘And that includes you, Doña Magdalena,’ he whispered. ‘Doesn’t it? Don’t try to pretend that you’re resigned to this miserable existence in London. You want to go back home – and the sooner the better. Listen carefully to what this Lavender fellow has to say and report it back to me.’ Before she could reply he kissed her hand, gave a short bow and strode out of the room.
Her mind in turmoil, Magdalena sank back into her seat, her heart pounding. She stared bleakly ahead. For the second time today a man had sought to enlist her into his services as a spy. Had this really happened? And what on earth had led Menendez to think that she would consider a marriage proposal from him? Had someone taken a quill and etched ‘desperate señora’ across her forehead as she slept?
Teresa returned to her side after closing the door behind Menendez. ‘Humph! More kisses!’ she said in English. ‘Him? Him I don’t like. You marry Señor the Detective.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Friday 23rd February, 1810
Lavender and Magdalena attended the short service in the Willoughbys’ local church. It was a sad and dismal affair. The lesson was read by a vicar with the quietest and most monotonous voice Lavender had ever had the misfortune to endure. Then they stood around for half an hour in the mud, drizzle and blustery wind of the graveyard while the vicar intoned some more.
The congregation shuffled from one foot to another as their boots sank into the sodden ground. The hems of the women’s cloaks and gowns quickly became darkened with damp. Everything around them was muted into differing shades and hues of grey: the crumbling walls and ancient slate tiles of the church and the darkening clouds in the sky above. A line of carriages waited for the mourners on the lane beside the church. Occasionally the jangle of harnesses would reach their ears as a horse stamped on the cobbles.
Magdalena stood in dignified silence beside Lavender, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. Her dark, modest clothing did nothing to hide her regal poise or the alluring sway of her hips when she walked. Even the veil over her gleaming black hair only added to her mystery. A gust of wind swirled around her skirts.
He pulled her closer to him to shelter her from its blast. She smiled at him from beneath the veil.
While the vicar droned on, Lavender’s eyes scanned the crowd of mourners and the road beyond the low, church wall. The occasional wagon and carriage rumbled past the line of waiting vehicles at the churchyard gate. There were only a couple of family friends at the funeral and an officer from the Admiralty to represent Captain Willoughby. It had crossed Lavender’s mind that one, or more, of the kidnappers may turn up at the service to see the truth for themselves. The morning newspapers had told a dramatic story to the world and this was the first time in a week that April Clare had left the house in Wandsworth.
Would the kidnappers be able to resist this opportunity to confirm the truth of those sensational headlines? Jane Scott had played her part well; the vivid and melodramatic story of April Clare’s resurrection had appeared in nearly every morning newspaper. He imagined that quite a few Londoners must have choked on their kippers or dropped their porridge spoon on their waistcoats if they had attempted to eat their breakfast and read at the same time.
The kidnappers must now be aware that they had taken the wrong woman. Their trap was set.
Magdalena squeezed his arm to attract his attention. She regarded him quizzically. ‘Who are you looking for?’ she whispered.
Lavender smiled and shook his head; she missed nothing.
‘Ashes to ashes,’ the vicar intoned, and the relieved congregation stepped forward to throw dirt into the grave. ‘Dust to dust.’
The service now over, Solomon Rothschild moved forward to engage Magdalena in conversation and Lavender took the opportunity to have a quiet word with April Clare whom he was relieved to see was quite dry-eyed.
‘I saw the papers this morning,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, everything is ready – and Constable Woods has joined the theatre. Jane Scott was delighted with the whole idea and tomorrow night she will welcome you back to the Sans Pareil with open arms. Your part is simple but if you have any problems, Constable Woods will be on hand to assist you – and protect you.’
She breathed a huge sigh of relief and smiled. ‘Thank you, Detective. You can’t imagine my gratitude at the speedy way you have resolved my problems.’
‘It is not over yet,’ he said, more sharply than he intended. ‘You still have a part to play tomorrow night.’
‘Don’t worry – I shall not let you down. I want justice for poor Harriet as much as you do.’ Another gust of wind now whipped round the skirts of the women and threatened to blow off the men’s hats. April Clare pulled her cloak tighter around her throat. ‘We should get back to the house,’ she said.
When Lavender returned to Magdalena’s side, Lady Caroline and Duddles had joined her and Rothschild.
‘I’m disappointed, Lavender,’ Lady Caroline said. ‘Doña Magdalena tells me that you now have another appointment and will be unable to return to Lincoln’s Inn Fields for luncheon with us.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ he said.
‘Well, in that case I insist that you both join me one evening when I hold one of my soirées. We have buried poor Harriet now and must pick up the pieces of our lives as best as we can.’
A quick glance at Magdalena’s smiling face assured him that he should accept the invitation on behalf of both of them. ‘It would be our pleasure to come to one of your gatherings, Lady Caroline,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid that we must leave you now.’ He was conscious that the funeral had overrun. There was just enough time to take Magdalena and Teresa to see his surprise before her afternoon Spanish lesson. ‘Please accept our condolences once more, Lady Caroline.’
Both men bowed politely in Magdalena’s direction as they left. It seemed to him that Solomon Rothschild’s black velvet yarmulke remained down a little longer than necessary. His hand lingered in Magdalena’s as he raised it to his lips and his gaze followed her as she turned to walk with Teresa to their carriage. He smiled. First, young Barrington at the language school; now Rothschild. Magdalena made conquests of men wherever she went.
As Lavender helped Magdalena up the steps into their vehicle, another carriage slowly trundled past on the other side of the road. A pinched, white face stared out of the window towards them: it was Sir Lawrence Forsyth. His close-set eyes widened beneath their bushy brows at the sight of Magdalena and Lavender together once more. Then a deep frown set on his face. Not him again, Lavender thought irritably. The bloody man is stalking us.
Magdalena disappeared into the swaying vehicle, oblivious to their glowering observer. Teresa waited patiently at his side for his assistance. She had also seen Forsyth. ‘It is that small hombre,’ she said. ‘We saw him in Bow Street with you, Señor the Detective.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I remember.’
‘Him? Him I don’t like.’
He paused, both surprised and amused. Teresa so rarely spoke English, he felt he must appreciate the moment and encourage her. ‘Why don’t you like him, Teresa?’
She shrugged. ‘Me know not – and him – he speak española.’
He frowned. ‘He speaks Spanish?’
‘Si, castellano, español – mi lengua.’ She nodded her head vigorously.
Knowing that she would be more explicit in Spanish, he switched quickly into her native tongue. ‘How do you know that, Teresa? What makes you think he speaks Spanish?’
She tutted and raised her dark eyes to the sky. ‘It’s easy if you look and listen,’ she said. ‘You should know this.’
‘Quite,’ he said, a little taken aback. ‘What have I missed, Teresa?’
‘Doña Magdalena hurt her knee in the theatre when she tripped up that bad man, that thief. But she only complained about it in Spanish. The next day w
e met him—’ She jerked her thumb down the road at the receding carriage. ‘We met him in Bow Street on the stairs. He asked about Doña Magdalena’s knee. But how would he know her knee was injured unless he had understood her Spanish curses?’
Lavender’s eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. His mind flitted back to that meeting with Forsyth in Bow Street and he realised that Teresa was right. Forsyth had given himself away; he had understood Magdalena when she was cursing in Spanish. He had no idea what this latest discovery meant to his investigation but he sensed it was significant. He gave Teresa his most brilliant smile. ‘Well done!’ he said. ‘That is helpful, thank you, Teresa. Why – I could kiss you!’
‘No!’ shrieked the maid in horror. She hitched up her skirts and leapt up the steps into the carriage with the nimbleness of a Pyrenean mountain goat. She turned round dramatically in the doorway, her little face flushed with alarm. ‘No more kisses!’ she yelled.
Constable Woods leant against the filthy wall of the theatre corridor, gave a hacking cough and rubbed the itchy stubble on his chin. Bored, he poked his mop at a nasty stain on the floorboards and wrinkled his broad nose at the whiff of the fish wharf that emanated from his old jacket. When he had told Betsy about Magistrate Read’s warning about the loose morals of the actresses at the Sans Pareil, her grey eyes had hardened. The next thing he knew, she had retrieved his old fishing jacket from the lean-to in the back yard, a filthy shirt from the unwashed laundry and had hidden his razor. She had also tried to persuade him to blacken out his teeth with paper but he had drawn the line at that. He had never looked or smelt more unattractive; which, he suspected, was exactly what Betsy intended.
The Sans Pareil Mystery (The Detective Lavender Mysteries Book 2) Page 22
