by Joan Smith
No sane possibility of what this matter could be occurred to me, but I said, “I am not at all tired.”
Lord Fairfield had just resumed his seat and adjusted his body to a comfortable position in the chair when another tap came at the door. “That will be Smythe,” Mrs. Lovatt said, and rose to admit him.
Her sharp intake of breath was audible across the room, but it was soon overborne by the loud and common accents of a female. “G’day, Mrs. Lovatt. I spotted you on the Marine Parade a short while ago and saw you enter the hotel. I have come to pay my condolences on Harold’s death.”
Lord Fairfield blinked in astonishment at the apparition who elbowed Mrs. Lovatt aside and strode into the chamber, amidst a reek of toilet water. She was a full-blown blond woman of heroic proportions. Her natural color was assisted by a generous application from the rouge pot. She was outfitted all in violet, from the swirling feathers of her high poke bonnet to the tips of her kidskin gloves and kid slippers. If this liberal use of violet was meant to indicate half mourning, it failed miserably. She looked like an actress decked out for a mourning scene, whose performance she was enjoying immensely.
“Such a shock for you, Miss Hume,” she said, rushing up to me. “Happening away from home and all, and under such queer circumstances. You must have wondered what had hit you.” As she spoke, her eyes flashed with keen interest toward Lord Fairfield.
I was obliged to perform the introduction. “Lord Fairfield, this is an old neighbor from Hythe, Mrs. Mobley.”
“Not that old!” Mrs. Mobley assured him, with a playful nudge and something dangerously close to a wink.
Fairfield had risen to his feet upon her entrance. He made a very civil bow, and said, “Charmed, madam.”
Mrs. Mobley, with a deal of commotion, arranged her reticule, umbrella, and a bag of something she had been carrying on the table beside her. She then turned to me. “Have you found out what carried off your father?” she demanded, with the avid eagerness of the born gossip.
I was acutely aware of Lord Fairfield’s eyes upon me. I was glad Mrs. Mobley didn’t know Papa had been shot. It seemed a vulgar way to die. “That is why we have come, but we have not learned anything yet. And how are you liking Brighton, Mrs. Mobley?” I asked hastily, hoping to divert the conversation to harmless topics. “I heard you had gone to Ireland.”
“Ireland is a wonderful climate—for potatoes,” she said. “I stuck it out for as long as I could. I much prefer Brighton. It’s lively. It is. Between Prinney’s visits and bathing and boating, and of course, your father’s visits, I have been well entertained.”
Mrs. Lovatt’s spine stiffened, as if a poker had suddenly been inserted up it. “I had not realized you were on terms with the Prince Regent,” she said, with awful irony.
Mrs. Mobley emitted a raucous bark of laughter. “Good gracious, Mrs. Lovatt, I have not met him. I simply meant it is good fun to watch the old walrus carrying his belly along the streets. Mind you, I have not entirely given up on scraping an acquaintance, for he is partial to mature ladies, and has no love of string beans.” A condemning eye raked Mrs. Lovatt’s ladderlike frame. “When a lady reaches our age, she must give up on either her face or her figure. If you try to lose a pound, the first place it goes is the face.”
“Your face has certainly not lost its bloom,” Mrs. Lovatt retorted, staring at the rolls of fat around the lady’s middle.
“Harold thought I was just the right size.” She smiled. “Speaking of Harold, I daresay it was his heart that carried him off?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Lovatt replied, with a warning glance in my direction.
“He mentioned those palpitations when we were—” She came to a coy pause, and smiled at Lord Fairfield. “When we were engaging in any strenuous activity.”
“He found walking fatiguing,” Mrs. Lovatt said, her voice like ice. “You ought not to have let him exert himself, Mrs. Mobley.”
“Try if you could stop him!” she said, and laughed merrily. Her next embarrassments were directed to Lord Fairfield, from whom she hoped to obtain an invitation to the Royal Pavilion. “As you are a fine lord, I daresay you are putting up at Prinney’s place?” she asked.
“I am staying here at the Royal Crescent,” he answered civilly.
“Just a social visit? Will you be visiting the prince?”
“I am here on business, actually.”
“Feel free to call on me, if you have an hour at your disposal. I live on German Street, just off the Marine Parade. A tidy little red cottage. You’ll know it by the daffodils around the gate. I’m sure any friends of the Humes are friends of mine.”
Mrs. Lovatt bridled in frustration at this impertinence.
“You are very kind,” he said, trying to conceal his astonishment. Then he rose. “I know you ladies are tired, so I shan’t trouble you further. May I return later this evening to discuss that matter I mentioned, ladies?”
“We plan to return to our room immediately after dinner,” I replied.
“I look forward to seeing you then.” He bowed all around, and left.
“A new beau, Miss Hume?” Mrs. Mobley asked.
“I only met Lord Fairfield today.”
“But your papa knew him,” the dame said knowingly.
“I don’t believe so.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen him chatting to Harold, though I was never presented to him before. They exchanged letters once, I think. Harold used to meet an odd assortment of men. When was it now?” She gave a frowning pause. “Yes, it was during Harold’s Christmas visit that I spotted his lordship. We had been shopping—Harold bought that dainty little gold locket for you, Miss Hume. We stopped here at the hotel for tea. Harold excused himself and had a word with Fairfield. He didn’t mention the lad’s name, but I am not likely to forget a face like that. Handsome as can stare.”
I was on thorns to learn how Papa had known Lord Fairfield, and was aware, too, of her confirmation that Papa had indeed been coming to Brighton all along. Mrs. Mobley could not know he had given me that little gold locket at Christmas unless she had been with my father when he bought it. I was incensed to realize that Papa had been pulling the wool over our eyes, and with this ill-bred creature.
“And what did he buy for you, Mrs. Mobley?” Mrs. Lovatt asked, in a sharp tone.
“Not a wedding ring, if that is what’s got your back up. Marriage didn’t suit me, though we discussed it. He could not leave Gracefield, and I had no wish to go there.” Her gimlet gaze said as clear as words who it was she objected to.
“It is strange Papa never mentioned Lord Fairfield,” I said.
“Aye.” Mrs. Mobley nodded sagely. “There were odd things aplenty going on with your father. I don’t know what it was; he said it would be safer for me not to know. It was a great secret. One would think he was a spy, the way he carried on,” she laughed. “Would you have any notion at all what brought him here, Miss Hume? He’d been coming half a year before I bumped into him.”
“It was bird business,” Mrs. Lovatt said.
“Still racing his pigeons, was he? That explains all those odd-looking men he used to meet.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“Why, you may be sure they were fixing the races. Arranging amongst themselves whose bird was to win, and laying bets on it. That sort of thing goes on all the time. I wish he had told me. I am not a gambler, but I wouldn’t have minded picking up a few pounds on a sure thing. But then, we had more interesting things to talk about. Well, I must be trotting along. I just wanted to pay my respects. Nice chatting to you again.”
Not a word was said to detain her. She heaved herself from her chair, assembled her belongings, and I showed her to the door, with a few insincere expressions of gratitude.
“Hussy!” Mrs. Lovatt exclaimed when the door was closed. “Wouldn’t you know she would have to land in when Lord Fairfield was here. What must he think of that creature? At least she didn’t mention her suspicion that Harold wa
s a spy.” She stopped and emitted a gasp. “Good gracious, Heather. Do you think Mrs. Mobley could be in on it?”
“She’d have been boasting of it if she were. What do you think of this idea of fixing the races, Auntie?”
“Your father was a gentleman, miss.”
“Then I fear he was a gentleman spy. It is odd, her eagerness to get to the Royal Pavilion. That would be an excellent place to pick up news.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Lovatt said doubtfully, “though I can easily enough believe it is the prince she wishes to pick up there. Thank God at least Harold didn’t marry her. She has an eye for Fairfield, you must have noticed.”
I laughed. “She is a bit long in the tooth for him.”
“And a bit broad in the beam.”
“I shall ask him this evening how he came to know Papa.”
“I am beginning to think we should drop this entire matter,” my aunt said. “Whatever it is, it’s over and done now.”
“Not really,” I said. “If it was Snoad at the bottom of it, as you think, then it might be still going on.”
It was unusual for Mrs. Lovatt to have overlooked this aspect of it, for in the usual way, she is awake on all suits. “We’ll march Snoad out of Gracefield as soon as we get home.”
I was aware of a strange reluctance. I remembered Snoad’s sadness when he spoke of my father, and his emotion when I had given him the watch. He had looked so very handsome in the moonlight. . . .
Chapter Six
We did not see Bunny Smythe again until dinner-time. He sent a note to our room telling us he had hired a private parlor, and would meet us there.
“I ordered wine and was just having a gargle,” he said, rising to greet us when we entered. “More than ready for fork work after a busy day. Look forward to sinking a bicuspid into a piece of red meat.”
He had changed to evening attire, but there is not a jacket in all of Christendom that can make Bunny look elegant. Black, in particular, did not suit him. He had the uncanny faculty of attracting every mote of dust and hair and dirt in the air. His jacket looked for the world like a dust rag. He looks least bad in country jacket, buckskins, and top boots. In evening clothes, he looked like a hired mourner at a second-rate funeral.
As soon as we were seated and given a glass of wine to await our mutton, I said, “Did you have any luck finding Depew?”
“Not a sniff of him. He isn’t putting up at any of the regular hotels. Plenty of rooming houses, of course.”
“I don’t see Sir Chauncey putting up at a rooming house,” Mrs. Lovatt said.
“Might, if his visit is supposed to be a secret.”
We filled Bunny in on our doings during his absence. No mention was made of the possibility of Papa’s involvement in spying being anything but proper. “So this is where Mrs. Mobley has anchored herself,” he said.
“Do you know anything about Lord Fairfield?” I asked. Bunny made occasional darts to London during the Season, and had friends there from his school days, and his one term at Cambridge.
“Bit of a wild buck. Corinthian—baron. Heir to old Lord Albemarle’s title and estates. One in Hampshire, another up north somewhere. Marquess, the papa. Fairfield’ll be rich as Croesus one day. Meanwhile, he’s usually dipped. Bets on the horses.”
“Perhaps he also bets on the pigeon races,” I said. “I cannot think what else he would be doing with Papa.”
“Never heard of a Corinthian betting on pigeons,” Bunny said. “Though now you mention it, they do sometimes bet on pigs and dogs and what-not. Bet on anything, really. Thing to do, ask him tonight when he calls. You said he was calling?”
“Yes,” I replied, with a conscious smile.
“Flies too high for you, m’dear,” Bunny warned. “Regular dasher. Top o’ the trees. Higher.”
Far from depressing my intention, this only pushed Lord Fairfield closer to the sun, and increased my desire to attach him. The mutton arrived and was consumed with some pleasure. As we sipped our tea, I said, “I wonder what time Lord Fairfield will call. Perhaps we ought to go upstairs now. We would not want to keep him waiting.”
Mrs. Lovatt abetted me in this notion. We had often discussed the dearth of good partis at Hythe. We had no objection to a gambling man, so long as he could afford his pleasure, and Lord Fairfield obviously could count on his father to foot any little overdrafts he might accumulate.
After running upstairs with our dinner still in our throats, we waited a full hour for Fairfield’s tap at the door. When he came, he was thought well worth the wait. Unlike Bunny, he looked stunning in his evening clothes. They fit so well, they might have grown on him. The dramatic black outfit was enhanced by his white cravat, his high coloring, and the brilliancy of his blue eyes.
As he made his bows, I wondered which seat he would take. When he walked to the sofa and sat beside me, I felt flustered, and insensibly pleased.
“What was the matter you wished to discuss, Lord Fairfield?” I asked, after a few civilities had been exchanged.
“I share your late father’s fascination with pigeon racing,” he said, with a somewhat embarrassed look in Smythe’s direction. “Truth to tell, I have come a cropper racing my nags. Pigeons are cheaper. I have heard word along the grapevine that your father had a rare champion, a bird named Caesar, I believe. I do not wish to appear callous, but since your father’s demise, I wondered if you were planning to sell off his birds. I should like to make an offer on Caesar and Cleo, and perhaps some of the others.”
“So that is how you met Papa!” I exclaimed.
“Met him?” he asked in surprise.
“Mrs. Mobley mentioned she had seen you with him, right here at this hotel.”
He frowned a moment, then seemed to recall. “It is true, I did once approach him last winter. I introduced myself as a fellow racer, but he was rather busy at the time. We just exchanged cards. Your father said he would be in touch, but he never contacted me. I did not like to put myself forward with the country’s most renowned breeder.”
It seemed incredible that Lord Fairfield should be shy of putting himself forward anywhere, but I was flattered that he had so much respect for Papa. “I do plan to sell the whole roost,” I said, “but the pigeons are trained like homing pigeons, to return to Gracefield. What use would they be to you, milord?” I had not actually promised Snoad to keep the pigeons.
He hesitated a moment, then said, “For breeding. It seems a shame to let those two prodigies die out. I expect you will have any number of buyers after them. What price are you asking for them?”
“Snoad would be the one to give us the price. He runs the roost,” I explained.
“Snoad?” he asked, his brows raised in question.
“Snoad is the man who helped Papa train his birds. He is very knowledgeable, I believe. He used to be with the Duchess of Prescott, at Branksome Hall.”
“Trained with the Duchess of Prescott, you say? She certainly has a fine flock. Would it be convenient for me to visit you at Gracefield, after your return?”
“We would be very happy to see you, milord,” I said, and could not suppress a smile.
“Has Snoad been with you long?” he asked.
“For two years, more or less.”
“He will be leaving us immediately,” Mrs. Lovatt added.
“As soon as you disband your flock,” he said, nodding. “Naturally someone must be in charge of the birds until that time. It seems a great pity to lose out on all Mr. Hume’s work, does it not? Just when he had developed a new strain, too. Caesar’s offspring were to be named after your father, I believe? It must grieve you deeply to give them up, Miss Hume.”
I heard the echoes of Snoad in this speech, and wondered if I was doing the right thing to so heedlessly toss out my father’s work. “Yes, it is a pity,” I agreed, “but I know virtually nothing about raising pigeons, or training them.”
“Must Snoad leave you?” he asked. “He sounds the proper one to teach you.”
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sp; I felt guilty, and said vaguely, “Now that my father is gone, Snoad will not remain long.”
“I hope we can salvage Caesar and Cleo’s strain at least. You may rest assured the Hume strain will be well tended, if I am the fortunate breeder who obtains them.”
There was not a single doubt in my mind that Fairfield would be the purchaser. It was already darting through my mind that perhaps I ought to make him a gift of them.
Wine was poured, and the conversation turned to more general topics. Fairfield said he was not very familiar with Hythe, though he had driven through it on his way to Dover. “I have relatives in Dover,” he explained.
He mentioned Lympne Castle and Saltwood Castle, where Becket’s assassins met en route to Canterbury. Mrs. Lovatt recommended a few old churches he ought to visit, and when his glass was empty, Lord Fairfield rose to take his leave. I accompanied him to the door.
As we reached it, he paused a moment and asked, “When will you be back at Gracefield, ma’am?”
I was so eager for his visit that I said, “I expect we shall leave tomorrow.”
“Then I shall call the day after tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you again.” He took my hand, but instead of shaking it, he lifted it to within an inch of his lips for a ritual kiss. “I wish it were to be sooner,” he added, smiling flirtatiously. I had never seen such beautiful blue eyes. A warmth invaded my cheeks at his manner.
“Can you recommend a good hotel in Hythe?” he continued. “I may wish to remain a few days.” His eyes spoke volumes, none of them having to do with pigeons.
“I hope you will stay with us, Lord Fairfield,” I said. It seemed the polite thing to do.
“You are very kind, ma’am. I will be honored.” He bowed and left.
I wished I could be alone for a moment to savor my little romance, but already Mrs. Lovatt was calling from the sofa corner. “What had he to say, Heather? It took him a long time to leave.”
“He was just inquiring where he could stay in Hythe.”
“You ought to have asked him to stay at Gracefield, ninny!” my aunt charged.
I had dreaded telling her, lest she think it too forward. “I did,” I replied. We exchanged a meaningful smile. Few words are necessary between ladies, where nabbing an eligible parti is concerned.
