by M C Beaton
It was an exhausting journey to London although the roads were clear, because not only was Amanda sick with the motion of the coach but her pet pug was sick, too. He could only be grateful that her brothers and sisters had been left with a cousin in the country. Looking after Amanda was enough. But in fact Lord Eston saw little of his beloved except to help carry her to and from various posting-houses, marvelling at the fragility of the beautiful body he held in his arms and wondering what it would be like to eventually possess it.
It was when he deposited the Boyle family at Tupple’s that his thoughts turned once more to Cassandra and Miss Tonks. Mrs. Boyle told him in a hushed voice that poor little Amanda was too fatigued by the journey to entertain him that evening. He went to his town house, changed into his evening clothes and decided to call at the Poor Relation Hotel and pay his respects to Miss Tonks—and Cassandra, of course.
Sir Philip was squatting on a high stool behind the reception desk when he walked into the entrance hall. Lord Eston looked around curiously. There was no doubt that this hotel had a certain air that Tupple’s lacked. The crystal chandelier was magnificent. The gnomish man in the ghastly brown wig behind the reception was another matter. Lord Eston approached Sir Philip.
“I am come to pay my respects to Miss Cassandra Blessop and Miss Tonks.”
Sir Philip smiled horribly, revealing a set of china false teeth, while all the time his busy brain was wondering whether Miss Tonks had confided in this Lord Eston and decided she probably had. On the other hand, he could hardly tell Lord Eston that Miss Tonks and her niece were masquerading as Hungarian royalty.
“I am afraid they are gone to the country,” said Sir Philip.
Lord Eston was startled. Cassandra was surely the sort of young lady who would stick to her guns. On the other hand, these weird people who ran this hotel might have turned her away.
He felt disappointed and at the same time irritated with himself. He should really have called on them at the posting-house. The more he thought of it, the more bad-mannered his behavior seemed to him, particularly as Cassandra was no longer in his mind a danger, but merely a spirited girl he had once met.
“Thank you,” he said rather bleakly and turned and left.
He made his way to his club, White’s in St. James’s. He saw, on entering the coffee room, Peter Blaney, an old army friend, and hailed him with delight. “When did you return?” asked Lord Eston.
“Got invalided home,” said Mr. Blaney with his shy smile. He was thirty and war-hardened but looked twenty and incredibly naïve and innocent, attributes he put to profitable use at the card-table. “What’s this I hear? You are to wed the Boyle girl?”
“I am the luckiest of men.”
“I never met the daughter,” said Mr. Blaney, “but I know the parents. Have they asked you for money yet?”
“No.”
“They will, my dear fellow. They will.” A faint look of hauteur came into Lord Eston’s handsome face. “I think you must be thinking of another family.”
“Probably. Not an uncommon name. I was thinking of the Oxfordshire Boyles at Hayley Manor.”
“And in what way do these Boyles you were speaking of ask you for money?” demanded Lord Eston, who had no intention of admitting that the Boyles his friend was talking about and his future in-laws were one and the same. “I assume they asked you. I mean, not like you to pass along gossip.”
“Oh, it was indeed I. The first time was when I was on leave two years ago and they were up for the Season with some moppet of a little girl, although she was too young to be out.” He looked embarrassed. “I am sorry. I seem to be putting my foot in it all round. Possibly that moppet is now to be your future bride, although, come to think of it, we are talking about the Oxfordshire Boyles.” He looked curiously at his friend but Lord Eston’s face remained a well-bred blank. “Anyway, about the money. He said he had discovered an inventor who had plans for a mechanical corn-thresher operated by steam which would save heaps of money on employing workers. All this chap needed was the money to buy the materials to perfect this design.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand guineas?”
“That much?”
“I asked if said machinery was to be gold-plated but he said that should I put up the readies, the machine would be made and presented to my father, who is keen on all the latest innovations in agriculture, along with the patent. Now my old man’s birthday was coming up and it did seem like quite a splendid present, but I asked Boyle what he got out of it, and he said piously that he merely wanted to help genius along. Well, I had some prize money and was prepared to pay up. But caution prompted me to offer him a bill of exchange.”
Lord Eston nodded his understanding. Even at this early part of the nineteenth century the main instrument of the London money market was the bill of exchange, which was the written acknowledgement of the existence of a debt, an I.O.U. recording the debtor’s undertaking to pay at a specified date.
“I asked whom it was to be made out to and he said to make it out to him, Henry Boyle. I said, ‘Why not this inventor?’ ‘I handle all his money matters,’ he said airily. I don’t know why, but I became suspicious and said I had changed my mind. I did not have the money available. A year later, I met Chuffy Byng, who was spitting with fury. Seems he had paid Boyle for said invention, Boyle had taken the money and given him in return a piece of paper offering to hand over the patent of the invention at such time as the machine would be completed and patented. Every time Chuffy asked about it, he was told the inventor had not yet completed his work, and to add insult to injury, Boyle tried to get more money out of Chuffy to complete the invention.”
“Anything else?” asked Lord Eston, thinking there was no hope there could be two Henry Boyles living at Hayley Manor in Oxfordshire.
“There’s worse. Goodness, I’m glad they’re obviously not your Boyles. Chuffy decided to take Boyle to court and sent a note round to say he would be calling on him. The Boyles were living with some relative in Green Street at that time.
“When he arrived, he was told that Boyle was from home but that Mrs. Boyle would receive him. He thought he may as well have a word with her and find out when old man Boyle was due to return. She served him tea and as he was raising his cup to his lips, Mrs. Boyle ups and screams, ‘Rape! Rape!’ and tears open the front of her gown and falls on the floor as the servants rush in. Chaos all round. Burnt feathers, sal volatile, accusations, recriminations, monster and beast, and there suddenly is Boyle himself, crying out about the assault on his wife. Well, when the dust settled, the sweating Chuffy was more or less told if he forgot about the invention and courts and suchlike, nothing would be said about his trying to rape Mrs. B. He was so grateful to get shot of the lot of them that he dropped the whole matter.”
Lord Eston said slowly, “I wasn’t going to tell you, but my future in-laws are the Boyles of Hayley Manor.”
“I am sorry. Shouldn’t have opened my mouth.”
“I would be grateful if you didn’t open it to anyone else about this matter. My poor Amanda is such an innocent, she will know nothing of her parents’ machinations. Once we are married, I will make sure she sees as little as possible of them.”
“Let’s have a bottle of the best burgundy and drink your health,” said Mr. Blaney, “and talk of other things. Did you hear about Jerry Anderson?”
“What about him?”
“He bought Nancy Girl from Lord Cusp.”
“That nasty-tempered mare! Fine-looking beast but a bad disposition and a worse pedigree. You can pretty much tell an animal from its pedigree. Bad forebears make bad horses.”
“And people, too,” remarked Mr. Blaney cheerfully and then, looking at Lord Eston’s stiff face, regretted his words.
Lady Fortescue and the colonel were waiting until Sir Philip returned to their hotel sitting-room. He had gone to sell more of the diamonds which he had prized loose from their moorings.
“Plenty of
money,” he chortled as he entered, “and I only sold the necklace. Keep the tiara in reserve. Told the servants we’d pay them tomorrow and increase their wages. We’ll only increase them by a fraction, but that news will travel to those traitors who went to Tupple’s. They’ll be replaced tomorrow. Lots of lovely money to keep us in funds for a long time. Hey, ho, who would have thought our Miss Tonks had so much bottom?”
“She is a surprising lady,” said Lady Fortescue stiffly while the colonel glowered.
“What’s this? What’s happened?” Sir Philip peered at them. “She was the heroine of the year before she left to go to Tupple’s.”
“We did not tell you before, but we learned from Miss Cassandra,” said Lady Fortescue, one hand resting on the silver knob of her ebony cane, “that this highwayman, who we know to have been Miss Tonks although Miss Cassandra does not, kissed her.”
“Wait a bit!” Sir Philip goggled. “Do you mean Letitia Tonks bussed her own niece?”
“That is exactly what I mean.”
Sir Philip kicked up his little legs and roared with laughter. Then he jumped to his feet and paraded around the room, quoting Lord Byron.
“The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung …”
Then he stopped and swung round. “Where is our Sappho now?”
“At Tupple’s as companion to Cassandra.”
“But hitherto she’s been sharing a bed with Mrs. Budley?” Sir Philip rubbed his dry old hands together. “My, my! This is wonderful! Poor Mrs. Budley.”
“Silence!” roared the colonel. “We are sure that Miss Tonks was simply acting out her part of highwayman. In romances, the highwayman always kisses the heroine.”
Sir Philip sniggered. “Not a very charming experience for our Miss Cassandra.”
“Fortunately,” said Lady Fortescue, “she said she liked it.”
“Two of them! Odd’s Fish, no wonder the child is not interested in marriage.”
“I am convinced it is a case of innocence on both sides,” snapped Lady Fortescue. “And you are to keep your thoughts to yourself, Sir Philip!”
Chapter Five
And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but
The truth in masquerade.
—LORD BYRON
LORD ESTON approached Tupple’s Hotel on the following afternoon with a slight feeling of trepidation. He had never scrutinized his future in-laws too closely, and besides, his Amanda had cast a rosy glow around everyone near her. He felt sure when he saw her again that all his qualms of unease would be dispersed. Amanda was loving and trusting, and if her father was a villain, then she surely knew nothing about it.
The day, however, was in keeping with his mood, slushy and messy, with the crossing-sweepers hard at work.
When he entered the hotel, he was met by the owner, Mr. Bonnard, who bowed low and then proceeded to dance about him as if performing some primitive welcoming rite. “I will inform your fiancée of your arrival, my lord.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Such grace, such charm!”
Lord Eston looked haughtily down at the sallow-faced little Frenchman. “Keep your remarks to yourself, sirrah,” he said, “and announce me.”
“But certainly, certainly. If your lordship will have a seat in our new coffee room … this way … this way. Observe our new tables of the finest mahogany. Tiens! There is not a better hotel in the whole of London.”
Lord Eston paused on the threshold. There were two ladies in the coffee room, seated by the window. He would have known those freckles anywhere, he thought in surprise, looking hard at the younger one.
“Ah, you hesitate,” cried Bonnard from his elbow. He lowered his voice. “Our hotel is honoured. Hungarian royalty. They go under the name of Miss Haldane and her companion, Mrs. Stocks … incognito, you see. They have begged me to respect their desire for privacy.”
“You are not respecting it by babbling on about it. Leave me.”
Bonnard flew off and Lord Eston walked slowly forward. Cassandra was dressed in black and wearing a black lace cap on her red hair. She had obviously tried to age herself by donning sober clothes, but they had the effect of making her look younger than ever. Miss Tonks he only recognized after staring at her very hard. Her cheeks had been puffed out, probably with wax-pads, and she was wearing a blond wig under an enormous turban.
“Good day, ladies,” he said.
“Gracious!” Cassandra looked at him wide-eyed. “What are you doing here?”
“I am here to see my fiancée. What is more to the point is, what are you and Miss Tonks doing here, and masquerading as Hungarian royalty?”
“We are spies,” said Cassandra cheerfully. “Bonnard has been poaching our servants. We are here to find out what his game is.”
“Do not betray us,” said Miss Tonks. “But do you not think my disguise very fine? The hotel was set on fire, the Poor Relation, that is, some time ago, and I feel that Tupple’s was behind it.”
“I will not betray you.” He sat down. He reflected that Miss Tonks was the kind of spinster who probably read too many novels. Burning down the Poor Relation, indeed! “I must apologize for my abrupt departure from the posting-house. I meant to call on you during the following week, but events occurred which put you out of my mind.”
“Ah, your engagement,” said Cassandra, her large hazel eyes sparkling. “So you have fallen in love at last. I can see it in your face.”
He smiled at her happily. “I am the most fortunate of men.”
“And you have obviously found a lady of wit and character and humour.”
“My Amanda is an angel.”
Watching them, Miss Tonks felt quite sour and bitter. Before Cassandra had come with her to London, she had had little opportunity of getting to know her niece. Now she knew her well and loved her. How could Lord Eston be so blind?
“I have forgotten the name of your fiancée’s family,” said Cassandra.
“Boyle.”
Miss Tonks looked at him in surprise. “The Boyles who are resident here?”
“The same.”
Cassandra was also looking at him in surprise. “Dear me, I would never have thought …”
“Never have thought what, Miss Cassandra?”
“Oh, I thought you were a hardened bachelor.” Lord Eston was suddenly sure she had been about to say something else.
Bonnard reappeared. He bowed very low to the ladies and then said to Lord Eston, “If you will follow me, my lord.”
Lord Eston rose and looked down at Cassandra. He was uneasy about her. She was too young to be playing this ridiculous masquerade. She seemed fragile and defenceless with only the odd Miss Tonks to protect her.
“I will call on you later if I may,” he said.
“Oh, do that,” said Cassandra gaily. “Perhaps we might have another game of cribbage.”
Lord Eston followed Bonnard up the stairs. The Boyles had a suite of apartments on the first floor.
Mr. Boyle welcomed him with his usual jovial heartiness and led him into their private sitting-room where Mrs. Boyle and her daughter were seated.
“What’s this I hear, Eston?” he cried. “I gather from Bonnard that you are on chatting terms with our Hungarian residents.”
“They seem very English to me,” commented Lord Eston. “Why do you think they are Hungarian?”
Mr. Boyle put a finger alongside his nose in a vulgar manner. “Bonnard told me. Travelling incognito. Tried to get to know them but frosty, very frosty.”
Amanda clasped her little hands. “I would love to meet them. Can you not introduce me?”
Lord Eston sat down beside her on the sofa and smiled at her indulgently. “You really don’t want to waste your time with a couple of obscure foreigners, now do you?”
Amanda pouted prettily. “Yes, I would. The younger one, Miss Haldane, she calls herself, has such merry eyes and I am sure we could be the best of friends.”
“We’ll see,” he sai
d evasively, “have you recovered from your journey?”
“I still feel a little unwell, and poor Rupert feels the same.” She lifted the little pug up to Lord Eston. “Give poor Rupert a tiny kiss.”
“I will save that delight for another time.”
Amanda pouted again. “Rupert thinks you don’t like him and his ickle heart is breaking.”
“There, I’ll pat him. Ouch! Does he always bite?”
“Bad Rupert. Jealous Rupert.”
There was a scratching at the door and then Bonnard oiled his way into the room. “Mr. Boyle, if I may have a moment of your time?”
What’s this all about? wondered Lord Eston. Has Boyle not paid his bill? But then no hotel demands the bill until the stay is over. Why should he be on such familiar terms with this hotelier?
But he saw Amanda gazing at him with that steady blue stare of hers, he saw her shining hair and the delicacy of her features and his heart turned over. Her father could turn out to be Caliban and still he would marry her.
Mrs. Boyle rose and excused herself and, to his delight, Lord Eston found himself alone with Amanda.
He slid an arm around her shoulders and whispered, “One kiss, my dear, before your parents return.”
“It’s very naughty of you,” giggled Amanda. “Oh, my bear is cross. There!”
She puckered up her lips. Her enchanting face seemed to swim before his eyes. He crushed her mouth under his own. She gave a little exclamation against his mouth and then pushed at his shoulders with her hands.
He released her immediately. Her eyes were shining with tears and her lips trembled. “My bear frightens me,” she whispered.
He immediately felt remorseful, ugly, and brutal and raised her hand to his lips. “I am sorry,” he said softly.
