by M C Beaton
She smiled tremulously and then turned her head away. “I sometimes think you do not love me,” she said.
Despite his remorse, he also experienced a surge of impatience. “My dear, what more can I say? I apologized. I did not mean to be so rough with you.”
“It’s not that.”
“What then? Don’t turn your head away.”
Her steady blue gaze held his. “If you loved me, you would introduce me to those Hungarian ladies.”
“I do not think that very wise. They may not be Hungarian at all. You have only that gossipy creature’s, Bonnard’s, word for it.”
A mulish look settled on her face. She had, he noticed for the first time, a determined chin. “Is this how our marriage is going to be?” she asked petulantly. “Am I to meet no one?”
Mrs. Boyle came into the room just as Lord Eston had begun to say, “Well, I suppose I—”
“Mama,” cried Amanda. “Lord Eston is to introduce us to those Hungarian ladies. The chip straw with the blue ribbon, do you think? Or perhaps that is too summery. The little velvet one with the gauze trim perhaps? Come with me and help me choose.”
Lord Eston had a few moments alone before Mr. Boyle came back. “Sound fellow, that Bonnard,” he said, sinking into a chair.
“Are you comfortable here?” Lord Eston looked around. The furniture was not of good quality but painted with a quantity of gilt to give it a spurious air of elegance.
“Oh, yes, food’s excellent.”
“I believe the Poor Relation has now the best kitchen in London.”
“Don’t believe what you hear. You need a sound tradesman to run a business. Not an impoverished aristocrat like Lady Fortescue.”
“Forgive me for contradicting you, but I have friends who have stayed there and said it was excellent.”
“Well, I like to keep an eye on things,” said Mr. Boyle obscurely. He was a thickset man with a high colour. Tufts of hair grew from his nose and ears and he wore a wig low down on his forehead. “Lot of our class,” he said, “think they’re above trade and that’s been the ruin of the aristocracy. I believe you have dealings in the City.”
“Stocks and shares, yes.”
“Interested in a copper-bottomed venture?”
Here it comes, thought Lord Eston with a sinking heart, the mechanical corn-thresher.
“It depends on the venture,” he said cautiously.
“Heard of Jamaica?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Boyle leaned forward. “Sugar’s the thing,” he said eagerly. “Sugar is the new gold. There’s a huge plantation for sale and I could get it for us for a rock-bottom price. Old Heatherington’s place.”
“Sugar plantations employ slave labour,” said Lord Eston.
“Yes, and good labour on this one too. None of your imported rubbish but home-grown slaves.”
A surprising number of English people detested slavery despite the brutality of the age and Lord Eston was one of them.
But wondering just how far Mr. Boyle was prepared to go, he said, “And what does one do to obtain this plantation?”
“Heatherington don’t want to put it on the open market and he trusts me. Says he’d rather sell to a gentleman than some of those Jamaican planters.”
“How much?”
Mr. Boyle named a sum that made Lord Eston blink and then went on hurriedly, “Of course, it’s not just the land and the house you’re paying for but the slaves as well, and good slaves don’t come cheap.”
“Where is this Mr. Heatherington?”
“He went back.”
“But you have plans of the land and details of the yield, have you not?”
“Certainly, certainly. But you young men don’t want to bother your heads about business. You just give me a draft on your bank and leave the rest to me.”
Lord Eston leaned back in his chair and surveyed his future father-in-law with something approaching admiration. “And when do I get to see this property?”
“What, hey?” Mr. Boyle looked alarmed. “You don’t want to see.” He waved a hand. “Too far away. Rotten voyage. Diseases all over the place.”
“But plantations do not run themselves. I would need to appoint a supervisor.”
“Got one. Strong man,” said Mr. Boyle quickly.
Amanda and her mother came into the room. “Your father is arranging that I buy a plantation in Jamaica,” he said to Amanda.
“Where’s that?”
“The other side of the world. It might be a charming idea to visit it. Would you like to stay on a sugar plantation for your honeymoon? We could free all the slaves to celebrate our wedding.”
“Oh, you do love to talk nonsense.” Amanda dimpled at him prettily. “I should hate to leave England.”
“Why?”
She gave him a look of pretty impatience at his stupidity. “Because anywhere else is full of foreigners.”
“If you are so averse to foreigners, then perhaps you should not meet these Hungarian ladies.”
Amanda stamped her foot. “You are tormenting me. You promised!” She actually pronounced it as “pwomised,” having a natural lisp rather than a cultivated one like most of her peers, baby talk being all the rage.
“Now, now,” admonished her mother. “Lord Eston was only funning. Shall we go?”
“Bless me, here they come,” said Cassandra in a gloomy voice. “Lord Eston and the Boyles. What a hairy man Mr. Boyle is, to be sure.”
“Look regal,” hissed Miss Tonks as the party came up to them.
Lord Eston made the introductions. Miss Tonks inclined her head in a stately way. Cassandra asked them to be seated, covertly studying Amanda. She remembered Lord Eston’s story about how a friend of his had made a fool of himself over some chit and now it looked very much as if he had gone and done the same thing himself.
For her part, Amanda was staring at Miss Tonks and Cassandra as if they were exhibits in a menagerie of wild beasts like the one at Exeter ’Change.
“Do you spend long in London, Miss Haldane?” asked Mrs. Boyle.
“I do not know,” said Cassandra. “This is not a very good hotel. I have heard the Poor Relation is better.”
“You were sadly misinformed,” said Mr. Boyle. “The Poor Relation is an uncomfortable place run by seedy people.”
Miss Tonks’s nose turned pink at the tip. “Lady Fortescue,” she said awfully, “is a friend of my … family.”
There was an embarrassed silence. Then Amanda ventured, “Is Hungary very far away?”
“Quite far,” said Cassandra.
“Farther than France?”
“Yes, even farther than Italy.”
“And what is it like?”
“I fear our hotelier has been gossiping,” said Cassandra. “We prefer to remain incognito. In our exalted position, we have many enemies.”
“Oh!” Amanda clasped her hands. “Enemies. Why is that?”
“I see you have a kind face.” Cassandra leaned forward. “I was betrothed to a prince. His forebears”—she shuddered delicately—“were Magyars. Fierce and savage people. I shunned him. I said I would never marry him. He said he would force me to the altar. My dear companion and some of our most trusted servants arranged for me to flee the country. But the prince and his henchmen caught up with us at the border.”
Lord Eston stifled a groan.
“Goodness!” Amanda was goggling. “What happened then?”
“All our servants were killed. We were bound and taken captive, but on the road, one of the prince’s servants took pity on us and released us. We fled on horseback through the night,” said Cassandra dreamily. “I can see it all now. The glittering snow, the wolves skulking among the trees, and us flying through the night under a full moon, dreading every moment to be captured again.”
There was a long silence. Mr. Boyle was dying to ask this fascinating pair what they did for money.
As if sensing this unspoken question hanging in the air between them,
Cassandra gave him a brilliant smile and said, “We were lucky enough to bring a great quantity of fine jewels with us or we should have been destitute. In fact, as we have enough to last us a lifetime, I think we should consider taking a house in Town. With the exception of yourselves”—she smiled sweetly on the Boyles—“there are a great many common people in this hotel, and it does one’s social consequence little good to be seen in such a low establishment.”
“We should leave as well,” said Amanda immediately. “I don’t want to be unfashionable, Mama.”
Mr. and Mrs. Boyle looked uncomfortable and Lord Eston suspected that they might have obtained free lodging from Bonnard in return for some favour. But what favour? Had Bonnard been offered the corn-thresher or the plantation?
“And now I think we will retire,” said Cassandra. She and Miss Tonks rose. Amanda and her mother sank into full court curtsies while the gentlemen bowed.
“Fascinating,” breathed Amanda.
“Yes,” agreed Lord Eston drily. “Quite fascinating.”
In their private hotel sitting-room, Cassandra sank down into a chair and laughed helplessly. “Did you see their faces?” she said when she could.
“I don’t know how you think of such things,” exclaimed Miss Tonks. “But perhaps you have gone a little far. We shall become an object of curiosity.”
“By that time we shall have found out some facts about Bonnard and paid our shot here,” said Cassandra blithely.
Miss Tonks looked doubtful. “I cannot help feeling we would have found out more had we masqueraded as servants.”
A servant scratched at the door and entered bearing a large basket full of crystallized fruit. “Mr. Bonnard’s compliments,” he said, “and Mr. Bonnard would be honoured if the ladies could grant him a few moments of their time.”
“Certainly,” said Cassandra.
“And what is he up to?” she added when the servant had left. “He looks a greedy man and I have seen him gossiping with Boyle.”
Miss Tonks’s long nose twitched in distress. “I sense danger.” She suddenly added with a burst of rare anger, “You should have a gentleman to protect you, Cassandra. What Lord Eston can see in that feather-brained little fool is beyond me.”
“She looks vastly pretty and he delights in her,” said Cassandra. “They will probably be very happy.”
“Shhh,” said Miss Tonks. “Here comes Bonnard.”
The hotelier bowed his way into the room.
Cassandra sat bolt upright in her chair. She did not ask him to sit down.
“Your Royal Highness,” he began.
Cassandra frowned. “I prefer my title to be kept secret, Mr. Bonnard. Miss Haldane will suffice.”
“But certainly, Your … Miss Haldane. Your English is perfect.”
“I had an English governess.” Cassandra surveyed Bonnard. “Why is your English so perfect?”
“I was born here. My parents fled the Terror.”
Cassandra did a quick sum in her head. Bonnard was over forty if he was a day. He could hardly have been born after the French Revolution. Instead she said, “You wished to see us?”
“This is a very delicate matter,” he said. “But many foreign ladies who come to London are often anxious to sell jewels and get cheated. I have a good man who gives top prices. Should you wish anything sold discreetly, you have only to ask me.”
Gossiping Mr. Boyle, thought Cassandra. “We will let you know. This is quite a new hotel, I believe.”
“Yes, Miss Haldane.”
“What did you do before you established this hotel?”
He gave a very Gallic shrug and spread out his hands. “Nothing that would interest you.”
Cassandra wondered whether to pursue this topic but decided to leave it for the moment. “I believe the Poor Relation, which is also new, to be a good hotel.”
“Oh, miss, it is a terrible place. The food is vile and the servants insolent.”
“Then why do people stay there?”
“Because it is run by aristos. But after staying there once, they never return.”
“I suppose it is in your interest to run down your rival.”
“I do not tell the lies, me,” he exclaimed. “But I beg you to remember about the jewels. I am always at your service.”
He bowed his way out, walking backwards.
Cassandra sat in thought for a few moments after he had left. Then she said, “I would like to get into that office of his.” Bonnard had a little office off the entrance hall.
“It is locked,” said Miss Tonks. “I mean, I noticed he locks it when he is not using it and puts the key in his pocket.”
“Do you know,” said Cassandra, “everything in this hotel is shoddy and painted over with gilt to look expensive. It would not surprise me if all the keys to the doors were interchangeable. I suggest we go down in the middle of the night with the key from here and try it in the lock.”
“If what he has in that office, which probably includes the money from the hotel, is so important, then it is going to have a special lock.”
Cassandra looked stubborn. “Nonetheless, I am going to try. Do not worry, Aunt, I will go myself. This must all be very frightening for you.”
But somehow Miss Tonks had come to believe most of the time that she herself had actually held up Honoria’s coach. The plaudits of her partners rang in her ears. She craved further admiration, she who had received practically none in the whole of her life. “I will go, too,” she said. “We are here to find out about this Bonnard and it is time we made a move.” She leaned forward. “It is such a pity that Lord Eston is throwing himself away on that chit. Such parents!”
“He has proposed to her, the engagement is made official, so there is little he can do about it now,” said Cassandra with every appearance of indifference. “Perhaps he is not a man of very strong character. He more or less said that he was made by his tailor.” She leaned her chin on her hands, her eyes suddenly dreamy. “I cannot imagine such as he holding up a coach.”
Again Miss Tonks experienced a strong urge to tell her the identity of that highwayman, but gratitude to Lord Eston and fear that her niece would be badly shocked kept her quiet. Although Cassandra and her mother had always been at loggerheads for as long as Miss Tonks could remember, the girl would surely be shocked that Miss Tonks could even contemplate robbing her own sister or allowing Lord Eston to do so.
“You should not be thinking about that highwayman,” said Miss Tonks with a shudder. “They are not romantic and always of a singularly low type of fellow. Fortunately, unlike those posting-houses and it not being the Season, the hotel is quiet at night. What say you to two in the morning?”
“Excellent, if we don’t fall asleep.”
They managed to stay awake by the simple expedient of not retiring to bed. They played cards and listened as the sounds of the hotel quietened. Out in the street, the watchman passed by every half-hour, hoarsely calling out the time and the weather. “Do you not think it stupid that Londoners should pay a man to disturb the night every half an hour by telling them the time and the weather?” asked Cassandra. “If one is all that interested in the weather, one can look out of the window; or if one wants to know the time, at the clock.”
“My dear,” said her aunt, “a great many poor people do not have clocks.”
“But all the church bells of London chime the quarter hours and hours with regular monotony!”
“In truth,” said Miss Tonks with a sigh, “I have lived so long in Town, I am become so accustomed to the sound of the watch that I never hear him.”
“And, talking of time,” said Cassandra, laying down her cards, “it is nearly two o’clock and I have just won twenty-four thousand pounds from you.”
“I never had any luck at cards,” said Miss Tonks, comfortable in the knowledge they had been playing for fictional money. She plucked at the fringed shawl about her shoulders. “I suppose we had better get on with it. What excuse shall we give if we a
re caught even near the office?”
Cassandra frowned in thought and then her face cleared. “You forget, we are foreigners and therefore given to eccentric whims. The watchman has his uses after all. He has just announced a clear, moonlit night and all’s well, so we can say we wished to view the streets of London by moonlight.”
“Very neat. Although I confess it causes me some disquiet that you appear to be taking to a life of subterfuge without a qualm, Cassandra.”
“Not subterfuge. Expediency. Shall we go?”
They felt their way down the main staircase in the darkness, not wanting to carry candles. Below them, the soft light of an oil-lamp illumined the hall.
They slowly descended further and then stopped at the foot of the stairs. Cassandra put a warning hand on her aunt’s arm. “There is someone in the office,” she whispered.
Miss Tonks let out a little gasp of relief. “Then we can do nothing just now,” she whispered back.
Cassandra leaned over the newel-post and looked at the office. It had a glass door covered with a curtain but she could make out the shadows of three men.
“I am going to listen and try to hear what they are saying.” She moved quietly forward, with the trembling Miss Tonks after her.
“I said I would help and I think my plan is a good one.” Mr. Boyle’s voice. It had a harsh, grating edge which Cassandra immediately recognized. “Those foreigners have put it into my Amanda’s head that this hotel is unfashionable, so to placate her, I said we would all have dinner there tomorrow night. Now do you know what’s to be done?”
“Yes, monsieur,” came Bonnard’s voice. “Will here has just gained employment in the kitchens of the Poor Relation. There’s roast haunch of venison on the menu. The roast will be carried up to the dining-room on a covered dish. Will must put the rat under the cover of the dish just before it goes up to the dining-room …”
“Won’t answer,” said a new voice. Will, thought Cassandra. “The chef carries up the main roast to the dining-room door himself, followed by me. It is placed on a carving table on wheels and wheeled in. Sir Philip Sommerville then carves in front of the guests. I’d be caught.”
There was a silence and then Mr. Boyle said, “Is the demned roast never left unsupervised?”
