by M C Beaton
Cassandra sat down suddenly. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Her gaze travelled from his guinea-gold hair to the tips of his shiny Hessian boots. “But why did you kiss me?”
“You have a kissable face.”
“Oh.”
In a voice that tried pathetically not to shake, Miss Tonks said, “Are you going to report us to the authorities?”
Cassandra blinked. “No, of course not,” she said. “Mama can well afford to lose the entire contents of her jewel box without it affecting her overmuch. But you should have told me, Aunt.” The last sentence came out as a wail. All her dreams of a bold and handsome highwayman gone, crumbled into dust, and her hand brushed across her own mouth as if trying to brush away that kiss.
Lord Eston felt an odd tug at his heart. He was used to a bold and confident Cassandra, but this shocked and disappointed young lady looked so appealing and vulnerable. Besides, there were those freckles and that ridiculous little nose. How odd that such a combination of unfashionable features should appear so endearing. He remembered he had been afraid of falling in love with her and had been glad to escape to the manor-house, and the reason he had been afraid was because he had not considered her very respectable. And yet now he was tied to a future villanous father-in-law and had blithely admitted to the girl that he had stolen her mother’s jewels. Who on earth was he to be so high in the instep?
He turned to Miss Tonks. “I gather you did not tell the others that it was I who held up the coach?”
“No, my lord. I could not implicate you.”
“Then you have my permission to tell them now.”
The end of Miss Tonks’s nose turned pink with distress. “I do not want to,” she mumbled.
“Why?” asked Cassandra.
“They are so proud of me, even the dreadful Sir Philip.”
“Oh, but look how proud they are of you, of both of us, for having found out Mr. Boyle’s dreadful plot.” Cassandra bit her lip. Lord Eston was staring at her in surprise.
“You had better tell me about this plot.”
“I should have held my tongue,” said Cassandra. “We overheard Mr. Boyle talking to Bonnard. He plans to take a live rat to the Poor Relation this evening and slip it into the dish containing the haunch of venison before it is taken into the dining-room. That way Bonnard allows him to stay here free.”
Lord Eston looked at her bleakly. There was no point in protesting Boyle’s innocence. He already knew the man to be a crook. “So what are you going to do?” he asked.
“Sir Philip said he would handle everything,” said Miss Tonks, “and he is very clever at things like that.”
Lord Eston tried to conjure up a picture of his fiancée’s pretty face to console himself, but all he could think of was the perfidy of the family he was about to ally his name with.
“Mr. Davenport,” announced a servant from the doorway, and before either Miss Tonks or Cassandra could protest that they did not know any Mr. Davenport, the gentleman himself walked into the room. He was a tall, willowy youth, slightly pock-marked and dressed in the height of fashion: wasp-waisted coat, padded shoulders, striped waistcoat, and hair frizzed up high on his head.
He knelt before Cassandra and presented her with a bouquet of flowers.
“Your Highness,” he said, “I have heard of your bravery, your courage. Ah, had I been at your side, we would have fled across the steppes together.”
“They didn’t come from Russia,” said Lord Eston testily. “Do get to your feet, sir, and introduce yourself properly.”
The young man stood up and put one hand on his breast. “I am Aubrey Davenport of the Wiltshire Davenports.”
Lord Eston smiled and made the introductions, giving Miss Tonks and Cassandra their aliases.
“How did you learn of us?” asked Cassandra.
“I met a certain Mr. Boyle. He confided in me. He assured me you never saw anyone …”
“But said he could arrange it with one of the hotel servants to have you ushered directly into the presence,” said Lord Eston. “How much?”
“My lord?”
“How much did Boyle charge you?”
“A trifle. A mere five guineas. But what is money?”
“Money is what makes Mr. Boyle go round.” Lord Eston got to his feet. “I will take my leave, ladies.”
Cassandra felt quite flat after he had gone. It was a pity he had turned out to be her highwayman, but he was a fellow conspirator and it would have been fun to talk to him a little longer and perhaps beg him to call on them after the dinner this evening and give them an account of what had happened.
With a little sigh, she settled down to tell the dazed and admiring Mr. Davenport some highly fanciful tales of her life in Hungary.
Sir Philip was waiting in the hall when the Boyle family and Lord Eston arrived. Inside Mr. Boyle’s capacious pocket lay one very dead rat. He had overdone the dose of laudanum, and so the rat, who had lived long and scavenged hard, had departed painlessly to rat heaven on a cloud of opium fumes just as the carriage had drawn up outside the Poor Relation.
“Welcome, welcome,” cried Sir Philip. “Faith, sir”—to Mr. Boyle—“there is dust on your coat. Our treacherous streets. Jacky, the brush.” A servant ran forward with a large clothes-brush and, to Lord Eston’s amusement, Sir Philip began to apply it vigorously to Mr. Boyle’s coat.
“No, it will not come off, sir. See, there, it is stained with soot,” said Sir Philip, and so it was, the brush having been dusted with soot before it had been applied to Mr. Boyle’s coat. “Jacky, take this gentleman’s coat to the kitchens. No, but a trice, sir. A trice.”
“I am not going to stand here without my coat,” howled Mr. Boyle, turning red.
“Papa,” said Amanda, casting an agonized look about the splendour of the entrance hall. “Do not make a scene.”
Mr. Boyle reluctantly surrendered his coat. They would hardly search the pockets! But he waited in an agony of suspense until the coat, cleaned and brushed, was returned to him. With relief, he felt the comforting weight still in that pocket.
They were ushered into the dining-room. Sir Philip, who appeared to have been taking snuff while waiting for the coat to reappear and had been waving the silver box around in an exaggerated manner, closed it with a snap.
Amanda looked about her. Everyone looked extremely prosperous and elegant. As they ate their way through the soup and fish courses, Lord Eston wondered what was going to happen about that rat.
His hair was beginning to itch and that was distracting his thoughts. His valet had used a new pomade. He must tell him to throw it out. He wished he did not have to be so polite and could give his head a good scratch.
Then, as Sir Philip, standing by the sideboard, began to sharpen the carving knife, Mr. Boyle muttered an excuse, got to his feet and went out.
To his dismay, it was not Will standing with Despard beside the huge serving tray with its silver cover but another servant. He smiled weakly at them. “Must get a little fresh air,” he said, moving a few feet towards the street door.
Despard walked into the dining-room and announced the roast. Mr. Boyle swung round and said to the servant, “Be a good fellow and have a look over there by the door. I think I’ve lost my stick-pin.” And when the servant had left, Mr. Boyle whipped up the cover, unbuttoned the flap of his pocket and dived a hand in.
Then he let out a scream of pain.
The diners, led by Lord Eston, crowded in the entrance to the hall from the dining-room. Mr. Boyle was doing a sort of war-dance, with a large rat-trap clamped round one hand.
Sir Philip pushed his way through watching guests. “You are creating a disturbance,” he said severely.
“Where did this come from?” howled Mr. Boyle.
“From your own coat,” said the servant, who had pretended to look for that mythical stick-pin.
Mr. Boyle was in an agony of pain and rage. Lord Eston sprang the trap and examined his fingers. �
�Not broken,” he said, “but they will be very stiff and painful.”
“Would you please return to your places,” said a voice, awful in its majesty. Lady Fortescue had arrived.
Meekly they all filed back in, Lord Eston surreptitiously scratching his head.
Once they were seated, he noticed Amanda wincing and rubbing at her hair with her fan. Mrs. Boyle’s face was covered in a light sheen of sweat.
And then Lady Fortescue, dressed in severe black, with her white hair under a snowy cap, bore down on them. Her voice carried round the dining-room. “I must ask you all to leave.”
“Why?” demanded Lord Eston.
“You should know why, but you force me to point out that all of you are covered in head lice. So badly, that some are visible on Miss Boyle’s neck.”
Amanda screamed and tore at her hair and then fell sobbing on the floor.
“You tricked me,” howled Mr. Boyle, glaring at Sir Philip.
“Please,” said Sir Philip, waving a scented handkerchief. “Please go before you infest our guests.”
Mr. Boyle could not elaborate on his accusations without betraying that he had planned to ruin the hotel.
Lord Eston carried his weeping fiancée out. Her eyes were red and puffy and he fought down a feeling of impatience with her. He was furious with Miss Tonks and Cassandra. They must have known what the plot was and they should have warned him.
“How did you manage it?” whispered Lady Fortescue when the disgraced party had left. Sir Philip drew a silver box from his pocket. “A lice box, dear lady.”
Lady Fortescue was startled into a surprisingly girlish giggle. “You dreadful man.”
It had been the custom early in the last century for fashionables to carry lice boxes, it being considered bad-mannered to kill your louse and stamp on it on your hostess’s carpet. Much politer to pop it in a box and take it home, to be discreetly put to death. The idea had come to Sir Philip earlier in the day when he had gone down to the kitchens to find Despard shaving the head of the potboy because the lad’s head had been infested with lice. Sir Philip had collected enough lice to wave around the Boyle party when they arrived in the hall.
* * *
Much as Lord Eston wanted to go straight to Tupple’s and confront Cassandra, he had to be deloused first, and that was a long process. First his valet had to prepare a mixture of five parts of sabadilla seed, five parts alcohol, nine parts acetic acid, and thirty-six parts of water. The resulting mixture was combed through Lord Eston’s hair and then his head was bound up in a white cloth. This had to be left on all night and then his hair washed thoroughly in the morning and combed with a fine-toothed comb. The clothes he had been wearing the night before he gave to his valet to dispose of. Finally, curled and barbered, he set out at noon for Tupple’s Hotel, his head still sore from all the combing and washing.
The day was fine and the sun was shining—although shining down through the pall of smoke that always covered London and hung about the corners of the streets, making the most ordinary thoroughfare look mysterious. London was busy with buying and selling. Shops everywhere, miles of them, a shop to every house: drapers, stationers, confectioners, pastry cooks, seal-cutters, silversmiths, booksellers, print sellers, hosiers, fruiterers, and china warehouses. And where there was a vacant house or a temporary scaffolding erected for repairs, every available space was plastered with advertisements. As he walked along Oxford Street, two rival blacking-makers were competing with each other. Each carried a boot, completely varnished with black, hanging from a pole, and, on another arm, the balls of blacking for sale. On the top of the poles they carried was a sort of standard explaining the virtue of the wares. The one said that his blacking was the best blacking in the world; the other, that his was so good you could eat it.
Conscious of his clean gloves, Lord Eston avoided outstretched offers of playbills; the ink was always wet from the printer.
The walk had put him in a slightly better frame of mind. Duty made him send his respects to the Boyles first and ask to see Amanda, but he was told by a surly Mr. Boyle that Miss Amanda was overset and not able to see anyone.
He went straight to Cassandra’s apartments and announced himself.
Cassandra was alone in the sitting-room. Her face lit up when she saw him and he felt a queer tug at his heart and had to remind himself severely that he was angry with her and proceeded to say so … at length, describing the events of the night before.
She heard him out in a composed way and then she began to laugh, as heartily as an apple woman, until tears were streaming down her face.
“Do you not see how funny it all is?” she gasped finally. “But Miss Tonks and I are all set for this evening.” She went to a cupboard in the corner of the room and from the bottom of it drew out a dead cat and held it up. “See,” she said, her eyes dancing. “There is roast mutton tonight … au chat!”
“You hoyden! When that dead cat appears in his dining-room, Bonnard is going to look hard at his supposed Hungarians. Has he not wondered at your lack of servants?”
“Of course. But you forget, they were all killed by the wicked prince and we distrust English ones.”
“You are getting deeper and deeper into trouble. Your behaviour is reprehensible.”
“My behaviour? I do not go around holding up coaches and robbing people.”
At that moment the door opened quietly and Amanda slipped in. The smile faded from her face when she saw Lord Eston.
“I was told you could not see me,” said Lord Eston harshly.
“I wanted to get away from my parents for a little,” said Amanda, hanging her head.
“Come and sit down,” said Cassandra quickly. “Lord Eston has just been telling me of your terrible ordeal at the Poor Relation.”
“Oh, awful. The shame of it. Not to mention all the tiresome scrubbing and delousing,” added Amanda in a more practical voice.
“Mr. Aubrey Davenport,” announced a hotel servant.
“Is the whole of London to call on you?” muttered Lord Eston.
Mr. Davenport came in bearing a huge bunch of hothouse flowers. He moved towards Cassandra, and then his eyes fell on Amanda and he stopped short and stared at her in a dazed way.
Amanda blushed and dimpled. Like a sleep-walker, Mr. Davenport held out the bouquet to Amanda.
She took it and said, “How delightful.”
“My love,” said Lord Eston sharply, “as you have not been introduced to this gentleman, you should understand the flowers are for Miss Ca—Miss Haldane.”
“That is quite all right,” said Cassandra quickly. Amanda threw Lord Eston a rather sulky look and tightened her grasp on the bouquet.
Mr. Davenport recollected himself. “I came, Miss Haldane,” he said, “to beg you to take the air with me.”
“A drive? I am afraid not, Mr. Davenport,” said Cassandra.
“I have recently purchased a high-perch phaeton.”
“Ooh,” said Amanda. “Is it very high?”
“Very high, Miss …?”
“Boyle. Amanda Boyle.” Amanda put down the bouquet and held out one little white hand, which he gallantly kissed.
A dreamy look came into Amanda’s eyes. “I have a new bonnet,” she said. “A lady in a new bonnet on a high-perch phaeton would be admired by all.”
“Then, as Miss Haldane is unable to accept my offer, perhaps …?”
“Miss Boyle is my fiancée,” said Lord Eston harshly.
Amanda appeared to have been suddenly struck deaf as far as he was concerned.
“You had better come and meet my parents, Mr. Davenport,” she said. “You must obtain their permission.” She picked up the bouquet and tripped from the room without a backward glance. Mr. Davenport gave a jerky little bow in Cassandra’s direction and hurried after Amanda.
“I’d better put a stop to this.” Lord Eston made to follow them out.
“You look stuffy and angry, quite like the heavy father and not like a man
who could play highwayman,” said Cassandra on a gurgle of laughter. “Oh, run along, do, but mark my words: outrage does not become you.”
“You had better put that dead cat away,” he retorted nastily. “Do you know you left it in full view?”
“How silly of me.” She put the cat away. Something prompted her to add maliciously, “I do not think Mr. Davenport and Miss Boyle had eyes for anything other than each other.”
He seized her by her shoulders and gave her a shake and then immediately released her. “You minx! You taunted me into misbehaving myself. You will not see me again.”
“I should not have made that remark,” she said contritely. She looked up into his face, appeal in her eyes. “I am sadly blunt, you know that, my lord. Please forgive me.”
His face relaxed. “Yes, of course I forgive you. But Iwish I had never let Miss Tonks embroil me in her mad schemes. I wish …”
He broke off.
“You were about to say you wished you had never kissed me!”
“I …”
“Pooh! Think nothing of it. It meant nothing to me.” But it had meant a lot, thought Cassandra, it had meant a rosy dream of love and romance, now shattered. To her horror, she could feel tears welling up in her eyes.
“Why, Cassandra!” he said.
He bent his head and kissed her. He could taste the salt from her tears, then the warmth of her lips, sweet and yearning against his own. He could feel the heat and vitality of the pliant body against his own, the swell of her breasts against his chest. London seemed to have fallen silent in that moment. No street cries, no traffic. A magic world of silence, of sweetness, a coming home after a long hard journey.
In the bedchamber next door, Miss Tonks suddenly coughed. He broke away from Cassandra.
“I do not know why I did that,” he said huskily.
Cassandra’s eyes were enormous in her pale face. “I do.”
“Why, Lord Eston!” Miss Tonks came into the room. “Such a long sleep! Cassandra, what are you thinking of? No refreshments? Tea, my lord, or some wine, although it is my belief that Bonnard waters it.”
“No, no, I must leave,” said Lord Eston. He must return at some point and explain his outrageous behaviour to Cassandra. Yes, that was it.
