by M C Beaton
“As you have given me your apologies, I feel obliged to point out that there is more than likely no Heatherington plantation there.”
“My man of business—shrewd chap—pointed out the same thing. Business does muddle my head so. I was quite angry and I do not like being angry. So I am purchasing a small and run-down plantation for very little money on the understanding it will be renamed Heatherington’s by the time Mr. Boyle arrives. The present overseer will have instructions to meet the ship and start Mr. Boyle on his duties. That should keep him away for some time.”
“But he will simply board the next ship home!”
“I am getting him to sign papers binding him to the job of estates manager.”
“How very clever of you,” said Lord Eston faintly.
“I am not clever at all. I wanted revenge, so I asked my very knowing man of business how to go about it.” Lord Eston eyed him narrowly. “And just what do you get out of all this?”
“I told you. Revenge. I am very rich and am tired of being treated like a flat. Some fellow once sold me a hunting-box in Yorkshire which turned out to be a fiction. After that, I turned all business arrangements over to the experts.”
“Some would think exposing Boyle’s perfidy revenge enough.”
“Not for me.” Mr. Davenport studied his polished fingernails. “I decided to go even further.”
“How?” asked Lord Eston, beginning to study him with horrified fascination.
“They are desirous of a reconciliation with Mrs. Boyle’s sister, Mrs. Sinclair, a rich widow who lives in Green Street. Mrs. Sinclair is, or was, at death’s door. I found she was being waited on by a quack and sent a good physician who prescribed diet and rest and no bleeding. The lady was weak with overmuch bleeding. She left today, with the good physician’s instructions, to take the waters in Bath and recuperate. When the Boyles call at Green Street, they will find no one at home.”
“You make a bad enemy, sir.”
“I think I have been extremely kind and fair, considering the wrong done me.” He rose to go. “While Miss Boyle is under my roof, Lord Eston, my house is yours. The … er … Hungarian ladies have left?”
“I believe so.”
“Such courage and gallantry. One would almost suppose them to be English.”
“Other races, sir, are equally courageous and gallant.”
“I suppose so, my lord. Good night. Your servant at all times.”
Lord Eston sat for a long time before the dying fire, thinking things over. He was perfectly sure that Mr. Davenport wished to take Amanda away from him. And he had gone to such efforts to get her parents out of the country and keep them away for some time so that his—hopefully—future in-laws would not be around to plague him.
So why was he, Eston, not furious? Why was he letting Davenport take Amanda under his roof?
He shifted uneasily. He had thought himself deeply in love with Amanda. He realized bleakly that he had been infatuated with her, and that infatuation had disappeared the minute he had held Cassandra in his arms and kissed her for the second time. But he had a shrewd idea that Boyle wanted his daughter to have a title. He had proposed, the engagement had been published, and there was no escape unless Amanda decided to release him.
A long and weary time passed for Cassandra. Her mother and father had called and had been firmly told that no one at the Poor Relation Hotel knew where she or Miss Tonks had gone. When she looked down from an upstairs window and saw her father’s bowed shoulders as he left the hotel, she had an impulse to run downstairs and cry out to him. But dread of that seminary kept her where she was.
Her duties at the hotel were light. She was expected to stand in for any servant who fell ill, to arrange flowers in all the rooms, and to mend sheets and curtains.
Lord Eston had not called, and his absence was making Cassandra feel quite bitter about him. He had kissed her while engaged to another, because he thought of her as a sort of upper servant, someone he could take liberties with.
The winter was freezing. Her stone water-bottle exploded with the cold. Frost flowers rimed the windows of her small, cell-like room.
Miss Tonks was feeling very low as well. She had timidly put forward the idea that some of the money for the diamonds might be used to bring Cassandra out at the Season, but Lady Fortescue had said roundly that was sheer folly. Any man interested in Cassandra would soon find out her background and shy away.
And when Miss Tonks had suggested that a gentleman might be so in love with Cassandra that her connection with the hotel would not matter, Lady Fortescue had snorted and said, “Such things only happen in books or to raving beauties, and Cassandra Blessop has no claim to beauty at all.” Lady Fortescue actually thought Cassandra quite an attractive girl, but she was exasperated with Miss Tonks. Cassandra, about to enter the “staff” sitting-room, heard Lady Fortescue’s remark about her and felt lower in spirits than ever.
One morning, when the hotel finally closed in February, Cassandra went out with Miss Tonks to look at the shops. As they were leaving the hotel, Cassandra saw Mr. Davenport driving past in his carriage, and she swung round with her back to the street. He would surely not recognize Miss Tonks without blond wig and wax-pads. But Cassandra could only pray he had not seen her.
She would have been surprised to learn that Lord Eston was as gloomy as she was herself. Contrary to his expectations, Mr. Davenport behaved like a perfect gentleman and no longer flirted with Amanda or paid her any compliments. Worse than that, Amanda seemed to be looking forward to her wedding, spending most of the time studying patterns of wedding dresses. It did not dawn on him that because he no longer tried to kiss her or even to hold her hand, Amanda had decided he would make a very suitable husband after all. Lord Eston had always assumed that he was pursued by females wherever he went because of his wealth and title, for he was not vain. Amanda knew her fiancé was the handsomest man in London and therefore she herself was a great object of envy. The colder Lord Eston became towards her, the happier she was. She no longer feared his embraces, for there were none to fear. Life as a pretty young bride with plenty of money for gowns and jewels stretched out in front of her.
Mr. Davenport puzzled over the problem. He had at first been sure that Amanda preferred him. He had not thought he would have to insult Lord Eston by pursuing the girl. He had expected her to walk into his arms. In order to find an answer to this puzzling problem, he invented a mythical friend who was about to get married, but who never even courted his love, who never pressed her hand, and yet wondered why the love in question should grow warmer as her swain grew colder.
As a great number of his friends were not particularly bright, devoting what wits they had to the cut of their coats, he was beginning to despair of getting any light thrown on the matter until he remembered his business adviser, Mr. Glennon.
It was worth a try, although he doubted whether Mr. Glennon would know anything about the fair sex. Mr. Glennon, he felt, had never been young but had sprung from his father’s head complete with bag-wig and long-tailed coat.
Mr. Glennon, in his dusty office in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, gravely heard him out. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a clue either,” finished Mr. Davenport.
“I would not say that, sir. The fact is that many young ladies know very little of the intimacies of marriage and therefore are frightened of them. Now that your friend has turned cold, his lady feels secure and unthreatened.”
“You’re a downy one. Demme, how’d you know that?”
“I am a great observer. On the other hand, it is a pity this friend of yours does not fancy someone else.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you wish Miss Boyle for yourself.”
Mr. Davenport sat with his mouth open.
“It was easy to guess,” said Mr. Glennon. “You buy a useless plantation in Jamaica and get a legal document drawn up for Mr. Boyle to sign binding him to run said estate, that estate to be now named Heatherington’s. Yo
u admitted you had already paid out a great deal of money to this Boyle for an estate called Heatherington’s, which you believe does not exist. Now this story. Amanda Boyle is engaged to Lord Eston. Is there any hope of throwing another charmer in Lord Eston’s direction?”
Mr. Davenport shook his head gloomily. “There was some Hungarian lady staying at Tupple’s and I could swear Eston was vastly taken with her, but she disappeared.”
Mr. Glennon leaned back in his chair and studied the cobwebs on the ceiling. “You could perhaps tell Miss Boyle that Eston is a very lusty man who is holding his carnal desires in check—until after the wedding. Hint at exhausted mistresses who could not sate his desire. If necessary, hint at darker lusts of the soul. All is fair in love and war. Also, try to find where this Hungarian lady has gone. I remember you mentioned her—a Miss Haldane, I believe?—and I took the liberty of studying her when she left Tupple’s one day. Somehow, she looked like a typical Englishwoman. Her clothes were English and her companion was wearing a stage wig. I followed them for some time. They went to Exeter ’Change and then took a hack, alighting at the Poor Relation Hotel. They went in and went straight up the stairs as if resident. Everyone knows Tupple’s and the Poor Relation are rivals. That same evening, the affair of the cat nearly ruins Tupple’s, and the very next day, the mysterious Hungarian ladies disappear. I think you will find them at the Poor Relation.”
Mr. Davenport goggled.
“Now if the young miss, the soi-disant Hungarian of royal blood, were in peril, I am sure Lord Eston would ride to the rescue and the circumstances would jolt his affections into something warmer.”
“Peril? What peril? Eston’s a good shot. Don’t want my head blown off.”
“As I said, I think you will find your Hungarians are part and parcel of the odd lot who run the Poor Relation. If that is the case, you tell the villainous Bonnard of Tupple’s that it was the younger one who did the damage to his hotel with the dead cat. When he has finished raging, you sympathize with him and say if it were you, you would kidnap young Miss Hungarian and tell the owners of the Poor Relation—in an anonymous note, of course—that unless they put a notice in the Morning Post to the effect that the Poor Relation is closing down for good, then she will be killed.”
“I say, you do have some Gothic ideas. Not quite my style. Why do you not do this yourself?”
“I would not be believed. Do you really want Miss Boyle?”
“Yes, she’s the prettiest thing I ever set eyes on.”
“Then you have to do only a very little—a word here, a word there.”
“Ho, and what if Bonnard kills this Hungarian?”
“I shall employ men to watch him. She will have a bad fright but come to no harm.”
“I say, what if she really is a member of the Hungarian royalty?”
“I shall eat my hat.”
Mr. Davenport left and Mr. Glennon crossed to the window to watch him go. Pity the boy wasn’t like his father, thought Mr. Glennon, shaking his head. But what Aubrey Davenport needed was not an heiress, he had money enough, nor a woman of good sense, for he had little himself, but a dainty feather-brain like Amanda Boyle. They were perfectly matched. All the clever schemes, such as getting rid of Mrs. Boyle’s sister, which Aubrey thought his own, had been planted in his brain by Mr. Glennon, whose one joy in life was manipulating other people while congratulating himself on his own cunning.
“Mr. Davenport!” cried Amanda later that day. “What a surprise. You have become quite a stranger.”
He was pleased to find her alone. “Where are your parents?”
She pouted. “Mama is as cross as anything because her sister, my Aunt Tabitha, is not dying at all and has already left for Bath. So she and Papa have gone to see someone, I don’t know who, and I am glad they are gone because Papa was accusing Mama of being silly, having left the visit to Aunt too late, and she was accusing him of being a tyrant. Still, I shall soon be married and have a home of my own.”
“And children?”
She blushed. “Really, Mr. Davenport, it is very unlike you to bring up subjects unsuited for a lady’s ears!”
“I am sorry. I think you are very brave and courageous.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“Eston is a very powerful, very lusty man. You are so fragile and delicate.”
“Lord Eston is a complete gentleman and does not thrust his attentions on me.”
“Of course not. That he will do after his marriage. His patience is astounding. When his late mistress, Mrs. Bag shot, told me she could not … er … keep up with his passions, I feared for you.”
“What are you talking about?” Amanda’s voice was shrill with fear.
“Forgive me. To me, you are a goddess. You are like a piece of fine Dresden china. I would not see you harmed.”
“Harmed?” Amanda’s voice had risen to a squeak.
“I go too far. Some men have dark passions and darker practices. Ah, me.” The now thoroughly terrified Amanda looked at him with dilated eyes. Young ladies were not supposed to know of coarse things. But with so many prostitutes in the streets and so many men in their cups consorting openly and amorously with these women, it was hard not to know a few facts of life. And yet she had thought that gentlemen confined their lusts to the lower orders of women. And yet his mistress could not cope with his passions!
There had been an anger and impatience about Lord Eston these days when he spoke to her. Sometimes, it seemed to Amanda, he looked at her with dislike. But now she thought she knew the reason for those brooding, smouldering looks.
She confided her fears to her mother later that day. Mrs. Boyle was in a bad temper. She could not believe her own sister had escaped her. She listened with half an ear to her daughter’s trembling confidences and then said impatiently, “You are marrying a man, not that pug of yours. Of course you will have to submit to love-making. All women do. No woman, or rather no lady, enjoys it. You just grit your teeth and think of something else.”
The following day, Mr. Davenport saw Cassandra leaving the Poor Relation, and although she immediately swung round and presented her back to him, he had seen enough to know it was she. He drove straight to Tupple’s and was soon telling an amazed and furious Bonnard the name of the person behind the near downfall of his hotel.
Bonnard’s rage knew no bounds. In order to entice customers back to the hotel, he had had to outlay a great deal of money. He listened carefully to Mr. Davenport’s suggestion of kidnap and then quietened slightly. “Can’t go about kidnapping royalty,” he said.
“She ain’t royalty, I’m sure,” replied Mr. Davenport. “More likely a servant at the Poor Relation that these old frights who run it sent round here to gull you.”
Bonnard pulled himself together and said quietly he was grateful for the information. Then, when Mr. Davenport had left, he sent out his spies. The servants at the Poor Relation had been warned against spies from Tupple’s but naturally thought they were not to talk about menus or prices. So a pretty chambermaid, accosted by a handsome waiter from Tupple’s, chatted freely about this Miss Blessop, niece of Miss Tonks, one of the partners.
Bonnard checked on the Blessops. Rich gentry, not aristocracy. He soon also had the intelligence that Miss Cassandra Blessop had run away from home and was in disgrace with her parents.
Lord Eston was dressing to go out two days later when his butler informed him that there was a person desiring to see him. “I don’t see persons,” said Lord Eston tetchily. He was to take Amanda driving and he wondered if he could bear another afternoon of her prattle without strangling her.
The butler hesitated and then said, “Although the lady comes without a maid, she has the appearance of a genteel spinster.”
“Probably collecting for some charity,” said Lord Eston. “Put her in the downstairs saloon and give her tea and tell her I will grant her two minutes.”
He was amazed when he finally entered the saloon to see Miss Tonks, sitting
on the very edge of a chair, clutching a large reticule and with her eyes red with weeping.
“Cassandra!” he said, fear clutching at his heart.
Miss Tonks covered her face and began to weep.
He knelt down in front of her and took her hands away from her face. “You must pull yourself together. It is Cassandra, is it not? Something has happened to Cassandra?”
She nodded dumbly and then began to cry harder than ever. Swearing under his breath, he rang the bell and ordered brandy and then held a glass to Miss Tonks’s pale lips and ordered her harshly to drink it. She gulped some down and then choked, but her sobs gradually grew quieter.
“She … she has been kidnapped. We got a letter saying that if we did not announce the Poor Relation was going out of business, then we would never see her again. I told the others I would ask you for help and Sir Philip said he would deal with it and not to tell anyone, but I am so afraid.”
“Her parents? Surely her parents have snatched her?”
“Honoria would not order us to close down. Sir Philip said it was Tupple’s.”
“Tupple’s. Bonnard. Leave it to me, Miss Tonks. If that cur knows where she is, I will shake it out of him.”
“But you must not tell Sir Philip. He said he had it all in hand. But he is so flamboyant and so determined to get revenge on Tupple’s that he might put Cassandra’s life at risk.”
“Miss Tonks, go back and say nothing.”
When the weeping spinster had been ushered out, Lord Eston took a pistol out of the drawer of his desk and primed it. He felt numb and cold. He had kept away from Cassandra out of duty. Damn duty! If he ever saw her again, he would not let her go.
He drove to Tupple’s, walked into the entrance hall and demanded to see Mr. Bonnard. After a wait of some ten minutes, a servant came back to say Mr. Bonnard was not in the hotel.
Forcing a smile on his face, Lord Eston said calmly, “What a pity. I was going to invest money in this hotel. But if he is not interested enough to see me …”
“It could be, my lord,” said the servant quickly, “that Mr. Bonnard has come back in by the rear entrance. Pray be so kind as to wait a little longer.”
