by M. C. Beaton
Then Jane turned her attention to the Marquess of Berry. He was a very tall thin man, quite old, perhaps about forty years. He appeared to have no chin at all, although his cravat was so huge and his shirt points so high it could have been buried somewhere among the folds of linen. He had great padded shoulders and a nipped-in waist. A bold black-and-gold-striped waistcoat, black coat, and thin shanks in black breeches gave him the appearance of a wasp. Euphemia seemed well content with her company.
At that moment Felice came hurrying into the room, exclaiming in horror when she found Jane still standing in her shift. She rushed out again to collect suitable items from Euphemia’s wardrobe and at last she had Jane attired in a simple white muslin gown covered with a green silk pelisse that had very long sleeves with mancherons, frogging on the bodice, and a tucked hem. There was too little time to arrange Jane’s hair properly, so it was twisted up on top of her head and covered with a pretty straw gypsy bonnet. Gloves, reticule, parasol, and fan were snatched up by Felice as she urged Jane downstairs.
When Jane entered the front parlour, it was to find Lord Tregarthan deep in conversation with her father. Mrs. Hart was, for once, being ignored. Lord Tregarthan seemed reluctant to finish his conversation with Mr. Hart, and, when he at last looked at Jane, his blue eyes were vague and dreamy and he did not appear to see her properly.
He made his bows and goodbyes and Jane was helped up into his carriage. It was a high crimson curricle with two bay mares harnessed tandem fashion in front of it. Lord Tregarthan in his fawn-coloured driving coat, leather breeches, and top boots looked every inch the Corinthian whip.
He had no servant on the backstrap. He waited until Jane was settled beside him and then he gently shook the reins, made a clicking noise, and the horses moved off, the sun shining on their silken flanks.
There was a great deal of traffic in Piccadilly, and his lordship muttered something about it having been better to go by Curzon Street. Then he raised his voice. “I trust the Park will not be too dusty. Nothing but volunteers drilling and marching. I think we have more soldiers in London than we have fighting the French.”
Each district had its volunteers—the Bloomsbury Volunteers, the Chelsea Volunteers, the Clerkenwell Volunteers, and so on. The fear of Napoleon had been carried well into this new century. There were troops, volunteers, and pressed-men in such numbers that 1,500 were encamped in St. George’s Fields, 1,000 at Blackfriars, 1,000 at Tower Hill, 1,200 at the Foundling Hospital, and 2,700 in Hyde Park.
A pretty housemaid in a print cotton gown walked along Piccadilly past the carriage just as he had finished talking. Her dress was disgracefully short—it showed nearly the whole of her ankles. The beau cast her an appreciative glance.
Jane did not want him to look at pretty housemaids, or anyone other than herself for that matter. She bit her lip in vexation. Euphemia would be in Hyde Park with her marquess. All at once Jane knew that Euphemia would make a point of accosting them with a view to claiming all of Lord Tregarthan’s attention.
“I do not want to go to the Park, you know,” said Jane brightly. “I have not been out and about before and I know nothing of London.”
A flash of amusement darted across his eyes as he looked at her. “Then we shall go about London. Anywhere in particular?”
Jane dumbly shook her head, feeling very shy and young. He neatly wheeled the curricle about in the middle of Piccadilly, seemingly oblivious to the curses and shouts of the other drivers, and started threading his way down Piccadilly in the opposite direction.
“This is the centre of the ton universe,” he said turning down St. James’s Street. “No lady must be seen here unescorted. That dirty big place with the clock at the end is St. James’s Palace.”
Jane hung tightly onto the guard rail and gazed about her in delight. She was to have London, and Beau Tregarthan, all to herself for one splendid hour.
They came out on Westminster Bridge after a stately progress down Whitehall and past the Houses of Parliament. The coffee-coloured River Thames rolled beneath with bluff-bowed barges drifting down its bosom.
“Whither away?” called a voice. A racing phaeton painted bright yellow had come along on their left-hand side.
“Good day, Cully,” called Lord Tregarthan. “Showy pair of tits you’ve got there.”
“Best cattle on the market,” said a brutal-looking man with an insolent stare.
“Sir Cuthbert Armstrong—’Cully,’” murmured Lord Tregarthan.
“Race you from Streatham Common to the Greyhound at Croydon,” called Cully.
“Really, Cully. I have a lady with me.”
“Thought it was your niece or something,” said Cully, raising his hat and glaring at Jane. “Pity. I would lay you a monkey I could get there first.”
“Oh, please let us race him,” cried Jane, wriggling with excitement. “I have never gone very fast before, you know,”
“Very well,” said Lord Tregarthan. “Hey, Cully, the race begins at Streatham. You may follow us.”
“I’ll see you there!” called Cully defiantly, and set off at a spanking pace.
“He’ll wind his cattle before the race even starts,” said Lord Tregarthan. “Miss Jane … may I call you Jane? You are so much younger than I.”
“Yes,” said Jane, feeling suddenly low. “Are you very old?” she ventured after a short silence.
“I am thirty.”
“That is not old at all,” said Jane, although she privately thought it was. Somehow, she had believed that although the years had passed for her, Lord Tregarthan would stay ageless, frozen in time, waiting for her to grow up.
“Do you think Mrs. Hart would appreciate my taking her youngest chick on a race?” asked the beau.
“No,” said Jane. “But then, I shan’t tell her.”
“I feel I am behaving very badly,” said Lord Tregarthan. “But I have accepted the bet. I will give you shillings for the turnpikes. Be ready to throw them so that I do not need to slow my pace.”
As they approached Streatham Common at last and saw Cully waiting in his phaeton, Jane felt so excited she thought she might be sick. She braced her feet against the splashboard in nervous anticipation. To her horror, she heard her companion say in his lazy drawl, “I’ll give you five minutes’ start if you’ll double the bet.”
“Done, you madman,” agreed Cully, grinning, and then he was off like the wind.
It seemed the longest five minutes Jane had ever known. The wind ruffled the new leaves of the trees on the Common and the birds sang. The sun beat down and a few people stopped to stare at them.
“We will discuss the interesting demise of Miss Clara when we get to Croydon,” said Lord Tregarthan. He took out his watch and looked at it thoughtfully.
Then Beau Tregarthan set his horses in motion and raised his whip.
? . . z . . a . . ck! went the long thong, striking the air over the horses’ ears.
“Oh, dear,” mumbled Jane as they surged forward.
Chapter
Six
In Tudor times the invitation to quarrel or combat was given by a biting of the thumb; in the middle of the eighteenth century, by cocking the hat; later by a jerk of the thumb over the left shoulder, implying illegitimate birth; in the early nineteenth century by the thumb to the nose, and within living memory by two fingers jerked upwards.
—Thomas Burke, The Streets of London
People came shouting from the fields and houses as Jane and Lord Tregarthan shot past, believing their horses had run away with them. Faster and faster flew Lord Tregarthan’s bay mares with their hooves rattling and their manes flying. The wheels hummed and buzzed while the curricle swayed, every joint and rivet creaking and groaning. Lord Tregarthan opened his mouth only to shout to Jane to throw a shilling to the toll keeper. Sometimes the press of traffic grew thick, but he threaded his way expertly through it. Once clear, he drove faster and faster until fields and houses were a flying blur.
All at once
, at the top of a hill, appeared a flash of yellow wheels through a cloud of dust. “We have him!” cried Lord Tregarthan. He stood up and fanned his whip over the horses, the thong cracking over their heads without once touching them.
It seemed incredible to Jane that the horses could go any faster, but the gallant mares surged up the hill as if the sight of the quarry had lent them miraculous strength. Jane found herself yelling encouragement to them, praising them, promising them sacks of sugar loaves, anything, if only they would catch up with the dreadful Cully.
At last they were abreast of him, the rumps of the horses exactly in line. There was hardly an inch to spare in the breadth of the road and any moment Jane expected to be thrown with the jar from a locking wheel.
Then they were past.
Barely a moment too soon, thought Jane, feeling limp with relief and reaction as Lord Tregarthan slowed his team to a trot and drove up to the front of the Greyhound. The landlord came running out with gin and gingerbread, but Lord Tregarthan smiled and waved the offering away. “We shall be stepping inside for some refreshment,” he said. “Boy, go to their heads.”
An ostler ran up and seized the reins. There was a rattle of wheels on the road as Cully, with a face like thunder, drove straight past.
“Will he not pay you?” asked Jane.
“Yes. He will send a servant round with the money later. That is his way. A wickedly bad loser is Cully.”
Jane had to wait patiently until Lord Tregarthan saw his mares rubbed down and petted and fussed over. Then he led the way into the inn and soon they were both seated in the coffee room. They were the only customers. Feeling shy again, Jane sipped lemonade and wondered what her mother would say. One hour was the acceptable amount of time allotted to any gentleman taking a young lady out driving. Surely more than an hour had passed.
As if reading her thoughts, Lord Tregarthan said, “I will tell Mrs. Hart the pole broke if you wish, and then we may be comfortable. I am accounted quite a catch, you know,” he went on, his blue eyes mocking. “She might see me as a future son-in-law. She will not be angry.”
“I fear mama thinks I am your latest whim rather than your latest love.”
“While we both know it is neither,” he said. “We are both interested in finding out about Miss Clara.”
“Yes,” said Jane in a small voice, wishing his interest in her was that of a man for a woman. Not that she loved him, she told herself fiercely. It was only that it would be pleasant to be admired.
“What have you found out about Clara?” asked the beau.
Jane repeated the gossip she had had of Rainbird.
“I did not get any further,” he smiled, “except that I learned that Mr. Harry Bullfinch will be at the Quesnes’ ball in Berkeley Square on Thursday. Do you attend?”
“I have been invited, but whether mama will take me is another matter,” said Jane.
“I shall speak to her about it on our return. What of Mr. Gillespie?”
“I thought perhaps you might go to see him,” said Jane eagerly. “I am not allowed out and could certainly not approach him on my own.”
“Has it always been thus?” he asked curiously. “Are you always kept indoors?”
“Oh, no,” said Jane. “In the country, you know, I was much freer, although nobody came to call except Lady Doyle. You know Lady Doyle, of course.”
“More a case of … of course not. Should I?”
“Lady Doyle says she knows everyone in the ton.”
“I have been out of the country. No doubt she escaped my notice. Where does she reside?”
“Upper Patchett.”
“Dear me. And is Upper Patchett the latest fashionable spa?”
“N-no. It is only a little village near Brighton.”
“But Lady Doyle spends a great deal of time in Town?”
“No,” said Jane, surprised. “I have never known her to go to London.”
“In that case, how can she know so many of the ton if she does not go to London and they certainly do not go to Upper Patchett?”
“I often thought she told fibs,” said Jane. “But you see how we are straying from the subject of Miss Clara, which is much more interesting. What is Mr. Bullfinch like?”
“Very regular. About my age, I think. Well thought of.”
“How disappointing!”
“Were you looking for a sinister rake?”
“Something like that,” said Jane ruefully. “Dear, dear. I begin to feel silly. I have been making mysteries where none exist.”
“On the other hand,” he pointed out cheerfully, “everyone dies of something.”
Jane brightened. “How very true and how very reassuring of you to say so.”
The beau tilted his chair back and crossed his booted legs. “Now we will talk of things that really matter until I find out more about Mr. Gillespie. Do you want to be a success at the ball?”
“Yes,” said Jane wistfully, “but I fear I do not know how to go about it.”
“There is a new fashion in gowns—silk, not muslin—old gold with a green stripe. Not from Madame Duchasse but from an as-yet unknown Leonie of Conduit Street. And have your hair cropped.”
Jane blushed. “You should not know about ladies’ gowns,” she said severely. “Besides, I cannot. I will probably have to have one of Euphemia’s old gowns altered, although mama did promise me some new things.”
“That seems unfair.”
“Euphemia is so very beautiful and the elder,” pointed out Jane loyally. “It is fitting all the best should be done for her.” She played nervously with the handle of her parasol while he raised his quizzing glass and studied her face.
At last he let it drop, and said mildly, “You get the beauty of ladies like your sister all at once. But you—there is so much to discover.”
“What?” asked Jane eagerly, craving praise.
But his eyes were mocking as he swung his glass by its long golden chain. “One day I will give you a list of all my discoveries,” he said.
A strange, companionable silence fell between the beau and Plain Jane. The wind moved the chintz curtains at the coffee-room windows and sun and shade dappled the rough grass of the lawn outside.
At last he suggested they should take their leave. As he bent to pick up his hat and cane, he said in a more serious tone of voice than he normally used, “Tell your father I shall call on him at eleven tomorrow morning. I have something important to ask him.”
“Yes,” said Jane breathlessly. Her eyes were like stars, but Lord Tregarthan, holding the door open for her, did not notice. A heady feeling of triumph made her feel faint. There could only be one reason why a gentleman told a young lady he wished to call on her father. Lord Tregarthan meant to ask permission to pay his addresses to her.
Jane floated out to the curricle.
Although they made the journey back at a sedate pace, the countryside and the houses swam past in the same blur before Jane’s dazed and happy eyes. The whole of London would talk about her. Jane Hart. Jane Hart, who had snared the most handsome man in London!
They turned into Piccadilly from St. James’s Street and were about to turn off into Clarges Street when Jane clutched hold of the guard rail and cried, “Stop!”
Surprised, Lord Tregarthan reined in his horses.
“Joseph!” screamed Jane. “They are killing Joseph,” and before he could stop her, she had leapt nimbly down from the carriage and had started to run in the direction of the gates of the Green Park.
Joseph had been out on an errand. He had been sent by Mrs. Hart to buy pink ribbons to trim a gown—a job that Joseph considered beneath his dignity. He mutinously decided to take a stroll in the Green Park, for the day was fine and he was reluctant to return to Number 67 and spend the rest of the day fetching and carrying.
He saw three ruffians bending over something and shied nervously away. Joseph was frightened of the lower orders, who often delighted in tormenting liveried footmen.
Then he heard a plaintive miaow. Some horrible fascination drove him forward to have a look. One of them held a cat pinned to the ground. It was one of the largest cats Joseph had ever seen, with a brown-and-gold-striped coat. It had golden eyes, beautiful eyes, which seemed to look straight to Joseph for help. Another ruffian took out his penknife. “Let’s poke the moggie’s eyes out,” he said.
“Yus,” agreed his friends gleefully.
Somewhere right down inside Joseph’s selfish, sensitive, cringing character, a voice said, “No, you don’t,” and, to his horror, he realized the voice had issued from his own lips, not in a mumble, but in loud, clear tones.
The ruffian who was holding the knife straightened up. “Wot did you say?” he demanded.
Joseph opened his mouth to say, “Nothing,” and to let his shaking legs carry him away, but his legs would not move and his voice said loudly, “Leave the cet alone. Thet cet belongs o’ me.”
The ruffians started mincing up and down, their hands on their hips, imitating Joseph’s affected voice. They had let the cat go.
“Run,” pleaded Joseph silently to the cat. “Run away and I will run with you.”
But the cat stayed, crouched against the ground. The leader of the ruffians, he who had held down the cat, turned and put his thumb to his nose and waggled his fingers at Joseph.
“Miaow,” went the cat.
Joseph had never accepted a challenge before. Never. The last time he had been in a fight had been with Luke, the Charterises’ footman. But Luke had not even asked him if he wanted to fight. He had simply set about him.
Again he waited for his brain to tell his legs and feet to move. Instead his brain told him to take off his black-and-gold coat and lay it carefully on the grass.
“A mill!” cried the leader’s two companions. The leader himself spat on his hands and approached Joseph. But the leader winked at his two companions and all three set on Joseph.
For the first few moments, sheer terror combined with mad rage served Joseph well and he sent two of them flying. Neither Rainbird nor MacGregor would have recognised the normally effeminate footman in the Joseph who landed punches with the finesse of Mendoza and the strength of Jackson. But two of them finally managed to seize his arms and swung him round to face the third, who drew back his fist ready to demolish Joseph’s face.
