‘Tell us about Granny’s visit,’ Emma urged.
‘You know about that?’
‘The whole of Chorlton knows,’ Lilian said drily. ‘She’s most put out that she never got to have a snoop round upstairs.’
So she told the story. To her surprise, she was able to make it sound funny in a groan-worthy sort of way.
Dadda said, ‘We’d never let you down like that,’ and the atmosphere changed. She was back to being their important visitor.
There was a knock at the door.
‘It’ll be the carriage.’ She couldn’t meet their eyes.
In no time at all, she had her hat and coat and was ready to go.
‘I’ve brought presents. I’ll fetch them.’
The coachman held the carriage door open. ‘Shall I take those for you, Mrs Charles?’
‘No, thank you. I want to hand them over myself.’ She hurried back.
Lilian handed her two small parcels in return. ‘Here you are, one each.’
‘Thank you.’ They would be opened privately, not as part of the Kimbers’ ritual. ‘I’ll see you at church on Christmas morning, won’t I?’
‘Not this year,’ said Dadda. ‘We’ve always attended the same service as the Kimbers, but it’d be strange showing that kind of deference to our daughter. You’ve done well for yourself and we respect that, but, well, there it is. Besides, we don’t want the Kimbers thinking we’re taking advantage.’
‘Especially after what Granny did,’ Lilian added.
‘They know you’d never do anything like that,’ cried Mary.
‘Then how come you’re here on your own?’ asked Dadda. ‘That’s a message from the Kimbers, loud and clear. They don’t want any presumption. Well, neither do I, and I’m offended that young Charlie Kimber thinks a snub is required to tell me so.’
‘Dadda …’
‘It’s all right, love. Off you go.’ He took her shoulders and bent his head to kiss her, but the wide brim of her new hat got in his way and he missed.
The coachman handed her in. She waved, then felt wretched because it seemed such a regal thing to do.
That was it, then. To her family, she was a Kimber. To the Kimbers, she was a Maitland.
And you. What do you think you are?
‘Who’s that with Moira?’ Mungo Waller plonked himself down at the baize-covered card table where Greg was playing patience.
‘Lady Dalrymple.’
‘You said that without looking.’
He didn’t need to look. The Dalrymple was Moira’s latest acquisition.
‘So that’s the famous Dalrymple,’ said Mungo. ‘Or should I say, infamous?’
‘You sound like a gossipy washerwoman.’
‘M’dear fellow, don’t you know the story?’
‘Evidently not,’ Greg lied.
‘In the words of maiden aunts everywhere, Lady Dalrymple is no better than she should be.’
He quirked an eyebrow. ‘At her age? I take my hat off to her.’
‘I don’t mean now. I don’t know whether she has the opportunity these days. At least, I can’t imagine …’ Mungo frowned, then grimaced. Apparently, he could imagine and it wasn’t a pretty picture. ‘I mean years ago. Dalrymple, Lord or Sir or whatever he was, divorced her for adultery and she’s been gadding about the Continent ever since, dripping with diamonds.’
Too soon to show an interest in the diamonds. ‘If she’s divorced,’ said Greg, glancing up from his cards, ‘is she still entitled to call herself Lady?’
‘Don’t know. Good point. Poor old Moira,’ Mungo added obliquely. ‘Makes you wonder about the diamonds too. She wouldn’t have been allowed to walk off with the Dalrymple jewels.’
‘She found herself a rich protector or two along the way, according to Moira.’
He bent his head over his cards. Getting Louisa Hurstman’s ring had been a stroke of luck, but he was leaving nothing to chance in the Dalrymple matter. Moira’s busybody chatter had told him all he needed to know about Lady Dalrymple’s habits. In fact, he had understood better than Moira herself, so that when Her Ladyship had decamped from Moira’s in favour of the equally snobbish and gullible Buffy and Amelia Beaven, he hadn’t been surprised, though Moira was astonished. It amused him to see how they fought to entertain the ageing sponger.
No, it didn’t: it disgusted him.
It was time for Moira and her hangers-on, together with the Beavens and their hangers-on, to descend on Paris for a few days and nights of restaurants, dancing and casinos. Greg looked on as, hoping to tempt Lady Dalrymple, Moira booked her the best room in the hotel she always used when she came to Paris, but she was outflanked by Amelia, who dangled a suite as bait.
The Beavens favoured a different hotel, which was perfect as far as Greg was concerned. When one or two of Lady Dalrymple’s baubles vanished, who would suspect a man-about-town staying at another hotel half a mile distant?
Courtesy of Moira, he knew that Lady Dalrymple kept her jewels in a strongbox, its key in the bottom of whichever handbag she was carrying. First get the key. Tricky, that, as the Dalrymple kept her bag looped over her bony arm – except while she was dancing, when she would pass it into the keeping of another lady.
On their third night in Paris, she gave the bag to Moira.
Greg turned to Buffy Beaven. ‘This tune is one of Moira’s favourites. Ask her to dance, why don’t you?’
Buffy lumbered to his feet and Greg took the bag from Moira so smoothly that she probably thought she had handed it to him. It was the work of a moment to find the key and press it into the small wedge of putty he had been carrying about with him.
Then he waited. The Beaven party was living it up in Paris for two days longer than Moira’s lot. On Moira’s last night, the two groups visited the casino together. He sauntered about, making sure he was seen here, there and everywhere, then slipped down the backstairs and cut through the dark streets to the Beavens’ hotel.
Inside, he paused beside an arrangement of potted palms and dropped a stink-bomb into the soil. Ensconcing himself in an armchair, he picked up one of the hotel’s newspapers and hid behind it. Sure enough, voices were raised in distaste. The night-receptionist came round the desk, speaking reassuringly, only to thrust his handkerchief to his nose as the pong hit him.
With attention focused elsewhere, Greg slid behind the desk, took the key to the second-floor suite and nudged his way through the service door. Upstairs, he let himself into the suite, standing in the silence, assessing its quality, ensuring he was alone. He had gambled that Lady Dalrymple’s maid, who was even less of a spring chicken than her mistress, would be elsewhere, snatching forty winks, and he was right.
This was the sitting room. Through there must be the bedroom. He opened the door: yes.
The strongbox was beneath the dressing table. He lifted the stool aside, put his topper on it and knelt down. He didn’t pull the box out but crouched to insert the key. Inside, padded trays were stacked on top of one another, each holding an array of jewels. The second tray down was empty: that must be what she was wearing tonight. There were four trays in all. He homed in on the bottom one. It wouldn’t be looked at until tomorrow evening at the earliest.
There were earrings with stones so huge and heavy it was a wonder the Dalrymple earlobes weren’t flapping on her shoulders; a bracelet; and a necklace. This was what he had come for. A necklace with stones that could be separated.
He bared his teeth in a smile.
‘Jackpot.’
‘Another February, another Snowdrop Ball,’ Aline gushed. ‘Which is this one? The twelfth? Thirteenth?’
‘Fourteenth,’ Lady Kimber took pleasure in telling her.
‘Is it really? We all rely on it, you know, to give us something to look forward to after Christmas.’
‘That’s why I started it.’
It wasn’t true. Her real intention had been to start a tradition, to be continued by future Lady Kimbers, with herself remembered wi
th admiration as the one who had conceived the delightful idea. When her portrait was painted five years ago, she had, with perfectly judged spontaneity, had the charming idea that she should be represented holding a nosegay of snowdrops.
Eleanor looked adorable in ivory silk, embroidered around the swirling hem and diagonally from shoulder to slender waist with tiny beads that shimmered like dew as they caught the light. Lady Kimber had given Eleanor her own sapphires to wear, an elegant pendant and matching earrings, not too heavy, quite suitable for a young girl. Eleanor was having a wonderful time, as her radiant smile showed. Guests who hadn’t seen her since her return from Switzerland were fussing her and she had entranced the whole room when she danced the first dance with her proud father.
Mary, on the other hand, looked pale and tense in silvery-grey, though the garnets Charlie had given her for Christmas – the dear boy had been quite open to the murmured suggestion that Mary would find rubies too showy – looked surprisingly good beside the fabric. This was Mary’s first ball and even if Eleanor hadn’t been present to outshine her, she would still have looked uncomfortable, smile too bright, eyes guarded.
Charlie’s problem, no one else’s. But he seemed to have forgotten her. He had stuck loyally by her side to start with, but as the son of the house, he had a duty to the guests, as indeed did Mary. Not that you would know it from watching her. She appeared shy of approaching people, as if fearing they wouldn’t wish to speak to her, which just showed her middle-class roots. The upper classes placed civility above everything.
Charlie appeared at her side. ‘Your Snowdrop Ball is a huge success. Congrats.’
‘I’m gratified you’re enjoying it.’
‘I wish the same could be said for Mary.’
‘I’m sure she’s doing her best.’
‘Absolutely. The last thing she wants is to let me down, but I fear this is rather overwhelming.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘So many grand people all in one go.’
‘I fear she appears rather gauche.’
‘I can’t take my eyes off Eleanor. She’s changed, hasn’t she? More grown-up, more sure of herself.’
‘She has developed confidence without compromising her natural grace and charm and with no loss of modesty. It’s a class trait. That’s why Mary has never quite … well, this is neither the time nor the place.’
Charlie said nothing, but he was thinking so furiously she could practically smell it. ‘Mary isn’t really cut out for all this, is she?’
She said nothing. He was trying to make her join him in running Mary down, but she knew Charlie. That would arouse his gallantry and put him on the social climber’s side again.
‘I made a mistake, didn’t I, marrying her?’ He blew out a breath. ‘Still, I’ve made my bed, and all that.’
Having envisioned this moment any number of times, Lady Kimber expected to experience a great surge of triumph. What she actually felt was serenity.
She said, ‘Not necessarily.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ll discuss it tomorrow in your uncle’s presence. Now I must attend to my guests and you’ll oblige me by doing the same.’
Greg forced himself to wait for any fuss concerning the Dalrymple diamonds to die down. He had stolen the jewels on Tuesday night and Moira’s travelling circus had high-tailed it back to the country after breakfast on Wednesday. His heart had thudded throughout that meal. Every time someone entered the dining room, he looked to see if it was the police, but he wasn’t afraid. On the contrary, he was elated. He felt truly alive for the first time since being forced into servitude.
After they had been back in the country a day or two, word reached them of Lady Dalrymple’s loss, which hadn’t been uncovered until Thursday. Better and better.
‘If only she’d stayed with us,’ Moira lamented. ‘Our hotel had a safe.’
‘I’m sure she’ll bear that in mind next time.’
Now he just had to have the necklace dismantled, flog the stones and hey presto, he could kiss his debts goodbye.
He sent a servant to fetch the shoes he had left outside his door last night for polishing.
The next thing he knew, Moira burst in.
‘You’re packing,’ she cried.
‘Word gets round.’
‘Why?’
‘Had enough.’
‘You can’t go. You haven’t had a good win in weeks and selling my gifts won’t get you far.’
‘Good thing I’m not relying on them, then.’
‘You scoundrel!’ Her eyes flashed.
He laughed. ‘Scoundrel? You can do better than that.’
‘Beast!’
‘A bit better, but not much.’
She lashed out, then squealed as he caught her wrist.
‘Let me go!’
She twisted this way and that, then stumbled as he took her at her word, her hands landing slap on the bed as she steadied herself. She splayed out her fingers and ran them enticingly across the counterpane, tilting her head and slanting him a sideways glance. Did she imagine herself kittenish?
‘Save it for your next gigolo.’
She sprang up, flames of anger highlighting her cheeks. ‘Lapdog!’
He hit her for that, not a hard blow, more of a sharp clip, but it was enough to send her sprawling onto the rug. She made a great performance of struggling to her feet, clutching her cheek. Silly bitch, didn’t she realise he could have clouted her a great deal harder and loosened a few teeth, if not removed them?
‘I hate you!’ she flared.
‘Then you won’t mind my leaving, will you?’
She stamped her foot. ‘Get out of my house!’ She pointed a quivering finger towards the door.
He gave her his most winning smile. ‘My pleasure.’
‘Oh!’ It was a yowl of frustrated rage. Some locks of hair had come adrift, revealing a trace of grey at her scalp. She thrust out her hands to push past him, but he sidestepped with the grace of a matador. With one final outraged pout, she rushed from the room.
Half an hour later, he ran down the front steps, light-headed with relief. He was free of Moira and soon he would be free of Mr Jonas.
Settling himself on the train, he grinned. Courtesy of the lovely Louisa’s ring, which he had flogged in Paris, it was first class all the way.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The address of Mr Jonas’s office in Charing Cross Road was on the paperwork for Greg’s original loan. When he arrived, it turned out to be a bookshop. The air smelt of wooden floorboards and leather binding. Bookcases stretched almost to the ceiling, stocked with a pleasing mishmash of different-sized books, interspersed by the occasional uniform set. An elderly man sat at a desk, on the wall behind which was a framed print of a jolly painting of a plus-foured cyclist taking a tumble into the middle of a picnic, and beside it, a framed poster from the last century for Singer’s Cycles, showing men and women calmly riding penny-farthings and those three-wheeled contraptions with two gigantic wheels behind and a tiny one in front.
‘May I be of assistance?’ the old boy enquired.
‘I have this address for a Mr Jonas.’
‘Up there.’ The man indicated a staircase in the corner.
Something made Greg tread lightly so as not to make a noise. At the top was a door. He knocked and entered, finding a drab little room with a fireplace on one side, cabinets on the other and a desk in the middle. For one moment, Mr Jonas went down in his estimation, then he knew, he just knew, that Jonas never set foot here himself.
A young man sat at the desk. There was nothing obviously unpleasant about him, but Greg disliked him on sight. Perhaps it was those clever eyes.
‘Greg Rawley to see Mr Jonas.’
‘Certainly, sir. Let me make a note of your name. Mr Gregory Rawley of …?’ He looked up. His expression was bland, but it was impossible for those eyes to look innocent.
‘Mr Jonas knows my address. I can also be contacted through my club. Wentworth’s.’
‘Mr Jonas will be in touch, sir.’ The fellow looked at him, a professional half-smile fixed on his face.
Greg didn’t ask questions, certain the fellow would take pleasure in not answering them. Nodding a brusque farewell, he departed. It was a breezy day in early March. He set off at a brisk walk, intending to have a glass of something stiff at his club. He felt unsettled. He hadn’t necessarily expected to see Mr Jonas, but he had expected something more conventional. But then what was conventional about a man who did business by having the living daylights kicked out of you when he didn’t care for your proposed method of repayment?
He received no word the next day at his rooms or at his club, but the following morning there was a message at Wentworth’s. Could he be available at two o’clock?
When he returned at two, expecting to be taken elsewhere, he was shown upstairs to one of the private rooms.
‘My dear Mr Rawley, thank you for favouring me with your company.’
He could do little more than gape. ‘Are you a member?’
‘No, but as you see, I have influence. Take a seat – or perhaps you should be offering me a seat, eh, since you’re the bona fide member.’
Greg sat, throwing one leg across the other, but he didn’t feel relaxed.
‘You wished to meet with me,’ said Mr Jonas. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
He felt better, in control. ‘I’m pleased to inform you I’ll shortly be in a position to repay my debt in full.’
‘In full? That’s a considerable sum, Mr Rawley.’
‘Nevertheless. I’d be obliged if you could make a final reckoning of the interest.’
‘I’ll calculate it to the day, you may be sure. Which day shall we say?’
‘In two days: Friday.’
Mr Jonas bowed his head. ‘I look forward to it.’
And I’ll look forward to never seeing you again, you snake.
But when he took the necklace to a jeweller down a side street near enough to Bond Street to have a veneer of respectability, he was informed the jewels were fake.
The Poor Relation Page 25