He caught at her hand and brought her closer to him, the crush of her many layered petticoats the only barrier between them. “Why? Why is it not possible?” he demanded. “Miss St. Neots will listen to you.”
“No. She will not listen to anyone,” Selina answered flatly, although the nearness of him was fast suffocating her senses. “Please. Let me go.”
“You want to see her married to a man you call a cheat and a liar, whom you and your aunt have accused of murder?” he demanded angrily, head bent over her, a curl of coal-black hair falling into his eyes, his mouth almost brushing her forehead. “You want her to wake up one morning to find herself married to such a man all because you chose unwisely—”
“How dare you! How dare you feel sorry for yourself at my expense!” Selina enunciated through gritted teeth, and with a mighty shove threw him off so that he staggered backwards and she fell, back up against the door, breathless and seething with anger. “Do you have concern for no one but yourself? If you tried that rough treatment on Emily to get her to change her mind I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she never wishes to set eyes on you again! Lord! You step back into her life after an absence of eight months and expect her to fall into your arms because you wish it?”
“So you’re in favor of her marriage to Delvin?”
Selina sighed in exasperation. “What does my endorsement matter?” But when Alec held her gaze, mouth shut hard, she knew he would persist until he had an answer. “No, of course I’m not,” she replied calmly. “He is everything I declared him to be and more. And… He is not in love with her; it could never be a happy union.”
“Then she must be told. She must be made to see what sort of man she is about to marry!”
“No.”
Alec was all haughty incredulity. “No, Madam?”
“Don’t you understand? Emily does not see the true Delvin because he has not allowed her to see anything but a polished, mannered nobleman of wealth and family. That is the being Emily fell in love with.” When Alec’s brow creased, she smiled wanly. “Emily has fallen in love with your brother. That is why I cannot say a word against him.”
Alec was incredulous. “She is in love with him? In love with Delvin?” He wiped his mouth as if he had eaten something distasteful.
“To show your opposition to the match, for me to voice doubts about Delvin, will only strengthen her resolve to marry your brother.”
Alec looked away to the draped window seat with its view of the inner courtyard of St. James’s Place, but not before Selina saw the abject hurt in his face. It made her feel hollow inside. After a moment he opened the door and spoke as if addressing a stranger, “Thank you for your advice, Madam. I appreciate that you offer it in the spirit of wanting what is best for Emily.”
“Indeed, Mr. Halsey,” Selina replied flatly, yet her dark eyes were wet and bright. “There is nothing more soul destroying than having one’s hopes and dreams shattered by the one you love.”
When the porter called Wantage from his pantry the butler was about to give the man a piece of his early-morning mind until he saw whom it was standing in the hallway. The Duchess of Romney-St. Neots dumped her cloak, bonnet and muff on a sleepy footman, straightened her upswept, powdered hair in front of a gilded looking glass and demanded to see the master of the house.
Wantage was extremely apologetic. He was unable to oblige. Mr. Halsey had left the house two hours earlier. He did not say when he would return. Perhaps her Grace would care to leave her card and come back in the afternoon?
She did not care to do such a thing! She would wait. And if there was any hot chocolate in the house Wantage could bring it to her in the drawing room overlooking the park. And he could send Mr. Halsey’s valet to her.
The butler did not hesitate to do as he was told.
Alec spent the early morning at M’sieur Poisson’s fencing academy; the renowned fencing master had rooms in Curzon Street. M’sieur was interested to discover what his pupil had learned at the celebrated Salle d’escrime in Paris. Alec had gone there several times in the company of the Duc de le Tournelle’s youngest son, who had gained him entry for the favor of a word in the English Ambassador’s ear.
The hour passed too quickly for both. Regretfully M’sieur could not allot Alec any more time that day. Soon the rooms would fill with young gentlemen who made a habit of frequenting Poisson’s academy because it was the fashionable thing to do before going off to the club or the coffeehouse.
These sprigs of fashion had no intention of working up a sweat. They came fully coiffured and in their best silks; to learn a few fancy steps, to perfect their deportment, and to impress one another with the latest technique of parry and thrust. Half-hearted fencers themselves, they were avid spectators of the serious fencer who went through his paces with M’sieur.
Poisson confided to Alec that it was truly a waste of a good fencing master’s time to bother with these silly younger sons of English noblemen, but as he over-charged them and they were prepared to pay such an exorbitant fee he, Poisson, could not very well turn them away. No. He would fawn over them, lavish compliments upon them, and spend his time conducting lessons in placement, even though it gave him excruciating ennui.
Poisson helped shrug Alec into his frockcoat, saying with a grin, “In Paris, you visited Mme Sophie, yes? Did I not say that in all of Paris she keeps the best cathouse? Me, I cannot speak of it personally, but the Chevalier d’Fragnoré, he did not brag, no?”
“He did not brag.”
M’sieur clapped his hands, well satisfied. “Good! Fencing and women, they are the same, are they not? Both require technique and a certain—how you say?—finesse. Yes!” He kissed the tips of his fingers and bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “Good-day, M’sieur Halsey.”
Alec returned the salutation, turned to leave, and was confronted with a group of chattering young men crowding in through the door that opened on to the stairwell. He stepped aside to let them pass. There were at least a dozen of them. All young men of good family with too much time and money on their hands than was good for them, and with pretensions to being a la mode. They were twittering away, laughing to one another over silly nothings; powdered, patched, and enveloped in a heady cloud of perfume.
In the commotion of arrival, Alec slipped behind them and out on to the landing only to come face to face with two of their number stopped on the top step. The narrowness of the stairwell prevented him from passing without interrupting what seemed a barely controlled argument. He coughed into his closed fist to warn them of his presence, but they did not notice him.
“Now what are you going to do?” demanded the one facing Alec, his padded shoulder up against the wall. His powdered toupee rose a ridiculous eight inches above his forehead and complimented the affected nasal voice.
“I’ve got to have time to think it out. God, James, I still can’t believe Belsay’s dead. What am I going to do?”
Alec knew at once to whom this second voice belonged and was surprised. It was Simon Tremarton, a colleague in the Foreign Department. He had recently shared a posting in Paris with Simon and before that they had been at The Hague together. Simon was to have had dinner with him before leaving Paris but had pulled out at the last moment saying he needed to return to London early on account of his mother’s ill health. Alec wondered what a man who needed to work for a living and who could ill afford to waste time or his hard-earned guineas was doing in company with these sprigs of fashion who had nothing better to do with their lives than waste time in frivolous pursuits.
“Get the cash from someone else,” replied the one in the eight-inch toupee.
“Cash?” Simon Tremarton’s voice broke on the word.
“Old Reubens will be on to you in less than that,” was the nasal response with a snap of two fingers, “if he even suspects you can’t repay what you owe him. I’d lend you the blunt myself but I live on credit as it is; much Father knows about it! What about your sister?”
“Cin
dy?” There was a pathetic catch to Simon Tremarton’s voice. “She don’t give a tester about me. Never has.”
“She must have jewels you can pawn.”
“Paste.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
The gentleman facing Alec grimaced. “Damn! I thought—”
“—she was swimming in lard? She was once. Has a taste for Basset. Plays deep. Anything Delvin gave her she had copied then sold off to pay her debts. Dressmakers’ bills mostly. Cindy loves to look the lady. Whore.”
“Listen, Simon. You’re going to have to swallow your pride and go back to her. See if she won’t speak to Delvin for you. He must be able to pull strings, as many as he pleases the position he’s in.”
Simon shook his powdered head slowly. “How can you ask it of me after what he did to Belsay?”
“But he took your money. He promised—”
“Which brings us full circle.” Simon sighed. “Don’t worry. Everything is so upside down for me now. I don’t want to think about Reubens or Cindy or anything. If the worst comes I’ll try for a posting to Constantinople.”
“Simon?”
It was Alec. He had coughed twice more but to no avail, so he backed up the stairs and came down again, as if he had not been privy to the conversation. He hid his surprise at seeing Simon in Curzon Street and said conversationally, “I thought you’d had enough punishment at the Salle d’escrime in Paris with Henri. I warn you: Poisson is a hard taskmaster.” He nodded to the outrageously dressed gentleman beside Simon who acknowledged him with a short bow.
Simon Tremarton stuttered to say something. His face was white as cold marble but his ears were as red as the heels of his companion’s pointed shoes. “Hal—Halsey? Alec! Wh-What a-a surprise! I’m just back from seeing mother. My sister—Cynthia—Perhaps you know her? Lady Gervais? She was with me.” He saw Alec glance at his friend. “Oh! Ah! Alec Halsey, James, Lord Farnham. Alec works—well is a diplomat—”
“The word work is fine, Simon,” said Alec extending his hand to Lord Farnham. “Brother of Freddie’s?”
“No. Second cousin, thank God,” Lord Farnham drawled. “No offense if he’s a friend.”
“I don’t know him well. He’s more an acquaintance,” Alec replied, ignoring the sarcasm and the fact Lord Farnham was looking him up and down through his quizzing-glass as if trying to place his name and face in his mental social register. If he intended to disconcert the object of his social scrutiny he failed dismally. Alec stared blankly back at him.
“Halsey? Halsey. Egad! Not Delvin’s brother?” Lord Farnham let drop the quizzing-glass on its silken cord. “You and Delvin don’t look much alike.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re the black sheep,” Lord Farnham continued, mental social register turning another cog. “Raised by an uncle or somebody. An annoying old badger who plays at being a rabble-rousing eccentric MP. Wants to abolish slavery and give the Irish Home Rule; that sort of ridiculous nonsense. Father is forever boring on at dinner parties that your uncle should be strung up at Tyburn for treason.”
Alec grinned. “Yes, that’s the one.”
Lord Farnham screwed up his mouth in distaste. “Egad! No wonder Delvin don’t mention you.”
“James—” Simon Tremarton whispered in acute embarrassment, not a glance in Alec’s direction.
“A pity,” Alec replied evenly, “it would give him something to talk about other than himself.”
Lord Farnham peered closely at Alec then and burst into laughter, as if he suddenly got the joke. He nudged Simon sharply. “Simon says you’re too boringly honest to be of much interest, but I own to liking you, Halsey. You’ve got back and you’re prettier then your brother. No wonder Delvin don’t talk about you.” He put up his quizzing-glass and turned a magnified eye on Simon Tremarton. “I’ve a mind to make him a member of the Ganymede Club before you, Simon,” he teased his cringing and red-faced friend. “Unlike you, Halsey can well afford the subscription and his father was an Earl.”
“James! Don’t,” Simon whispered fiercely.
Lord Farnham shrugged and sighed. “No, you’re right, Simon. It wouldn’t do to corrupt the innocent. Pity.” He smiled crookedly at Alec and inclined his powdered head. “No offense, Halsey.” And with that sidled passed Alec to the top of the stairs where he called out to Simon, “I shall time your tête-à-tête!” and disappeared from view.
Alone in the narrow stairwell Simon Tremarton forced a laugh, although he couldn’t bring himself to look at Alec. “Of course you can’t believe everything James says. He likes to upset people. He—he—Of all the damnedest coincidences finding you here!”
“It’s all right, Simon. I don’t give a fig for Farnham’s opinion.”
“You must be wondering what a government flunky is doing in company with the likes of Farnham and his noble ilk.”
“That’s none of my business, is it?”
“Trust you to be patronizing!” Tremarton sneered.
Alec bowed slightly and continued down the stairs. When he reached street level Simon came thudding after him and closed the street door on the traffic noise.
“Alec! Wait! I’m an ass! I know you’re not the sort of fellow to pass judgment on another. Look. I’m—I’m in a bit of a fix. The duel Delvin fought with Jack Belsay, your brother says it’s all Belsay’s fault. Newssheets say the same. But that’s nonsense. Delvin’s lying!”
“Is that so? You’re the third person in as many days to say so,” Alec replied evenly. “Why did Delvin and Belsay cross swords?”
“I—I don’t know that!” Simon Tremarton blustered, deflated that his dramatic pronouncement had fallen flat. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. Alec Halsey was renowned in Foreign Department circles for playing his cards close to his chest. “Alec, listen: What I do know is that Belsay wasn’t the least interested in a chit from the schoolroom.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I—I know things—certain particulars—about Belsay that proves your brother is lying.”
Alec put up his black brows. If Simon was trying to put him on edge he was succeeding, but for the wrong reasons. “Such as?”
“I can’t tell you here!”
“You know where I live,” was Alec’s flat response as he opened the door and stepped out on the street. He turned his back on the traffic of carriages and sedan chairs and faced Simon. “Whatever it is you do know, Simon, be assured: Delvin must also know it or he wouldn’t be so confident in getting away with the lie.”
Simon Tremarton’s eyes widened, as if this thought had never occurred to him and, startled, he stumbled backwards, turned and fled up the narrow stairs. Alec walked home, pondering the connection between three men of very different temperament: the mild-mannered, diffident Viscount Belsay; the Earl of Delvin who paraded society as the consummate rakish nobleman; and Simon Tremarton, a self-made functionary of poor family. He was still thinking about these three when he entered No. 1 St. James’s Place and discovered his valet being interrogated by the Duchess of Romney-St. Neots.
Wantage sent Tam to the drawing room with a flick of his finger, giving him no indication of who wished to see him. The butler disliked upheaval in his household and he disapproved of the freckled-face youth. He knew he was a runaway from St. Neots. That much he had ferreted out from the housekeeper, who had it from an upstairs footman, who had overheard a little of the conversation between the master’s uncle and the boy, that first night when he was discovered by the porter on the doorstep. The lad was too familiar, with the master and with the household servants; those above and below him. He needed putting in his place; to have the fear of knowing his station in life put back into him. The master’s previous valet had come with excellent references and had once been a valet for the Marquess of Dartmouth. There had been an air about him that bespoke the perfect gentleman’s gentleman. Wantage had disliked him intensely but had respected his position. He had no such respect for Tam, whom he considered an
interloper and lacking the necessary social skills and character to hold the exulted position of valet to the master of the house.
Sending the boy to the Duchess unawares would give him the jolt he needed, Wantage thought with relish. With a grin he shut the drawing room door and tiptoed around to the servant door to put an ear to the panel.
The Duchess of Romney-St. Neots was the last person Tam expected to see in his new master’s house. Her small stout figure in hooped petticoats of Chinoiserie silk was comfortably seated on a chaise longue, a knitted shawl about her bare shoulders and small feet in their damask covered shoes with high heels and diamond buckles up upon the upholstery. She was reading the morning newssheet and sipping bittersweet chocolate from a fine porcelain dish. Tam’s heart gave an odd leap and he forgot to bow. He wanted to run but his instinct told him to hold fast. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize him? After all, he had only been a lowly under-footman and was hardly ever in the presence of members of her family, least of all her tiny exalted personage. That and the fact he had only been in her employ for six months meant she was unlikely to remember his face, least of all his name.
She heard the door close over but finished reading the paragraph. “Well, John, I have a few questions…” She looked up and was startled. “Where’s John? Come closer.”
Tam shuffled forward and made her his best bow. “I am Mr. Halsey’s valet, your-your Grace.”
“Rot! You’re much too young. Did John send you with some lame excuse?”
“No, your Grace.”
She peered at him intently and then sat bolt upright. Her eyes went very round and Tam knew all at once that he was not as anonymous as he supposed. He had not reckoned on the Duchess’s extraordinary memory for names and faces.
“What did you do with my granddaughter’s horse?” she demanded. “Do you realize what trouble you’ve caused my household? What are you doing here? Do you suppose you can just run away from one house and go to another and no one will be the wiser? Well, boy, what do you have to say for yourself? Don’t gape at me! I’m not senile. I know exactly who you are! At least, I thought I did. What name do you go by here? Speak up! Speak up!”
Deadly Engagement: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) Page 5