“Champagne, my lord?” a tray dropped in front of my face with a glass of bubbly on it.
“Pond?!” I gaped at my valet, who was dressed as a waiter, “What in the name of God are you doing?”
“Saving your lordship’s bacon,” he responded in a low tone that could not be overheard, “The police are setting up a raid, and your lordship might find it convenient to be elsewhere when it commences. I would recommend your lordship escort their ladyships out through the serving pantry within the next few minutes. I’ll bring Mr. Chatroy out to you.”
“A raid?” I goggled at him, flabbergasted by this unexpected and unbelievably sudden turn of events.
“Not so loud, please, my lord,” Pond said quietly, imperturbable, “Sergeant Sir Oliver Paget is coming with his chief and a large force of constables. Leave now, take your companions with you, and I will bring Mr. Chatroy. Understood?”
“Understood,” I agreed. I saw the whole thing in a flash: he’d gone behind my back to Twister and set up this raid in order to rid Hyacinth House, and probably England, of the distasteful Marquis; but in keeping with the feudal spirit, he went behind Twister’s back to alert me to the danger, so I wouldn’t be caught in the trap. It was so clever that I couldn’t even be angry with him for disobeying me.
With a hurried explanation to Caro and Lady Bea, we gathered up our wraps and quietly slipped away, one at a time, through the service pantry — where we surprised a number of legitimate waiters who’d been cooling their heels until the auction ended and they could return to serving. Hurrying out into the service hall beyond the pantry, I was surprised to find another Hyacinth House denizen, Stephen the abused house-boy, also disguised as a waiter.
“Good evening, my lord,” he grinned at me a little insolently, amused by my garb, “My ladies. If you will step this way, there’s a staircase that leads to a side door into the alley. Her ladyship’s car is waiting there.”
“What are you doing here?” I had to ask, even though I was slowing our escape.
“Locking and barricading this door so no one besides your lordship can escape this way. Emmanuel from the dining-room is covering the other service door.”
“Well, I’m jiggered,” I gasped with admiration for Pond’s cunning, “Carry on.”
We made our way noisily down an uncarpeted back stair, which led us to a steel-covered door into a long, narrow, amazingly filthy alley. Pond came through another door further down, half-carrying a shivering and disoriented Claude, who’d been hastily wrapped in a small tablecloth. The Duchess’s motor was at the end of the alley, as promised, the chauffeur standing at attention with the door open. We bundled in and started moving, passing the Black Maria in front of the hotel, where a dozen bluebottles were herding auction guests into its maw.
I took a minute to catch my breath, which is harder to do in a corset than one could have thought (no wonder ladies used to faint so much), made sure that Caro, Claude, and Lady Bea were all right, and crawled into the jump-seat beside the window separating the servants from the gentlefolk.
“What the hell, Pond?” I posed my hundred questions in a single phrase.
“Your lordship will forgive me, I hope,” Pond replied stiffly, unwilling to let down his professional front before a fellow servant, “I acted in your lordship’s best interest.”
“Of course,” I glanced resentfully at the chauffeur, whose profile I would have quite enjoyed if he weren’t in the way of me getting my answers, “Where are we going?”
“I thought Lady Beatrice’s home would be the best place to change clothes, if your lordship doesn’t mind. I have Mr. Chatroy’s clothes, as well, and I’ve arranged for Lady Caroline’s maid to meet us there.”
“Efficient as always, Pond. You’re an absolute wonder!” I thanked him effusively, mostly for the benefit of the chauffeur, whose name I had not yet heard, “Carry on.”
“Are you my owner?” Claude asked Lady Bea, against whom he had been snuggling for warmth, still with that goofy dreaming look on his face.
“Actually, Lord Foxbridge has that honour,” Lady Bea answered, running a fingernail along Claude’s chiseled jaw.
“Foxy?” he peered at me through the haze of opium, confused by my disguise, “Is that you in there?”
“In the flesh, old bean,” I replied, bristling a little: he had no right to call me by my school name, even if his cousins did.
“You’ll address Lord Foxbridge correctly, boy,” Lady Bea’s voice changed to one of command as she pinched him on the leg hard enough to make him yelp.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied meekly.
“Yes, Mistress,” she corrected him with another cruel pinch, this one in a more sensitive area.
“Yes, Mistress,” he gasped. Though he’d cried out in genuine pain, I could see enough through his tablecloth that he was enjoying himself immensely. At her command, he knelt on the floor of the car and lifted my left foot, kissing it gently, then repeating with my right foot.
“Lord Foxbridge bought you as a gift for Lady Beatrice,” Caro said to her cousin with a warning glower in my direction; I suppose her open-mindedness didn’t stretch as far as letting her soon-to-be fiancé dally with her cousin, “She’s your mistress now.”
“Thank you, Fox — ouch! I mean, Lord Foxbridge,” he said as politely as a schoolboy receiving a prize, turning and laying his head submissively in Lady Bea’s lap so she could pet him.
Things were getting very hot and uncomfortable in the car, and I was incredibly relieved when we arrived in Park Lane and were bustled into the house as fast as possible. Lady Bea turned Claude over to her butler, instructing him to put “our new pet” in the kitchen (I had to wonder what her cook would think), and then showed Caro and me to her and her husband’s respective dressing-rooms so we could change.
“Not much of a rescue, was it, Pond?” I said when we were alone, after Partridge had unhooked my dress and loosened the corset before seeing to her own charge, “I only saved him from being mauled by that ghastly greasy gangster chap. It cost me a thousand guineas, and he’s still going to get mauled.”
“The cheque I presented to de Mazan’s clerk in exchange for Mr. Claude was one of your lordship’s own, but was signed ‘La Pantera,’” he grinned mischievously, “No bank would honour it, so the transaction cost your lordship nothing. And I am sure Mr. Claude will appreciate the difference of situation between Mr. Arnstein and Lady Beatrice Todmore. Besides, Lady Caroline did approve the arrangement.”
“True enough. Do you know anything about this Arnstein fellow?” I wondered.
“Only that he is not a gentleman,” Pond sniffed haughtily, then dropped into his Reggie voice for a moment, “Those shoes were the limit. Pointed toes and Cuban heels? Made him look even fatter, like a hot-air balloon.”
“Now tell me everything about this caper of yours,” I demanded jovially after I’d finished giggling over his comment.
“Your lordship isn’t angry?” he asked tentatively.
“Only at myself, for not having thought up the scheme in the first place.”
“Well, after your lordship left for Buckland House this afternoon,” he began, sliding my shirt over my shoulders and going to work on the buttons, “I was putting away your lordship’s notes, and it suddenly struck me that there was a connection between Mr. Chatroy’s case and the kidnapping case on which Sir Oliver is working. You see, I’d learned from the Buckland House servants that Mr. Chatroy is very good friends with Miss Cumming; there is some talk of an engagement when they come of age; de Mazan may have traded on that friendship and lured the girl away.”
“How did you know Miss Cumming was Twister’s kidnapping case?”
“From your lordship’s conversation with Sir Oliver at dinner on Sunday.”
“But how?” I persisted, trying to look at him while he knotted my necktie, “I mean first of all, how did you hear our conversation? And second, how did you know her identity? Twister didn’t tell me her name or any
thing about her, except that she was a teen-aged girl with a pushy well-connected father.”
“Young ladies disappearing from Members of Parliament’s households get gossiped about. Every servant in Westminster knows Miss Cumming is missing. Mr. Cumming has bullied Fleet Street to keep it out of the papers, but things get around nonetheless. The teen-aged girl with a pushy well-connected father, as your lordship puts it, could only be Miss Cumming. And I did not hear your lordship’s conversation with Sir Oliver,” he looked just a tiny bit embarrassed as he slid the pin into my tie, “Emmanuel told me about your conversation later the same night when we met at the pub down Bury Street.”
“Oh! Ah!” I nodded my understanding. I’d known that Pond was well placed in the belowstairs rumour-mills, and should not have been surprised that he already knew so much — after all, it was his fund of information more than his unerring precision with ties that made him most valuable to me. But I didn’t realize that his gossip network reached so far beyond St. James’s: the Cummings lived in Holland Park, if I’d remembered correctly.
“Once I made that connection,” he continued his tale, “I felt duty-bound to report my suspicions to Sir Oliver; so I went to Scotland Yard and told him about it; I was forced to mention the auction, in that I believed the young lady would be presented for sale. I also told him that your lordship would be there in search of young Mr. Chatroy, but did not mention the disguise aspect, nor that Lady Caroline and Lady Beatrice would also be present. I merely said that you’d obtained an invitation from a friend who must remain nameless.”
“Oh! Thank you!” I had been worried about that — though whether it was Twister finding out about the drag that alarmed me most, or him knowing of Lady Bea’s and Caro’s involvement, I couldn’t say.
“I hope I obeyed the spirit of your lordship’s wishes, if not the letter,” he bowed his head in a not-very-convincing display of grief for having risked my ire.
“Oh, absolutely!” I enthused, and then reached out to shake his hand in both of mine, “You deserve a rise in pay. I’ll tell the bank tomorrow. But how did you convince Twister to let you spirit me and Claude and everyone out of the building before he crashed the party with his minions of the Law?”
“I did not mention my own intended involvement to Sir Oliver,” he let a tiny shadow of a smile flit across his face, “I only hope that my steps to secure the exits will weigh somewhat in my favor when he finds out.”
“You could give van der Swertz lessons on diplomacy,” I marveled at him, “Summing up, you’ve not only helped me save a friend from an unpleasant evening with the odious Arnstein, without it costing me a penny, but you also put the Marquis out of business and out of our lives — I imagine he’ll be deported, rather than sent to Dartmoor for a nice long stretch, though the latter would be preferable — without endangering me or my reputation, nor the safety and reputations of my friends. If I were a king, I’d knight you, right here and now.”
“Your lordship is too kind.”
“No, no, really. You deserve a reward, more than just a rise in pay. What can I give you? Demand something really swanky. Unto half of my kingdom.”
“I wish your lordship would purchase a motorcar,” he said after a long and thoughtful pause.
“You want a motorcar?” I tilted my head with curiosity. I couldn’t imagine what he’d want it for, since he never went farther away from home than Soho Square.
“No, my lord,” he did that tiny-shadow-flitting smile again, “I wish your lordship to have a motorcar.”
“Oh!” I saw the light, “I bet there’s a big burly mechanic at a garage nearby, all thews and sinews and grease-stained hands and whatnot.”
“Yes, my lord,” he smiled, a real Reggie smile this time, “A young man such as you describe does work at a garage off Ryder Street, and I would not disdain to further the acquaintance.”
“Well certainly. Is that all you’re going to ask? That’s nowhere near half my kingdom.”
“Perhaps your lordship will allow me to request a further reward at some time in the future?” his eyes gleamed slyly for a moment.
“Not my smoking jacket!” I gasped.
“No, not your lordship’s smoking jacket,” he smiled benignly at me.
“Well, then, that’s fine,” I breathed a sigh of relief, though I was still uneasy about other treasured parts of my wardrobe that he’d scorned, “I owe you one fairly massive favor, to be redeemed at any time you see fit.”
“Thank you, my lord. The ladies are waiting in the drawing room, if you wish to join them.”
I toddled along down the stairs to the pretty oval drawing-room, where Caro and Lady Bea were already ensconced with a ladylike version of a ploughman’s: a slab of soft Camembert with dainty squares of toast and slices of fruit, accompanied by tea and sherry.
“I am sorry we couldn’t save your friends, Lady Bea,” I apologized after refreshing myself at the board.
“Don’t give it another thought, darling,” she grinned wickedly, “Most of them will find the experience very refreshing, and more than one of them deserve a good deal worse. Besides, there were certain personages present who will prevent any of it getting into the papers, so no lasting harm will attach. The Marquis won’t escape the kidnapping charge, but I’ll bet ready money you won’t hear a further peep about the auction.”
“I wonder how much goes on in this town that never gets into the papers?” I mused; my own disappearance had not been reported, nor had Miss Cumming’s, and now an entire prostitution and slavery ring would be hushed up. It was amazing that the papers could find enough information to interest their readers, considering how much they left out.
“Much of what is in the papers is simply made up,” Caro said authoritatively. Her uncle (the other one, Lord David, not Claude’s father) published one of the more prestigious dailies, so I suppose she’d know, “It’s quite a sinister cabal they have in Fleet Street.”
We chatted on for another hour about scandals we’d heard tell of that hadn’t been in the papers, and Lady Bea let us in on quite a few more that hadn’t even got into the rumour-mill. She was an absolutely delightful conversationalist when she wasn’t being shocking, as was Caro when she wasn’t being pushy; it really was a terribly entertaining evening, taken all in all. I wondered if this is what married life would be like, Caro and I entertaining friends in a sweet little drawing room late at night.
Eventually, though, we all started yawning, and it was time to go. Lady Bea saw us out, and we found the Duchess’s car and driver waiting for us, with Pond and Partridge crammed into the front with the chauffeur.
“You won’t really hurt Claude, will you?” I asked Lady Bea as we were leaving, still concerned for the boy’s safety.
“He’s a naughty puppy that needs training,” she answered, “But I never leave scars.”
“Pay no attention to Foxy, Lady Bea. Knock some sense into the lad,” Caro directed, “I daresay he needs a good thrashing.”
“I know what to do,” she smiled beatifically at the both of us, closing the door.
“I’m a little surprised at you,” I said to Caro when we were in the car and heading toward St. James’s, “Letting Lady Bea have him like that.”
“I actually do think it will be good for him, Foxy,” she busied herself rummaging around in her handbag, “He needs discipline, and God knows he doesn’t get any at home. If Lady Bea can give him some, he’ll be a better man for it. I don’t think you could have done that for him, hence the heavy-handedness about making Claude a gift. I hope you didn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I lit her cigarette for her, and pulled out one of my own, “I wouldn’t have known what to do with him, aside from the obvious. I don’t know him very well, but knowing he’s never been to school, I’m pretty sure a caning or two would not go amiss. They did me a world of good.”
“Imagine getting thrashed by Lady Bea instead of an Eton prefect,” she giggled.
“I much prefe
r the latter, if it’s all the same to you,” I giggled along with her, then I thought of something else: “Do girls get caned at school?”
“No, they’re much more cruel. A ruler across the palm was standard, though my schoolmistress’s favorite punishment was to make us kneel on the floor, holding two Bibles out at arm’s length. It was absolute torture and made one’s shoulder-caps very bulky.”
“Golly,” I commiserated, “Sounds ghastly.”
“So you got off pretty easy with the caning,” she tossed her cigarette out the window as the car pulled up in front of Hyacinth House, then she changed the subject suddenly, “We’re going down to Castoris this week, the whole lot of us. Mamà has decided the Season is officially dead and done. Will you come visit sometimes? I get awfully bored being cooped up with my sisters, and my brother’s ghastly City friends.”
“Of course,” I got out of the car but leaned back in to continue talking, “I’ll be having some parties at Foxbridge, as well; I hope you’ll come.”
“We can practice being a couple in public, what?” she grinned in the darkness.
“I think we’re going to be pretty formidable as a pair,” I grinned right back.
“Good night, darling Foxy,” she leaned out and kissed me, a very romantic sort of kiss, the sort one sees in the pictures: elegant and pleasant, but without passion.
“Good night, dearest Caro,” I replied, shutting the door and knocking on the roof so the chauffeur could drive on.
*****
“I missed you last night,” Twister opened the conversation next day when he dropped by for tea.
“When I heard that Brigham was coming,” I lied outrageously, having practiced the statement in a mirror, “I thought I should make myself scarce as soon as I’d secured Claude. He’d probably have arrested me along with the others.”
“Yes, he probably would have,” he smiled at my fib, knowing that it was Pond who’d effected my retreat, “However, Claude Chatroy’s testimony would have been very helpful in the kidnapping charge. And Lady Beatrice Todmore’s. And whoever the blond gentleman was, and the lady in the turban.”
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