Little Coquette

by Joan Smith

  This was the sort of good work Lady Trevelyn could approve of, especially when it cast Lydia in Lord Beaumont’s path. Naturally he would be taking an interest, as the body had been found in his river. He would see how kind Lydia was, how concerned for the less fortunate.

  “I shall go with you, Lydia,” she said at once, and called for the carriage to be driven the two miles through pleasantly undulating farmland to Kesterly, the village where they bought life’s small necessities. For more important purchases such as bonnets, they went the extra few miles to Watford.

  John Groom let the ladies out at the Rose and Crown and stabled the carriage. Lydia did not share her mama’s enthusiasm to see Lord Beaumont striding down the High Street toward them. She feared he was bent on the same errand as herself.

  To show him she had not got the idea from him, she said at once, “We are just on our way to the constable to find out what we can of that unfortunate woman we found this morning, Beaumont. I want to discover if there is anything we can do for her family.”

  She was not imagining the look of consternation that seized his handsome face. “Oh, I would not do that if I were you, Miss Trevelyn. I have already been there. The constable has assured me he will notify her family. No doubt they will be taking her home for burial soon.”

  Her chin lifted instinctively at this blatant example of gentlemen thinking they ruled the world. “I shall speak to him all the same,” she said.

  Her mama adopted a simpering smile. “I am sure there is no need if Beaumont is handling the matter, dear. So kind of him.”

  “I should like to go, Mama,” Lydia insisted in the steely voice that her mama could see was displeasing Beaumont.

  “It is really not necessary,” he said firmly.

  “There might be something a lady can do that a gentleman cannot,” Lydia said. “Who is the woman? What is her name?”

  Beaumont saw the mulish set of her chin and realized he had to protect Lady Trevelyn from the truth whatever Lydia said. He was not yet sure what the truth was, but his first idea had taken root and grown.

  A pretty redhead found dead in the river adjacent to Sir John’s property, Sir John missing from London for a week when he virtually never missed a day in the House, and the woman not only dead, not drowned, but shot. The doctor who had written the death certificate had found a bullet had gone straight through her heart. Beaumont had not spotted the bullet hole in her gown. The water had washed away the blood. No identification had been found on her, but when word of the death got about, the constable had heard a rumor that she had been putting up at the Rose and Crown.

  Beaumont was on his way there to examine her room in hope of learning her name and where she was from. Once he established her identity, he wanted to get Lydia away from her mama long enough to give her some notion of his fears. As her papa’s lightskirt was common knowledge, he assumed Lydia knew about her. If, as he thought, the woman had been Trevelyn’s mistress, he would visit Sir John and discuss with him how this awful thing had happened, and how they might protect Sir John and his family— and the Tory party. He did not think for a moment that Sir John had killed her, but he might have an idea who had done it. A jealous lover or husband, perhaps. It would not be unusual for a lightskirt to be mixed up in some dangerous illegal business either. Selling confidential government information was one possibility, blackmail another.

  “I don’t know her name. I am just on my way into the Rose and Crown now to ask if they know anything of her there,” he said. Then he turned a smiling face to Lady Trevelyn. “I am convinced you would not wish to involve yourself in such an unpleasant affair, ma’am. Why do you not let Miss Trevelyn and me make the enquiries while you enjoy a drive or call on a friend. I shall undertake to see that your daughter comes to no harm and deliver her home.”

  Lady Trevelyn was not likely to object to any scheme that threw Lydia in Beaumont’s path. “So very thoughtful. Is that not thoughtful of Beaumont, dear? You two run along and I shall drop in and beg a cup of tea from Mrs. Clarke.”

  Lydia directed a suspicious glance at Beaumont before accepting the offer. “Thank you, Beaumont,” she said. “I shall see you at home, Mama.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” her mama said, as gaily as if it were a social outing.

  “What have you learned that you don’t want Mama to hear?” Lydia asked as soon as they were alone. “The woman means nothing special to Mama. They were not friends or even acquaintances.”

  “No, I would hardly call Sir John’s bit of muslin a friend of your mama. Not that I am sure, but the coincidence of a redheaded lightskirt turning up dead on his doorstep looks suspicious, you must own.”

  She stared at him in horror, as if he had struck her. “Papa’s bit of muslin!” she gasped. “You’re mad. Papa doesn’t have a mistress. How dare you say such a thing! That is slander, Beaumont. If you repeat that filthy lie, he’ll take you to court.”

  He blinked in astonishment. “Didn’t you know? Why the devil do you think he spends so much time in town?”

  “For his work, of course. He is very busy in the House. He is on half a dozen committees.”

  Beaumont realized his error and wished with all his heart he could unsay the fateful words already spoken. He cleared his throat, blushed, and said, “My mistake, Miss Trevelyn. Sorry. Forget I spoke.”

  “But where did you hear such a thing?”

  He waved his hands as if batting away a gnat. “London is a hotbed of gossip. No doubt it was some other Sir John. Or perhaps it was Lord John. It is a common enough name after all.”

  Strangely, it was his immediate retraction that half convinced her he was telling the truth. Such an idea had never entered Lydia’s head. She knew that plenty of other gentlemen entertained themselves with a mistress, but that her papa, whom she looked up to as a demigod, should sink so low knocked the wind out of her. Then an even worse notion seized her.

  “Are you suggesting that Papa killed the woman?” she asked. Her eyes were like wild things, staring at him. “That she came pestering him at home and he drowned her?”

  “Of course not. She wasn’t drowned anyway. She was shot.”

  “You think Papa shot her!”

  “I don’t think anything of the sort!” he replied angrily. “I am not even sure she was his mistress. I heard the woman was putting up at the Rose and Crown. I mean to discover her name and ask Sir John if she was his woman. That’s all. It would be a great scandal for the Tory party if it were true.”

  Scowling like a gargoyle, he took a rough grip on her elbow and led her into the Rose and Crown. Lydia was too shaken to argue. She stood a few feet away while Beaumont spoke to the clerk. As the first shock of his accusation was digested, she began to accept what now seemed almost inevitable.

  Her papa had a mistress. That was why he had not encouraged her to make her debut last April. He didn’t want Mama and her to find out. He had complained of the expense, and Mama had agreed that money was a little tight lately. He was squandering his money on a lightskirt. That was why he spent so much time in London, even in summer when the House was not sitting.

  Lydia remembered going into his room only last evening to ask him to explain exactly what function the Chancellor of the Exchequer filled. Her papa had been writing something. She assumed it had to do with government business, and had been a little offended that he pushed the paper under the covers so hastily, as if he could not trust his own daughter. She had seen a corner of violet-colored stationery protruding from under the blanket and wondered at it. It had been a billet-doux from her, his mistress.

  But surely his mistress was not that creature in the vulgar red bonnet with all the feathers? Her papa was a gentleman of refined taste. His own toilette was a matter of pride with him. No one for jackets but Weston. His boots must be by Hoby, of St. James’s Street, who shod the royal family and the Duke of Wellington, and his curled beavers by Baxter. No, if he had a mistress, it was not that woman found in the river. And even if, in t
he worst case, Papa had gone mad and taken up with such a creature, he could not have killed her, for he had been in bed with gout. He did have gout, didn’t he? It was odd, though, that he would not let Mama ask for Dr. Fraser to attend him as he usually did.

  “I know the treatment well enough by now,” he had said. “Bed rest will cure me.”

  But he didn’t spend all his time in bed. Late one night when everyone had retired she had heard him coming upstairs and had gone to investigate. He was walking without much limping and without his walking stick. She had taken his arm to help him back to his bedchamber.

  “Papa! Surely you have not been downstairs! Why did you not call a servant if you needed something?”

  “I mustn’t let my legs atrophy,” he had said. “Truth to tell, I was after a nip of brandy and didn’t want anyone to know. No need to tell your mama. I am feeling a little better this evening.”

  “Don’t get better too quickly, Papa,” she had said, tucking him in. “We want you home a little longer.” He hadn’t been carrying the brandy bottle with him. His breath hadn’t smelled of brandy either, had it?

  He often stayed in London when he had these attacks of gout. Why had he come home this time? In the first heat of anger, she could believe anything of him. Had he had a falling out with his lover? Had she jilted him, and in an excess of jealousy, had Papa killed her? But he would hardly do it here, on his own doorstep.

  The answer came in a blinding flash. Papa had jilted her, and she had come threatening to tell Mama. She was holding him to ransom for some huge sum. That was why money was tight. If Papa had not done the deed himself, he might have hired someone else to do it. Lydia was in a chastened, uncertain state when Beaumont returned, dangling a key from his finger.

  “The Daffodil Room, second floor,” he said. “It cost me a quid. We’re not to take anything. Oh, and he’s expecting the constable any moment, so we had best hurry.” They walked swiftly to the staircase and began climbing.

  “What was her name?” she asked.

  “She registered yesterday afternoon as Mrs. St. John, from London. She took the room for only the one night.”

  Lydia wondered if it was a coincidence, her using a variation on Sir John’s name. “Did he not wonder when she didn’t return to the inn last night?”

  “He suspected her vocation. It is not unusual for a member of the muslin company to stay out all night.”

  “She would not have told him where she was going, I suppose?”

  Beaumont hesitated a moment before replying, “She didn’t say.” Lydia looked on the verge of fainting. No need to let her know the worst.

  The bedroom doors bore painted flowers to match the name of the room or suite. When they espied the daffodil, Beaumont inserted the key and they entered a spacious chamber done in daffodil yellow, with a view of the High Street through a pair of windows, one on either side of the canopied bed. The room smelled of musky perfume, powder, and stale air. A bottle of wine, half empty, and a single glass rested on the bedside table, along with a ladies’ magazine. Although the bed had not been slept in, the coverlet had been pulled down and the pillows tossed aside. The room bore other traces of occupancy as well. Lydia’s nostrils pinched in distaste to see such slovenly disarray.

  Mrs. St. John had made a great deal of mess for someone who traveled so light. It was hard to believe that so many objects had come out of the one bandbox. The round cardboard box, covered in elegant maroon kidskin and lined in silk, had been tossed on the bed, with its lid beside it. A foam of lingerie tumbled onto the coverlet. One pink satin mule with a high heel and a puff of pink eiderdown decorating the toe was latched playfully over the rim of the bandbox. The other was on the floor halfway across the room, as if she had not just kicked it off but thrown it in a fit of temper.

  On the toilet table sat an array of cosmetic bottles and boxes, along with a brush, comb, and hand mirror in chased silver. Lydia went to examine the articles, which held a strange fascination for one accustomed to seeing only a brush, comb, and talcum powder on her own and her mama’s toilet tables. Face powder, rouge, perfume, nail file, manicure scissors, and assorted small articles, perhaps for arranging the coiffure, sat in a jumble on the mahogany surface. All this for one day’s visit. A dusting of face powder was sprinkled over it all.

  “Do you see a reticule?” Beaumont asked, lifting a drift of white, lacy peignoir and peering into the bandbox.

  “No, she would have taken that with her.”

  “We didn’t find it in the river. Perhaps whoever searched her room got it.”

  Lydia jerked to attention. “What do you mean, searched her room?”

  “Look around you,” he said, pointing at the slipper and the disarranged pillows. “Someone’s been here before us. He didn’t use a key. I asked the clerk if anyone had been asking for Mrs. St. John. With luck, the purse is at the bottom of the river. I’ll go swimming later and dive for it.” As he spoke, he continued rooting in the box. He dumped a pair of blue silk stockings onto the bed and held the box up. The silk lining had been ripped out.

  Lydia just stared in silence. So Beaumont was right. The room had been searched. And she was glad, because her papa had certainly not risked exposure by coming to a public inn to meet his mistress. Someone else was involved in her murder. She suppressed the thought that it might have been an assassin hired by Sir John.

  “What’s the matter, Miss Trevelyn?” Beaumont asked. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  “Papa didn’t do this,” she said in a small, frightened voice.

  “Good lord, I didn’t think for a minute he had. Er—do you think he might have been involved with Mrs. St. John?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” she allowed. “He is only human after all, and being away from home so much. ..”

  Beaumont just shrugged his shoulders, relieved that she had accepted the inevitable. “Where there is marriage without love, there will be love without marriage.”

  “But he does love us!”

  “I am sure he loves you, Miss Trevelyn. You must not take this personally. Indeed, I am sure he is fond of your mama, or he would not have been at such pains to conceal from her all these years that he has a mistress. Such women are called a ‘convenience’ for a reason. That is all Mrs. St. John was, a convenience.”

  Lydia latched on to that telling “all these years.” All these years her papa had been deceiving them, and Beaumont had known all about it. Very likely all the gentlemen knew and were in league to hide it from the ladies. She was as close to hating her father as she had ever been to hating anyone. She felt betrayed.

  “Well, she is not so convenient now, is she?” she said angrily. “We must protect Mama at all costs, Beaumont.”

  “I am relieved to see you acting so sensibly,” he said in accents of approval. Say that for Lydia, at least she wasn’t a demmed watering pot. Nor had her prudishness given her such a disgust of her father that she would go running to her mother with the tale. The news had shattered her, but she was taking it like a regular little guy.

  “Of course, we are not sure Mrs. St. John was Papa’s mistress,” she said, darting a hopeful look at him.

  “Actually, we are pretty sure,” he said, wishing it were not so. “She asked for directions to Trevelyn Hall before going out yesterday afternoon. I didn’t want to tell you....”

  He watched as her face began to crumple. Her shoulders sagged in defeat, her head drooped, and her lower lip began to tremble in a way that made Beaumont want to comfort her. He made an instinctive move toward her, but before he touched her, her head came up and he saw her face stiffen.

  “Thank you for telling me, Beaumont. It is not necessary to try to protect me, you know. So, what are we to do?”

  “Find out what the deuce she was doing here, and who killed her.”

  Her chin firmed and a martial light lit her gray eyes. “Yes, that is what I must . Thank you for your help, Beaumont. I shall look after things from here. Thi
s is my family’s problem.”

  His lips twitched in amusement, but his brow was furrowed. Lydia trying to straighten out this mess would be like a kitten trying to solve a problem in algebra. He was looking forward to the solving of the puzzle himself and felt no qualms whatever about his ability to do so. It would pass the time agreeably until he left for his summer house in Brighton.

  “And how will you do that, Miss Trevelyn?” he asked.

  “When I discover where she is from, I shall go to London and—and look into it,” she said vaguely, “Speak to her friends, you know.” Even as she spoke, she realized the impossibility of the thing. What excuse could she make for going to London when her father wasn’t even there? How could she get away without Mama? Once there, how could she go unescorted to such places as lightskirts inhabited? She was bound in on every side by the mere fact of being a lady.

  “An excellent plan,” Beaumont said. “If I cannot find her reticule and her address, we shall just have to ask Sir John where she lives.”

  Lydia puckered her lips to say “We?” but thought again before offending Beaumont. He would be an excellent ally in her scheme. Her mama doted on him. He might even make an excuse to go to London. Some remnant of feminine guile remained with her. She smiled demurely and said, “That would be awfully kind of you, Beaumont.”

  Beaumont felt only an instant’s gratification at her maidenly response. His chest had just begun to swell when he noticed the sly smile she was trying to conceal.

  “My pleasure,” he said, in a voice that hinted at anything but.

  Chapter Three

  As the afternoon was far advanced when Lord Beaumont brought Miss Trevelyn home, the trip to London had to wait until the next morning. Anxious as Lady Trevelyn was to oblige Beaumont, she still felt constrained to utter a few objections to the scheme.