Little Coquette

by Joan Smith

  “With neither your papa nor I at the London house, my dear, who will chaperon you?” she asked her daughter.

  “Why, Aunt Nessie to be sure,” Lydia replied. This was Sir John’s sister who kept house for him in London.

  “I shall see she comes to no grief when she leaves the house, ma’am,” Beaumont said with his most charming smile that invariably made the mamas wish they were twenty years younger and single.

  Lady Trevelyn simpered. “Well, it is odd she would not go to London when I wanted her to and insists on going now, but that is the way with girls.” She peered from her daughter to Beaumont, with curiosity gleaming from her eyes.

  Lydia’s blush was as good as an announcement that romance was afoot.

  “Headstrong,” Beaumont said, shaking his head.

  “You know I have been wanting to attend Mr. Coleridge’s lecture, Mama,” the deceitful girl said.

  Lady Trevelyn would have preferred a more romantic outing but poets were in vogue this season, so perhaps a lecture would not be such a dull scald as she imagined. “And Lord Beaumont has agreed to accompany you. So kind. I don’t believe Sir John will object to that, when Nessie is there to see no harm comes to you. When will you be returning?”

  “The day after tomorrow,” Beaumont replied.

  “If I stay another day, I shall write you a note, Mama,” Lydia added, in case her papa’s business took her a little longer.

  “That might be best, dear. You will want a day to recover from the lecture.” Beaumont’s lips twitched at this telling speech. Lydia noticed and scowled at him. It was all right for her to find her mother a little ridiculous, but it annoyed her that someone outside the family should do so.

  After he left, Lady Trevelyn had a deal more to say to her daughter, all of an admonishing nature. With all the restrictions as to propriety and remembering she was a lady, Lydia was still to let Beaumont know she was eager to become his bride.

  Lydia interrupted the flow of exhortations in midstream. “It is only Beaumont, Mama, not the Prince of Wales.”

  “I should hope not! As if I would let you associate with that— One hears such tales of his wickedness. We shall go up and tell your papa of the visit,” she said, and struggled out of her padded chair.

  Lydia felt a pronounced revulsion to entering her papa’s room, but she could hardly leave without seeing him, and it seemed best to do it with her mama so that she would not have to say much.

  Sir John, wearing a white linen nightshirt with a ruffled neckband, was propped up in a carved bed of imperial size, curtained in red damask. The elegant chamber had been turned into an ad hoc office, with papers and documents scattered over various tables and the desk. He had a folio of government papers in front of him and a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his aquiline nose.

  Lydia observed him as if he were a stranger, for so he seemed to her now. He was an elegant figure, even in his nightshirt. Age had been kind to him. The silver wings that adorned his temples lent an added air of distinction to his lean, swarthy face. As he had heard no rumor of the lightskirt’s murder, it never occurred to him that there was any ulterior motive for Lydia’s visit to London. He felt a match with Beaumont an excellent thing and directed a kindly smile at her as he removed his reading spectacles.

  “Enjoy yourself, Lydia. I have every confidence in your good sense. I don’t have to tell you not to run into trouble. Bring me my strongbox. You’ll want a little pocket money.”

  Lydia brought the strongbox from his desk. He unlocked it and handed her a few bills of large denomination.

  “Thank you, Papa,” she said in a failing voice. His smile was as gentle and loving as ever and seemed genuine. How was it possible, when he had been leading a double life all this time?

  Lady Trevelyn enquired dutifully how he was feeling and if there was anything the servants could do for him. He said he was feeling somewhat stouter; then the ladies rose to leave.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me good night, Lydia?” he asked.

  A jolt of anger smote her heart at the casual words. She had to quell the angry tirade that rose to her throat. She blew him a kiss from the door, fearing that if she touched him, she would burst into tears of frustration,

  “I shan’t disturb you again tonight, John,” his wife said. “Good night, dear. I hope you sleep well.” Lydia noticed her parents had not exchanged a kiss, nor had her papa asked his wife if she was not going to kiss him.

  “Good night, dear,” he replied, already putting his spectacles back on and drawing his papers forward.

  After Lydia went to her room to change for dinner, it struck her as odd that her parents should say good night so early. They hadn’t dined yet. It wasn’t even dark out. Her mama was not going out, nor was there company coming. Did her mother know about the lightskirt? Was that why she treated her husband so coolly, hardly like a husband at all, but like a troublesome guest?

  All this was so worrying that Lydia wanted to be alone to think about it. She used the excuse of packing to go up to her room immediately after dinner. It took Marie, the upstairs maid, only half an hour to pack up what was required for the short visit. When the trunk was ready, Lydia lay on her bed, looking at the window as the purple shadows of twilight dimmed to darkness. She tried to remember if she had ever seen any tokens of affection between her parents.

  Her mama talked about Sir John a great deal. In theory, her life revolved around him, but when he came home from London, she just gave him a peck on the cheek and asked how everything was going at Whitehall. It was Lydia herself who flew into his arms and welcomed him more warmly. She was the one who asked the more detailed questions about what he had been doing. Her mama just sat, poking her needle into whatever piece of embroidery she was working on, listening with perfect contentment. When she spoke, it was about little neighborhood doings.

  When Lydia became aware that the window had turned black, she glanced at her watch and saw it was ten o’clock. She rose to go belowstairs to say good night to her mother. As she passed her father’s room, she saw a stream of light coming from the partially opened door. Something in her wanted to go in and see him, but a hot, angry lump in her chest steeled her against the impulse.

  “Papa is still awake, if you want to say good night to him,” she mentioned to her mother when she was in the saloon.

  Lady Trevelyn looked up from her embroidery and replied, “I shan’t disturb him, Lydia. He will be busy with his reports.”

  “It wouldn’t disturb him to say good night.”

  “Why don’t you do that then, dear? I want to finish this tulip.”

  Lydia didn’t say good night to him either. She still couldn’t face him. Her sleep was troubled, but she awoke early and had been waiting half an hour before Lord Beaumont’s curricle and team of matched grays drew up to the door. She had already taken leave of her mama, who usually took her breakfast in bed.

  “I thought you would be taking your closed carriage,” she said, surprised to see the open sporting rig standing outside. She actually preferred the open carriage, but she knew her mama would dislike it. “Raffish” had been Lady Trevelyn’s pronouncement when Beaumont first appeared in the dashing rig, all shining with yellow varnish and silver mountings.

  Beaumont, who felt he was being chivalrous to help a damsel in distress, was miffed that her greeting should be so cool, and when he was wearing his new jacket, too. He noticed that Lydia hadn’t taken any pains with her toilette. A virtual stranger to London, she dressed in the provincial fashion in a low poke bonnet with a few small flowers around the brim. Her mantle was navy worsted with some modest frogging down the front. As to dismissing his blood team with that chiding remark about the closed carriage! Dozens of ladies hinted for the privilege of sitting in his curricle.

  “They are all the crack in London. Everyone drives them,” he said.

  “Everyone? I doubt the royal family drives such things.”

  “I mean everyone who is anyone,” h
e riposted. He looked up at the blue sky, dappled with a few pearly clouds. “It’s such a fine day, I thought you would enjoy the open carriage.”

  “You would enjoy it, you mean,” she replied.

  “That, too. It’s a deal faster than a chaise. Sixteen miles an hour.”

  “It’s not a race,” she said. Her troubles left her short-tempered.

  Beaumont was not pleased to see the small trunk the servants carried down to the carriage. “A good thing,” he muttered. “What the devil are you bringing to London? We’re staying only a day.” He helped her into the passenger’s seat and took up the reins.

  “I may have to stay longer. I daresay you have clothes in London. I don’t. I have to bring what I may need.”

  He jiggled the reins, and the team set off at a lively gait, despite the trunk. With a two-hour trip to look forward to, Beaumont decided to forget the poor beginning and make some light conversation. “Why didn’t you make your curtsey this past season, Lydia?” he asked.

  Her first name slipped out unnoticed by either of them. Beaumont used to call her that before she let her skirts down and pinned her hair up. He had liked her better in those days. She had been just a troublesome youngster, and therefore of no romantic interest to him, but he liked her. He never imagined she would grow up into such a stiff-rumped young lady. She used to pelt through the meadows with that water spaniel trailing at her heels; she used to ride a white cob and climb trees. More than once he had had to rescue her from the old willow by the river.

  “I am not on the catch for a husband,” she replied.

  “Isn’t it about time you were? You must be—” He peered at her, trying to remember the exact difference in their ages.

  “Eighteen. I wouldn’t care if I were twice that. I’m not interested in marriage.”

  “You shouldn’t let this little contretemps at home put you off,” he said in an avuncular fashion that got her back up.

  “Little contretemps? You call twenty years of a sham marriage a little contretemps? Twenty years of adultery? You are lenient, milord.”

  “Who says it was twenty years? The lady in the river is hardly old enough for that.”

  “Do you think she is his first mistress?” she asked with a sneer. “I don’t. And anyway,” she added, lifting her chin, “I had decided against marriage before I learned about Papa and Mrs. St. John. Why should I subject myself to a lord and master? Ladies are fools to marry, to hand their dowry over to a man, and to beg pin money from him as if they were children. Sit at home and look after the house and children—and have to bear them as well—while the man rackets around with lightskirts. Marriage is an excellent thing—for men.”

  Beaumont looked bored. “I’ve heard all this before. It is all the crack these days for ladies to claim a disinterest in marriage, but it don’t stop them from leaping at the altar at the first opportunity. When it comes down to it, what is the alternative?”

  “Remaining free,” she said grandly.

  “Remaining spinsters,” he retorted. “Whatever their difficulties, married ladies have a deal more freedom than their unmarried sisters. They may go pretty well where they wish, even have affairs if that is their inclination.”

  “It sounds charming,” she said with a withering look, “but I have no taste for lechery. I plan to do something useful with my life.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as finding out about this murder, to start with. Later, I shall find some worthy cause and devote myself to it.”

  Bored with the conversation, he said, “Did you discover anything from your papa?”

  “He is not likely to say anything now, when he has kept his secret from us all these years. Did you find the reticule in the river?”

  “No. I dove in a dozen times and searched all along the bank as well. Perhaps the man who searched her room at the inn got it.”

  “I plan to search Papa’s desk in London and see if I can find out about that woman—where she lives and so on. Mama and I are seldom in London, so he might have felt free to leave letters from her in his study or bedchamber.”

  “If you can find an address, I’ll go to the house and quiz the servants. Find out who her friends were.”

  Lydia lifted a well-arched eyebrow and stared at him. He would go to her house and quiz her friends. How eager these men were to take over.

  “We’ll see,” she said, for she didn’t like to berate him when he was necessary to her trip. “I’ll tell Aunt Nessie he wants me to take some papers home for him, to make an excuse to search his desk.”

  He lilted his eyes from the road and said playfully, “Despite your little rant, you are a complete woman, Lydia. Deceit comes naturally to you.”

  “You wrong women to claim deceit as a feminine vice, milord. I inherited it from my papa,” she replied in a bitter voice.

  “Don’t be too hard on him. He spends much time alone in London.”

  “I doubt he spends much time alone.”

  “Without his wife and family, was my meaning. A man needs company.”

  “He has Nessie. Mama never felt the need of a boyfriend. She is away from him for weeks on end.”

  “By choice,” he pointed out. “What is to stop her from going to London with him? Most wives do.”

  “Why should she, when he has—had that woman?”

  “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

  She tossed her curls angrily. “Naturally you would take his side.”

  “We men are all alike, you mean?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I have observed your mama’s experience hasn’t put her off the notion of marriage. She is all in favor of your nabbing a husband. My mama tells me Lady Trevelyn was disappointed when you refused to make your debut.”

  “She doesn’t know any better,” Lydia said with a shrug of her shoulders. “It is the only life she can envisage for a lady. I have different plans.”

  “London is full of worthy causes. You are no longer a child. You could go to London to provide company for your papa while performing your charitable works.”

  “I doubt I would see much of him.”

  Beaumont flicked the switch over the team’s head and neatly passed a donkey cart that was blocking his progress. He expected a compliment on his driving and was irritated when she said in a chiding way, “We are not going to a fire, Beaumont. For goodness’ sake, drive more carefully. You’ll run us into a ditch.”

  “Would you care to take the reins?”

  He meant it as a setdown and was annoyed when she said, “I would be happy to.”

  “Over my dead body!”

  “I happen to be an excellent fiddler! That is exactly what I mean about you—about men. They think they can do everything better,” she said, and turned her head aside to examine the scenery.

  “I disagree, ma’am. No one can sulk like a spoiled beauty.”

  Even that charge of beauty didn’t interest her. Her mind was busy wondering how she could keep Beaumont from taking over the investigation when they got to London. He would try, in that odiously masculine way, to protect her. He didn’t used to be so condescending when she was a child. He had treated her like an equal then. She had even got the better of him in a few contests. Skipping flat stones across the river’s surface was her particular skill. Now that she was grown up, he treated her like a child.

  It was not yet noon when they reached Trevelyn’s house on Grosvenor Square. The house was similar to its neighbors in this gracious part of London. It was a large, three-story brick building with white pillars and an exquisitely molded door with a shining urn knocker. A lamppost crowned the stone steps leading to the door. Windows gleamed in the sunlight.

  “What time will you call this afternoon?” she asked.

  Beaumont blinked in surprise. He had been expecting an invitation to lunch. “What time will be convenient?” he asked.

  “Give me an hour to search. I’ll have to freshen up and have a bite. Come around two. I
f that is convenient?” she added, when she noticed his scowl.

  “Your hansom cab will be here at two, milady.”

  “Don’t be late,” she said, and climbed down from her seat before he could get out to assist her. It required an unladylike leap to descend from the high perch carriage.

  Beaumont was in a remarkably black humor by the time he reached his own house on Manchester Square. Rude chit. He ought to teach her a lesson. He had a good mind not to call on her at all, except that she might find Mrs. St. John’s address and go sending Bow Street off to stir up trouble or some such thing. He need not fear she would go alone in any case. Too stiff-rumped for anything so daring. The old Lydia would have done just that. And she would have invited him to join her for lunch, too. He was ravenous. At least he was rid of her for the present. He would ask some questions among his friends and see what he could discover about Sir John and his mistress.

  Chapter Four

  Nessie was surprised to see her niece land in unannounced and unaccompanied by either of her parents. Without knowing it, Nessie had become Lydia’s model and mentor in absentia. She was a spinster who seemed perfectly happy with her lot. She had some money of her own and a busy life spent on a good cause. Her acting as Sir John’s housekeeper was a favor to him. She was actually more hostess and companion for social functions than housekeeper. Her spare time and money were devoted to charitable works.

  At forty-five, she had the same elegant good looks as her brother. Tall, dark-haired, with a lively, intelligent face, she wore her hair drawn high on her head in an intricate swirl. Her bronze day gown was stylish and elegant without being fussy.

  “Lydia! My dear, what brings you to town? Not a toothache, I hope?”

  “No indeed, Auntie,” she said, and gave her aunt a hug. “I have come to hear Mr. Coleridge’s lecture this evening. Beaumont brought me. He will be calling for me this afternoon—for a drive in the park.”

  “You should have invited him in!”

  Lydia frowned. She had not thought of that. She was ready for a cup of tea herself, and no doubt Beaumont would have appreciated an ale. He had had the job of driving.