by Joan Smith
The party was so enjoyable that when Beaumont joined her at eleven-thirty and suggested rather brusquely that they should leave if she could tear herself away from Farnsworth, she was not at all eager to go.
“They will be serving supper in half an hour,” she said.
“And we shall be enjoying lobster patties and champagne while Dooley walks off with the Dürer forgeries. I wager that is what he was looking for at the inn.”
“They wouldn’t fit in the bandbox.”
He assumed an air of indifference and said, “You stay here, if you like, and enjoy the party. I’ll run along to Maddox Street and come back for you later.”
“No! No, he is my papa. I’ll go with you, but I don’t see what difference half an hour makes.” She pouted and added, “I am just in the mood for champagne.”
“Then stay,” he said grimly.
They left at once.
“It was a lovely party,” she said, as they drove at a smart clip toward Maddox Street. “Lord Farnsworth is very charming, is he not?”
“Yes, charming,” he said stiffly. “And well to grass, too. Not that his fortune would be of any interest to a determined spinster.”
“Oh, of course not. I was merely discussing his personality. Spinsters have friends, you know. I don’t plan to retire to a convent after all.”
“I should hope not! A flirting nun would be scandalous.”
“I was not flirting!”
“You behaved little better than a coquette.”
“I had to do something to distract attention from this horrid gown.”
“Rationalizer!”
As she was not sure what the word meant, she just tossed her head and looked out the window. They could see as they drove toward Prissie’s house that no lights burned in her flat. Beaumont told his coachman to drive around the block and return in a quarter of an hour. They went together down the cobbled path to the back of the house. It was dark and frightening at night. Lydia peered into the shadows, expecting someone to jump out and strike her at any moment. When a swaying branch caused a shadow to loom, she moved closer to Beaumont and held on to his arm.
“Afraid?” he asked, grinning.
“Certainly not! The cobblestones are rough. If you were a proper gentleman you would have offered me your arm.”
“If I weren’t afraid of getting my head bitten off, I would have done it. I thought you liked to take care of yourself.”
“I do take care of myself! That doesn’t mean one must ignore the social conventions.”
“Only when it suits you,” he replied.
At the kitchen window, they stopped and exchanged a look. The window was wide open.
“Someone’s been here!” Lydia whispered.
“I’ll go in and have a look.”
She caught at his sleeve. “No, he might still be in there. I’ll go around and tap at the front door. I’ll rattle my nail file in the lock to make him think I’m coming in. He’ll leave by this window, and you can catch him on the way out.”
Beaumont said, “A good plan,” in a brusque way, as if he disliked to admit it.
“I told you I’m not an idiot,” she said, and hurried back along the dark passage, around to the front door. She did as she had said, but no one scampered out the back window.
When she rejoined Beaumont, he said, “It’s safe. No one’s in there—I hope.”
As Lydia was shorter than he, he had to boost her up to the window; then he scrambled in behind her.
“Should we light a lamp?” she whispered.
“Let us tiptoe about a little first. See if you can find a poker. I’ll take this stick of wood.” He helped himself to a small log from the basket of wood by the stove, Lydia found the poker, and together they walked along the corridor, stopping often to listen for sounds from beyond.
By the time they reached the parlor, they were convinced there was no one in the flat and lit a lamp. First they looked all around the room. As at the inn, the place had been searched. The sofa was pushed aside, the pictures askew.
“The Dürer sketches!” Beaumont cried, and ran toward the bedroom.
The search here had been more detailed. The bed-coverings had been ripped off, drawers hung open with clothing tumbled to the floor, but the Dürer sketches were still in the folder.
“That’s odd!” he said. “I was sure this was what he was after.”
“I told you—”
“I know. They wouldn’t fit in the damned box.”
“You mean bandbox.”
“Damned bandbox is what I mean.”
“There is no need to fly into a pelter, Beaumont. I begin to think we must take the bull by the horns.”
“Unfortunately, the bull has fled, taking his horns with him.”
“Talk to Papa, I mean. Prissie told him about Dooley. He must know what this is all about.”
“I’ll take you home tomorrow, then.”
“No, no. We cannot both leave. You go home and talk to Papa and let me know what he says. I shall stay here and see what I can discover on my own.”
“What can you possibly do here?”
“Keep an eye on things,” she said vaguely.
Beaumont looked at her askance. He didn’t trust that scheming light in her eye. “I can hardly ask Sir John the necessary questions. He’ll know I’ve been prying into his private life, reading his billets-doux. It is none of my concern, and so he would tell me in short order.”
“I certainly cannot ask my own papa about his mistress! He’d box my ears and send me to my room.”
“Then we have reached an impasse.”
Lydia stood a minute, deep in concentration. “You mentioned Dooley’s name in Prissie’s address book. Were there any other names that looked promising?”
“Promising?” he asked. “There was no entry that said ‘dangerous man,’ or ‘murderer.’ “
“There is no need to snap my head off. Did any name occur frequently? We might be able to trace them and—and learn something,” she said.
“She used only first names for the most part. There were no addresses, just names.”
“Hmmm. You said Dooley probably met her here. If that is so, then the neighbors might know something about him.”
“Yes, that’s true. I’ll drop by tomorrow and see if I can strike up an acquaintance with one of the other lightskirts.”
“Drop by where?”
“Here. These flats are very likely all filled by the muslin company. When they move in, the other occupants have a way of moving out.”
“We shall come back tomorrow morning, then.”
“We?” he asked, and laughed. “If you think I plan to introduce you to a parcel of lightskirts, you are very much mistaken, Lydia. I shall come alone, and let you know what I discover.”
Her heart pumped faster at this overbearing speech. “What time will you call? On me, I mean?” she asked coolly.
“Five-ish. The girls tend to sleep till noon or later. Give me a couple of hours to gain their confidence. I should have something by five.”
Lydia opened her lips to object, then closed them again. It was clear Beaumont planned to take over, leaving her out of all the excitement. Furthermore, if he discovered anything truly scandalous, he would keep it from her. It was kind of him to have brought her to London, but now that she was here, she would do a little work on her own.
“Very well. Thank you, Beaumont,” she said, and they left, again by the kitchen window.
Beaumont climbed out first to help Lydia out, and catch her when she landed. He hoped for a little flirtation when he held her in his arms. She seemed in a mood for it tonight, to judge by her behavior at the party. She was not in the mood for flirting with Beaumont, however. He twirled her around in the air when he caught her. “You’re light as a feather,” he said, to make her aware of his strength.
“Put me down!” she said angrily. “You nearly bumped my head on that tree.”
As the tree was some five yard
s away, he said, “What a big head you have!” and put her down with a thump.
When he delivered her to her front door, he said, “You might want to write your mama a note explaining that you will be staying another day. If I get a line on Dooley, as I hope, you will want to be here. I’ll discuss with you what is best to be done.”
“Yes, do keep me informed, Beaumont.”
“What will you do during the day?” he asked.
“A pity I refused to let Farnsworth call.”
“You could drop his sister Maggie a note. You ladies enjoy visiting the shops.”
She, being a mere lady, was to idle away her time shopping at Vanity Fair while he, the gentleman, attended to the more important matter.
“Perhaps Nessie would like to go,” she said, in a very civil voice. She thanked him again and went into the house.
Beaumont stood a moment on the curb, frowning. Lydia was proving a more complicated lady than he remembered. She claimed no interest in marriage and flirted her head off with Farnsworth. She cut up stiff when he tried to flirt with her, and had been suspiciously acquiescent to his continuing the investigation alone on the morrow. He had expected an argument about his going alone to Maddox Street. Apparently she realized it was totally ineligible for a young lady to visit lightskirts. Or perhaps that prudish side of her disliked the notion. In any case, he told himself, he was glad she would not be there to hamper his activities—though actually she had helped once or twice with the details.
Nessie was playing cards with a group of friends when Lydia went inside. She introduced Lydia, who went up to her room very soon afterward. There she paced to and fro, planning how to discover who Dooley was and what business he had with Prissie. She felt the other girls on Maddox Street must be Prissie’s friends. If no one else except their patrons visited them, then obviously the girls would have formed a close group. Those sketches in Prissie’s parlor suggested it. She must talk to those girls. They would not all sleep until noon. She would go earlier, about ten, and see if she could find one of them awake. And when Beaumont came to tell her what he had discovered, she would show him who was the better worker.
Going to Maddox Street required an excuse to Nessie, who would certainly insist on accompanying her if she claimed she was going shopping. After a few moments’ pacing, she remembered a friend, Irene Coltrane, who had come to make her bows. She would say she was calling on Irene.
When all this was settled in her mind, she went to her papa’s bedchamber and looked again at those pictures. She was glad he didn’t have one of Prissie. At least the woman had not invaded the sanctity of his home, even in effigy. She lay awake a long time, wondering how her papa had met the woman, and what wiles Prissie had used to attach him. Was it simply a matter of batting her eyelashes and letting him think he was marvelous? Could men possibly be that gullible? She didn’t think Beaumont would be, but with a memory of Farnsworth and Sir James, she concluded that many men were. It might prove a useful piece of information. At length, she slept.
Chapter Seven
Luck was with Lydia. The next morning, Nessie told her she had to visit Lady Melbourne regarding an orphans’ charity in which she was involved, but she would be home for luncheon.
“I shall tell Lady Melbourne I cannot stay.”
“Oh no, Nessie. Do stay. Beau will be calling for me in the afternoon.”
“Indeed! I am delighted to hear it. But what will you do in the morning?”
“I had arranged to visit an old friend, Irene Coltrane.”
“I’ll send the carriage back for you, then.”
“Miss Coltrane will send her carriage for me,” Lydia lied. She preferred to arrive at Maddox Street in a hired cab, in case the coachman should report back to her chaperon.
As soon as Nessie left, Lydia dispatched a note home telling her mama she would be remaining for a day or two. She admitted to missing the Coleridge lecture, knowing her mama would be delighted that she had attended a party with Beaumont instead.
It was nearly eleven o’clock by the time she got out of the house and hailed a hansom to take her to Maddox Street. She went to the front door, knocked, and when there was no reply, admitted herself with her nail file. She took a quick look around to make sure the flat was unoccupied before setting to work. The disheveled apartment was just as it had been the night before, which suggested that whoever had searched it had not returned. She picked up the pillows and straightened the pictures.
Even Kesterly had its lightskirts, and Lydia knew they would not be forthcoming to a lady. It was therefore necessary that she become a temporary member of the muslin company. To this end, she went to Prissie’s bedchamber and sorted through her gowns until she found a blue-sprigged muslin that nearly fit her. It was at the back of the clothes-press, somewhat wrinkled and a size smaller than the newer gowns, which suggested it was from a former season.
She put the sprigged muslin on, hung her own clothes at the back of the clothespress, and went to the toilet table. Prissie had taken her cosmetics with her, but there were still some odds and ends to work with. She carefully applied a little rouge to her cheeks. Her coiffure proved more difficult to handle. Her hair was fine and silky and impossible to turn into a lightskirt’s coiffure on short notice. She selected a brilliant red ribbon, tied it around her head, and made a bow at the front.
When she looked sufficiently tawdry, she went into the parlor, planning to call on her nearest neighbor. Before she opened the door, there was a tap at it. Lydia flew into a panic. What if it was Dooley or some other man with evil intent? She was about to run for the kitchen window when a woman’s voice called.
“Is that you, Prissie? It’s me, Sally.”
Lydia stood a moment, calming herself, then went to the door. A pretty girl not much older than herself stood there, peering in with the greatest curiosity. Sally looked like a farm girl, with glossy chestnut curls, red apple cheeks, and friendly brown eyes. It was hard to credit she was a lightskirt, but the cut of her gown and the surfeit of baubles on her wrists and fingers did not speak of the country.
“Is Prissie back yet?” she asked.
“No, she’s not, but do come in. I’m happy to meet you, Sally. Prissie has told me about you.”
“You’d be Nancy, then?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling and ushering Sally in, and wondering who Nancy was.
“I heard you moving about in here and thought you was Prissie come back. Have you seen your sister lately?”
Sister! So that is who Nancy was. “No, but she didn’t know just when I was coming, so I let myself in,” she said vaguely. Sally didn’t think to enquire how she had done this.
“I hope nothing’s happened to her,” Sally said, staring in consternation.
“I hope not indeed. When do you think she’ll be back?”
They sat down on the sofa. “She was going to visit her son for his birthday, but she did say she might stay a few days if he was feeling poorly. That cough of his hangs on so.”
This casual mention of a son sent Lydia’s mind reeling. Was this son her half brother? She wanted to ask a hundred questions, but first she had to learn how much Nancy might be expected to know. If she lived in London, too, then she would know all Prissie’s doings.
“Poor fellow,” Lydia said. “I hope it’s not serious.”
“Just a cold, I wager, but you know Prissie. She thinks the sun rises and sets on her boy. Sir John, Richie, and her art, that’s the sum and total of Prissie’s life. I hope the lad ain’t really sick. It looks bad, don’t it, her staying away so long?”
“Indeed it does. I wonder if I should go to her.” She hoped this might call forth the destination, as indeed it did.
“It wouldn’t take long. St. John’s Wood is only a few miles away. Prissie goes every Sunday. Mind you, it’d cost, taking a hansom.”
St. John’s Wood. Lydia stored up the fact, and as she did so, it occurred to her that a little orphan boy would be waiting to see his mother
, who would not be coming back. She pinched her lips to steady them.
Sally gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Never you mind, now, Nancy. Prissie often stays a day or two with the Nevils, just to be with her boy. With his birthday this week and Sir John away, she’s likely decided to stay. That’s what it is, count on it.”
“I daresay,” Lydia said, blinking back a tear. “How old will Richie be on his birthday? I’ve lost track.” She did not lose track of the name Nevil, but put it away for future use.
“He must be nine or ten by now, eh? She bought him that sailor suit he liked so much the year I moved here. Lord, how time flies.”
Lydia wondered if her father was also the boy’s father. Prissie had been under his protection for approximately a decade, so it seemed likely. He would have to take charge of the boy if that were the case. What would he do with him? Would he claim him to be some relative’s orphan and bring him to Trevelyn Hall? Meanwhile, she wanted to discover something about Dooley. As it was possible that Prissie’s sister knew about him, however, she had to tread carefully.
“How’s your ma?” Sally asked, looking around the room at the pictures. One of them was of herself, posing with her finger coyly holding up her chin.
“Fine.”
“Did she like the muslin Prissie sent?”
“Yes, very much.” Lydia took note that Prissie was a dutiful daughter, sending her mama presents.
“That’s not a piece of it you’re wearing, is it?”
“No, this isn’t it.”
“I thought she said pink.”
“This is an old gown of Prissie’s. She gave it to me.”
“You won’t be wearing hand-me-downs for long, Nance. We’ll find a fellow for you, if that’s why you came,” she said, looking for an answer. Lydia nodded, aware that her cheeks were warm with shame. “What sort do you like?”