Little Coquette

by Joan Smith

  Beaumont’s triumph was heavily tinged with anger at Lydia’s stunt of excluding him. “I might do that—but don’t tell Nancy. I want to surprise her.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  When Lydia came out of the bedroom again dressed as herself, Beaumont was sitting at his ease on the sofa, leafing through a fashion magazine.

  “All set?” he asked, rising and offering her his arm.

  She ignored the arm and began to put on her bonnet. Beaumont put his hand under her chin and tilted her face up. She immediately stepped back.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, hostility in every bone of her body.

  He drew out his handkerchief and wiped the rouge from her cheeks. “Trying to make you look presentable,” he said. “What did you think?”

  She didn’t answer, or have to. His glinting smile told her he had read her mind. She had thought he was going to kiss her. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket and walked to the door without waiting for her. Lydia stood a moment, recovering from her embarrassment, then hurried after him.

  Chapter Nine

  Beaumont now had two burrs under his saddle. It was bad enough that Lydia had accused him of foot-dragging; now she was making her own plans behind his back—and after he was kind enough to bring her to London. To show his eagerness, he said, “I’ll take you to Manchester Square now and go on to Whitehall to see what I can discover there, before lunch.”

  “Why waste time?” His jaws clenched at the words, but she went on to explain. “I’ll go to Whitehall with you and wait in the carriage, as I expect the Honorable Members would faint of shock to see a skirt in their hallowed halls.”

  “Very well, if you don’t mind waiting. It shouldn’t take long. Your papa’s secretary knows we are neighbors, so I should have no difficulty getting into his office to retrieve a report on—something or other.”

  “The Corn Laws,” she said. “He is always talking about them.”

  They drove directly to the Houses of Parliament and Lydia waited outside, as agreed. A colleague of her father’s was just entering the House. Mr. Colville had been invited to Trevelyn Hall a few times in an effort to find a husband for Lydia. Despite his handsome face and fine physique, she had not succumbed to his charms, perhaps because his visits had occurred in February, when she was in the throes of discovering her new philosophy. He recognized her at once and stopped a moment to talk.

  “Miss Trevelyn! An unexpected pleasure. I didn’t know you were in town, or I would have called. Is Sir John with you? We have missed him in the House.”

  “I fear he is still bedridden, Mr. Colville.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear it. Not serious, I hope?”

  “Just his old complaint, gout. I’m visiting my aunt. I am just waiting for a neighbor, Lord Beaumont, who had to see to some business for Papa.”

  “I could have saved you the trip,” he said, smiling in a strangely conspiratorial manner. “Sir John got the post. It was decided last night. He will be receiving official word today or tomorrow.”

  “What post are you speaking of?” she asked, thinking it would be yet another committee appointment. “He hasn’t mentioned this.”

  Mr. Colville’s eyes opened wide. “Did he not tell you the news? He wanted to keep it a secret, no doubt, until it was confirmed. He is being raised to the Cabinet for his excellent work these past years. A great honor!”

  “The Cabinet!” she cried, almost in disbelief. This was astonishing news. It had been her father’s dream forever. It would please him more than winning the state lottery, to be chosen as one of the elect to run the country. “How pleased he will be! Did he know of this pending promotion when he left?” she asked, wondering that her father would leave London at such a time, even if he had gout.

  “He knew it was being discussed. He was as excited as a deb making her curtsey at court when he learned he was one of the three being considered. Lady Trevelyn will be happy to hear it. It might even prod her into removing to London.”

  “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Colville.”

  “My pleasure. May I have the honor of calling at Grosvenor Square?”

  “I’m afraid I am making a very brief stay, and I have appointments both this afternoon and evening. But it was nice seeing you again. You must visit us soon at the Hall.”

  “I will be charmed, Miss Trevelyn.” He tipped his hat and continued on his way.

  Lydia sat, dumbfounded at what she had heard. Her papa to be a Cabinet Minister! From there, anything was possible, even the Prime Ministership. Sir John was still a young man, as politicians went. Why had he not told anyone? Even Nessie knew nothing about it. She could not have kept such exciting news to herself.

  When Beaumont joined her, she was still in a daze, but she roused herself to attention and as the carriage lurched into motion, she asked if he had discovered anything.

  “Nothing to do with Prissie, but I have a piece of news that should cheer you, and incidentally improve your opinion of your father.”

  “About the Cabinet post, you mean?”

  “Oh, you knew,” he said, disappointed to have the wind taken out of his sails. “Why the deuce didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know. Papa never mentioned it. Is that not odd? Mr. Colville told me, just now.”

  “I see,” Beaumont said, still disappointed, but at least she had not been keeping another secret from him. “Yes, it is odd. What an unfortunate time for Sir John to be ill. He will not be here to accept the congratulations of his colleagues.”

  “The strange thing is, I don’t believe he’s ill at all,” she said, frowning in perplexity. “He wouldn’t let Mama call the doctor, and I have heard him walking up and down the hall when he is supposed to be in his bed.”

  “I would have thought it would take a dozen wild horses to keep him from the House these past few days. To push his promotion forward, you know. There is a deal of bargaining under the table in arranging these posts. You think his malingering has something to do with Prissie?”

  “I don’t know,” she said in a confused voice.

  Beaumont studied her a moment, noticing the shadow of fear and sorrow on her pale face. She might rail at men in general and her father in particular, but she wouldn’t be so distraught if she didn’t love him very much.

  He took her fingers and gave them a squeeze. “It can’t be that, Lydia,” he said gently.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “What you’re thinking. That your papa lured Prissie out of town and killed her or had her killed. That he is mixed up in some way with whatever she and Dooley were involved in, and wanted to end it to avoid possible scandal at this time, when he is about to be honored.”

  She wrenched her hand from his. “I don’t think that!” she said at once, but the two red splotches on her cheeks belied the hasty denial. “But you must own it looks suspicious,” she added, peering to see what Beaumont thought. “Did you find nothing in his office? You were gone long enough.”

  “No, nothing. There was an interesting debate going on in the House. I listened in for a moment. Sorry I kept you waiting.”

  “Were they discussing Papa’s appointment?”

  “No, it had to do with counterfeit money. There is a new ring of smashers that has the Chancellor worried. It seems he got a bad bill himself. Eldon was delivering a fine rant.” As they drew up to Beaumont’s grand brick mansion on Manchester Square, he said, “What shall we do this afternoon? I shan’t suggest a drive, though the day is fine. I know you don’t want to waste any time enjoying yourself. You would rather be working on the mystery.”

  “I can’t think of anything more to do at the moment,” she admitted.

  Lydia had visited Beaumont’s London residence a few times in the past, on former visits to London. Her mama and Lady Beaumont were close friends. She had not been there for some years, however, and never alone with Beaumont. She still thought of the mansion as his papa’s house, though t
he late Lord Beaumont had been dead for a decade. It was strange to think a young man like Beaumont owned all this.

  Boots, the butler, rushed to the door to admit them. The place was much finer than her papa’s house, as Pontneuf Chase was altogether grander than Trevelyn Hall. The gleaming brown marble floor and carved paneling should have been gloomy, but light streamed in from windows set high overhead to brighten it. A double archway showed a glimpse of the saloon beyond. It was not paneled but done in embossed plaster. Golden yellow window hangings, heavily pelmeted, gave the room a regal air yet did not overpower the senses. It was a livable room.

  Beaumont handed his hat to the butler. “Two for lunch, Boots,” he said. “Right away. A cold plate will be fine.”

  He led Lydia into the saloon to a striped sofa. He poured her a glass of wine. All this formal treatment made her feel very grown-up. The last time she had been here, she slid down the banister.

  “I forgot how big this house is,” she said, looking all around.

  “Too big for one, certainly. I shall fill it with children one of these days.”

  “Do you have a—a special friend, Beau? I never thought to ask. That was thoughtless of me. There might be other things you want to do than help me.”

  “I have no one special in my eye. The Season was thin of beauties.”

  “And Miss Lawrence married a duke,” she added mischievously.

  “Just so. I and my broken heart are at your disposal. What shall we do this afternoon?”

  His light answer told her he was over Miss Lawrence, if he had ever actually been in love with her. They were soon called to lunch, served in the morning parlor, as the party was so small. Over a light luncheon of cold viands and salad, they discussed what further steps they could take.

  “If this Dooley man is a scofflaw, Bow Street might know his whereabouts,” Beaumont suggested, hoping she would confide in him. He would attend the Pantheon in any case to keep an eye on her, but he thought it was time she trusted him.

  “Why don’t you go to Bow Street this afternoon and make enquiries?”

  He studied her suspiciously. “Why don’t we both go?”

  “I want to think,” she said in a weary voice. “About—all this. Papa and the lightskirts and the Cabinet post and—I don’t know. It’s very confusing. I daresay it is not all Papa’s fault. I mean, Mama could have come to London with him so he would not be so much alone. And even at home—”

  “Do they not get along?”

  “He’s hardly ever there. And when he is, Mama pays very little heed to him. I mean—she bustles about and tries to do everything to suit him, but—I don’t know. She doesn’t bother going to his room to say good night. Little things like that. I never really noticed before. She’s dutiful, but not really friendly. And Papa is the same, really. They’re more like ...”

  “Brother and sister?” he suggested, when she hesitated.

  “No, not even that. Acquaintances, perhaps. But she would never look at any other man,” she added in a defensive way.

  Her revelation lured Beaumont into an admission. “My parents fought like cats and dogs,” he said. “One hardly knows which is worse: a polite, conjugal indifference or an excess of emotion. The indifference would be easier on the crockery. Mama used to throw cups and plates at Papa.”

  “Really! What did they fight about?” she asked. She remembered Beaumont’s papa as a jovial, handsome man, always laughing and joking. But then married people had two different faces, one for public and one for private. Now that she considered it, she realized her parents acted fonder of each other in company than when at home alone.

  “Everything. Money, me, his friends, her friends, her bonnets and gowns, his horses and gambling. I don’t know whether they hated or loved each other. Love, in the beginning, I daresay. Only a blighted love could lead to such rancor. Indifference wouldn’t do it. ‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,’ as Congreve wrote. I always thought ‘Hell has no rage’ would be more like it.”

  “I don’t think my parents ever loved each other. I can’t remember ever seeing them snuggling or ... you know. Making little private jokes and things, the way people in love do. But they never fought. They were always polite to each other. I wonder if Mama has known about Prissie all along.”

  “Or cared if she did know.”

  “That would be the saddest thing of all, wouldn’t it?” she said, more to herself than to her companion. “To never have cared.”

  “Yet it’s the course you’ve chosen, not to marry, not to care for a special someone.”

  She puzzled over this a moment. “I was speaking of people who do marry. In that case, they ought to love each other. For people like myself, it is quite different. We expend our emotions on different things.” She thought of Nessie, who had surprised her by saying she regretted every day that she hadn’t married.

  “There speaks the voice of inexperience. When— if—you ever fall in love, you’ll feel differently.”

  “Is that the voice of experience or merely the opinion of the omniscient male sex?” she asked with a rueful smile. Not the derisive smile she usually wore when quizzing him. It was softer, even vulnerable.

  Beaumont just shook his head. “I’ll say one thing, Lydia. If you ever do tumble into love, you won’t do it blindly. You’ll have a strong light trained on all the victim’s faults. I never met such a mistrusting girl.”

  He thought she would flare up at him, but Lydia just laughed. She had enjoyed their little talk. It was interesting to hear the views of a young man-about-town.

  “Victim! You make me sound like a harpy!”

  “It’s you who said it!”

  “Then you’re lucky I don’t love you, for I would find faults aplenty. And before you jump down my throat, I admit you would find plenty in me.”

  “The redoubtable Miss Trevelyn admits to a fault?”

  “Oh, certainly. I am my father’s—parents’ daughter, after all. I am ignorant as a swan, somewhat stubborn, I don’t take kindly to orders, and I’m too skinny for the fashion.”

  “If that anticipatory smile suggests that you are now expecting a list of my faults, I am afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

  The smile spread to a grin. “I already know your faults, Beau. What I was hoping for was a contradiction of mine. But then that would be expecting you to be gallant, which you are not. But I like you better than I did before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before we came here. It is kind of you to help me and Papa. I appreciate it,”

  “I shan’t accept praise under false pretenses. I only came along for a lark.”

  She tossed her head in annoyance. “Don’t ruin my compliment! You came, and you are sticking by me. And you aren’t going to tell Aunt Nessie where I was this morning,” she added, with a glance that was part question, part command, and part pure flirtation.

  “Now I learn why the butter boat has been tipped in my direction!”

  But to judge by his smile, he had no aversion to butter.

  Chapter Ten

  Lydia insisted on taking a hansom cab home, in case her aunt saw her alighting from Beaumont’s carriage. “For I told her I was visiting Irene Coltrane,” she explained. “Don’t say it, I know! More deceit, but we do not want Nessie looking too closely into what we are doing.”

  Beaumont was concerned enough about her doings that he had his own carriage called and followed her to Grosvenor Square. He loitered around the corner for half an hour to make sure she didn’t go out again. He found Lydia’s behavior quite as mysterious as her father’s. He knew as much about Sir John’s affair with Prissie Shepherd as Lydia did, so what was she hiding from him? Why did she not want his help at the Pantheon? Had she discovered her father was involved in Prissie’s death? If that was the case, then she was not only a loyal daughter but a courageous one.

  While he pondered this, Lydia was busy devising a scheme to get away from her aunt to attend the masquerade part
y that night. When Nessie returned from her meeting with Lady Melbourne, she had heard of Sir John’s promotion and was so excited, Lydia could have told her she was attending an orgy with Jack Ketch, and Nessie would hardly have noticed. Her brother’s elevation to the Cabinet put her in the very top rank of political hostesses. It would call for larger parties, which would in turn call for a finer toilette. It would indirectly put more political patronage at her disposal, and in short give her as much influence in the social sphere as her brother would now have in politics.

  When Lydia said, “I shall be going out this evening, Nessie. I will be taking a hansom cab to Manchester Square. Beaumont is having a few friends in after dinner,” Nessie just smiled and nodded, and didn’t even ask why she wasn’t taking the family carriage.

  “Beaumont will drive you home?” was her only question.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Excellent! Don’t try to tell me there is not a romance brewing there!” This was more good news. She knew it was a match long hoped for at Trevelyn Hall. Nessie was in such a state of euphoria, she almost forgot to write to Sir John congratulating him. Of course, he would have been formally notified already, and would make plans to return to London, even if he had to come on a litter.

  At nine-thirty, Lydia asked the butler to send a footman out to find a hansom for her. She drove directly to Maddox Street and admitted herself with the key she had taken that morning. It was eerie and frightening in the flat alone. Darkness had not fully settled in on this June evening, but the light was dim. Long shadows reached out at her from every corner. Strange, furtive sounds suggested someone lurking in their depths. She lit lamps in every room to lighten the gloom and looked around for any signs of intrusion. Everything was as she had left it.

  She went into the bedchamber and searched the bulging clothespress for a domino. It was somewhat disconcerting to discover that Prissie’s domino was a brilliant red. It made her feel like a scarlet woman. The mask that accompanied it was of black feathers with bugle beading around the edge. It was the kind that was held to the face on a wand, rather than attached by a band. When she was dressed with the mask covering her upper face, she lifted the domino hood over her head and went next door to call on Sally.