by Joan Smith
“Good gracious! What are you doing, Lydia?” she asked.
“Beau was just helping me down from the chair,” Lydia said, pointing to the chair and blushing like a peony. “I was looking for a ball on the top of that cupboard.”
“What would a ball be doing up there?”
“Beau threw it up. Oh, years and years ago,” she added, as she had no ball to produce. “We were just talking about the old days. You remember my birthday party, here in London some years ago. Beau and his mama came. He thought he was much too mature for such childish goings-on and threw the ball up there for an excuse not to play with me.” She stopped then, as she realized she was rambling.
Nessie was happy to hear the young couple were reliving their youth. She peered at Lydia and said, “My dear, is that rouge I see on your cheeks? And what on earth have you done to your hair?”
Lydia’s inventiveness failed, and Beaumont stepped in to rescue her.
“Did Lydia not mention my little impromptu party this evening was a masquerade?” he said.
“No, she didn’t. What did you go as, Lydia—a lightskirt?” Nessie laughed merrily.
Beaumont and Lydia exchanged a quick glance and bit back their laughter. “An actress,” Lydia said. “We just wore dominoes. It wasn’t a very elaborate party.”
“You got home early.”
“I’m afraid it was a very boring do,” Beaumont said. “And how was your evening, Miss Trevelyn?”
“Marvelous. I do wish John had been there. Everyone was asking about him, and sending their congratulations. Lady Jersey was hinting that Almack’s could use another hostess. Imagine!”
“Quite an honor,” Beaumont said, feigning enthusiasm for this dullest of the dull social clubs, which maintained its aura of exclusivity. Princes and generals were spurned if they did not adhere to the club’s strict standards of dress and deportment.
Sensing that she had interrupted an intimate moment, Nessie said, “You had best say good night to Beaumont now, dear,” and left them to make their farewells in privacy.
“Your talent for deceit is slipping,” Beaumont said, when they were alone. “Who would play ball in a saloon?”
“You would.”
“It wasn’t a ball. It was just a piece of paper I squeezed up when you insisted on playing some childish game.”
“Now I remember! It was tic-tac-toe. And you only squeezed up the paper because I was beating you. And you didn’t bring me a present either.” She gave a sniff of offense at this ancient slight.
“I didn’t know it was your birthday! Mama dragged me along.”
“You always knew my birthday was the ninth of May,” she said with a pout.
When she realized she was behaving childishly, she blushed, then tried to hide it with a scowl. “You had best go. Nessie will be waiting to hear me come up.”
“That is one of the scourges of being a spinster,” he said nonchalantly, but he peered to see if the warning had hit home.
Annoyed by this reminder, she took his arm and propelled him into the hall. “Blake will see you out. Good night, Beaumont. Thank you for the very boring masquerade party.”
“You are entirely welcome, Miss Trevelyn. Would you care to accompany me on a very boring drive tomorrow afternoon?”
“Won’t I see you in the morning?” she asked.
“Such eagerness! I am flattered. At this rate, worse may come to worst sooner than I fear— thought.”
He picked up his curled beaver, put it on at a jaunty angle, and left, smiling.
Chapter Thirteen
Lydia found, after she was in bed, that she was not in the least tired despite her busy day. She had experienced such a confusion of new thoughts and met people so different from her usual friends that she felt her life had turned upside down. She had finally met a group of women who were free of the usual social strictures, only to discover they were still ruled by men and were immeasurably worse off than herself.
How childish her complaint seemed when placed beside the hardships of girls like Sally and Mary and even Prissie Shepherd, whom she had never met, but felt she was coming to know indirectly. When she thought of Prissie taking such risks to provide a good home for her son, she felt she had misjudged the woman. What had she meant to Papa? What had he meant to her?
It seemed impossible that she could have loved a man old enough to be her father. No, he had been a necessary evil, the best of a bad lot. The older gents were nicer to you, Sally had said, but making them happy was a job, not a pleasure. It sounded a perfectly wretched life. No, wonder Prissie had turned to helping Dooley with his counterfeiting scheme. It would free her from her other profession and provide a good nest egg for her son.
The greatest trial of her own pampered life was that kind, well-meaning gentlemen wanted to wrap her in cotton wool. It was frustrating, but compared to putting up with the vagaries of a man who cared for nothing but his own enjoyment, her life was one of ease and luxury. And when the gentleman tired of his girl, he left her. If she happened to be lumbered with his child, that was her lookout. They didn’t want to hear about the consequences of their selfishness. Of course, not all gentlemen were so hard-hearted. No doubt some of them truly cared for their mistresses and treated them not only well but lavishly.
She could not forget her papa’s indiscretion, but she was perilously close to understanding his position, and to understand is to begin to forgive. It must have been lonely for him in London, away from his family. After a hard day’s work, naturally he would want some relaxation and easy female companionship. It was no new thing for a man to stray from the vows of matrimony, and at least he had been at pains to protect his family. He had chosen a modest mistress and apparently treated her well, except in the matter of Richie.
If she ever married—not that she necessarily would—she would behave quite differently from her mama. She would go where her husband went and watch out for his welfare. If only her mama were more like Nessie, all would have been well at home. Nessie was the kind of wife a politician needed. A wife need not devote all her time to house and home and embroidery. Her husband ought to be her major concern.
Nessie and Mama—each had only half a life. Nessie lived on the edge of her brother’s life, picking up the crumbs of his success. She had nothing but her social life and the charity work that was almost a part of it. She had missed out on the satisfaction of a husband and family, a home of her own. Nessie’s major achievement, if she did achieve it, would be to reign as one of the hostesses at Almack’s. She had her charity work, but Lydia was no longer convinced that would be enough to fill her own life. If she married someone like Beau, who was not so managing as most gentlemen, marriage might be tolerable.
Then her mind turned to the more immediate puzzle of finding the plates and discovering who had murdered Prissie. Dooley, of course, was the obvious suspect. He had followed her to Kesterly. When he saw her heading to Trevelyn Hall, had he feared she was going to reveal her guilty secret to Sir John and ask his help? He realized Sir John was a man of power and influence. Had Dooley killed her, thinking he would find the plates in her reticule or in her hotel room? But Prissie had outwitted him. Where had she hidden them? Perhaps Papa had put them in the attic. She would search it first thing in the morning.
It was late when she finally fell asleep, and late the next morning when she awoke. A glance at the clock told her it was nine o’clock. The golden shafts seeping into her room from the edge of her window blind promised a sunny day. As she rang for tea and a maid to help her prepare her toilette, she thought with a pang of Prissie and Sally and all their sisterhood, living hand to mouth in a small flat, with no servants.
As the day was fine, she dressed in her pink-sprigged muslin with the green sash. Even before going belowstairs for breakfast, she went up to the attic. Four large rooms, half full of trunks and discarded lumber, suggested it would be a daunting task to find one small parcel concealed there. She would have breakfast first, and speak to
the butler. The parcel might have arrived after Papa left. Blake would have put it away, possibly in his own room. When she went below, she asked Blake if a parcel had come for her father within the last week.
“It’s Lady Trevelyn’s French clock you’re thinking of. It arrived two days ago. I put it in Sir John’s study, Miss Trevelyn.”
“Did any other small parcels arrive?” she persisted.
“No, miss. I’ll let you know at once if it comes. A birthday present for Master Tom, is it?” he asked. Blake had been with the Trevelyns forever and felt quite one of the family. He knew her brother’s birthday was looming at the end of the month.
She nodded and said, “Very likely he asked to have the parcel sent to the Hall,” to quell his curiosity.
“That would be it. Sir John is always very thoughtful of his family, despite his heavy load of work.”
Nessie had arisen early and was busy with her correspondence in the small parlor set aside for her private use. She came out when she heard Lydia.
“Such a load of cards have arrived, congratulating your papa,” she said happily. “And dozens of invitations. I wonder when he will be arriving. I must answer these, but cannot like to refuse an invitation to Carlton House. I’m sure John will arrive today. He would have written if he could not come.”
Lydia also felt her papa would soon be landing in on her, and with this in mind, she made a quick search of the rest of the house in case Prissie had given him the parcel in person, thus avoiding Blake’s sharp eye. She was in the attic, delving into trunks of old clothes packed in camphor, when a maid came up to find her.
“Sir John has just arrived, Miss Trevelyn,” she said, all smiles. “He has been asking for you. I know you would want to congratulate him.”
“Oh, indeed. Thank you, Mary. I’ll be down as soon as I wash my hands.”
Sir John was in Nessie’s parlor, discussing the correspondence with her. Lydia stood a moment, looking at him. He wore a triumphant smile as Nessie mentioned her various social conquests. When he saw Lydia, he looked up and held out his arms. All her old anger resurfaced when she saw him, wreathed in glory, with never a thought to poor Prissie.
She didn’t fly into his arms, but just said, “Congratulations, Papa,” in a cool voice.
“Is that all you have to say?” he asked, hurt at her obvious reluctance to go near him.
“I do have something I would like to say in private, Papa, if you will excuse us, Nessie.”
“Not a lovers’ spat, I hope!” Nessie said. “You and Beaumont have been getting on so well, I quite expected to see him for breakfast. Don’t keep your papa long, Lydia. I have a hundred matters to discuss with him.”
“This won’t take long,” Lydia said, watching as her father’s smile dwindled to a frown. She noticed that he was looking hagged, with circles under his eyes and a drawn look about the mouth.
Nessie, always the soul of discretion, closed the door behind her as she left.
Sir John cast a wary eye on his daughter. “What is it, Lydia?”
There seemed no subtle way to ask what she had to ask. “I want to know about your mistress, Prissie Shepherd, Papa,” she said bluntly.
His color faded, and his eyes opened wide. “Prissie Shepherd! How did you— Where—”
“You know she’s been murdered? She was the woman found in the river at home.”
He slumped onto a chair, his shoulders sagging, and shaded his eyes with his fingers. “Yes, I learned of it yesterday,” he said in a shaken voice. “Your mama kept it from me. She didn’t know of my relationship with Prissie. She just didn’t want to upset me, because of it happening so close to home. Horace Findley called to congratulate me on this appointment. He told me they had identified the girl in the river as Prissie. They found her reticule under her bed at the inn.”
Lydia remembered then that she and Beau hadn’t looked under the bed. Dooley must have put it there.
“You knew about the counterfeit plates?” she asked.
He removed his hand and looked at her in confusion. “What is this? She told me she had got rid of those Dürer plates. I told her she would come to grief. Is that what—”
“I am talking about plates for counterfeit money, Papa.”
“Counterfeit money? I know nothing about that.” His baffled expression told her he spoke the truth. “But I wager a fellow called Dooley had a finger in it. He used to be a friend of Prissie’s when she first came to London. He has been hounding the poor girl, threatening to run to Bow Street over the Dürer business, which is why she destroyed those plates.”
“Dooley is mixed up in it. I believe he killed her.”
Sir John was silent a moment. When he spoke, it was not about the business at hand. “Where did you hear about Dooley? I don’t want you to have anything to do with the scoundrel, Lydia. Good God! How did you get mixed up in any of this? How did you learn Prissie and I were ... associated?”
“She went to Kesterly to see you. She asked directions to Trevelyn Hall the last time she left the inn. Did you meet her there? I know you were not so ill as you let on, Papa.”
“I did not meet her. I didn’t know for sure she had gone until yesterday. I knew she had been worried about Dooley for some time now. He wanted her to do some forging job for him. She refused, and was afraid what he might do in revenge. She wrote me, here at Grosvenor Square, that she wanted to get out of town. I went to call on her. She was so upset—actually afraid for her life!—that I went home to the Hall at once to look about for a little cottage where she would be safe. Meanwhile she had to call on a friend in the country.” Lydia mentally said, Richie!
Sir John continued. “She was to go to the inn in Kesterly after her country visit. The estate agent who was handling the matter for me was to notify her there. She registered under a different name, of course. We had arranged that I would stay at the Hall until the matter was settled. I took to my bed, claiming an attack of gout. Truth to tell, I needed the rest. I have been working pretty hard, and with the strain of wondering if I would get the appointment to the Cabinet, I was about ready to collapse. I feared that Dooley might make trouble for me as well if I returned to London. And just when I could least afford a scandal. I wouldn’t put it a pace past the weasel. All things considered, it seemed best to rusticate for a spell.”
“Prissie did make the plates. She needed the money. You must not have been very generous, Papa,” she said with an angry look.
“I kept her in decent style. I am not a nabob after all, and naturally my own family must come first. She knew that when we ... became friends.”
“When you took her under your protection, you mean. You did not protect her very well, did you?” Sir John gave a wince of pain or guilt. “How long ago did you and she become friends?”
“Ten years ago, when your mama told me definitely she had no interest in coming to London, even for the Season. She used to accompany me for a few months a year at least. We had a great, thundering row about it. I could not budge her an inch, and I didn’t feel I could give up my work in politics. I did not want to become a country squire. Politics was my—half my life. Prissie and I came to terms at that time, and I have never welshed on our bargain.”
“What about Richie?” she asked, and observed her father closely. The name came as no surprise to him. He knew about Prissie’s son.
“So you know about Richie. What about him?” he asked brusquely.
“Do you support him as well?”
“He is no concern of mine. What business have you to question me in this way? Have I not been a good father to you? What have you ever lacked that money could buy, or love for that matter?”
“I lacked a father for ten months of the year!” she flashed back. “You never even came home for my birthday—or Mama’s. You might have spared us a day at least.”
“I came as often as my work allowed, Lydia. It was not Prissie who kept me away. Perhaps I was overly ambitious in my career. I thought you understood
, if your mama did not.”
When he shook his head sadly at her, she rushed into his arms and hugged him. “I’m sorry, Papa. I just thought—”
“That I didn’t love you?” he asked, with a rueful, sad smile. “I wanted you—you all—to be proud of me.”
“We are! I know it was not all your fault. I should have—and Mama—”
“Don’t blame yourself. And don’t blame Miriam. She was a fish out of water in London. She hated it. People do what they must and can do. That’s the sum and total of it. It was an unfortunate marriage. But that is the way when the heart rules. Think twice before you marry, Lydia, and make sure it is not mere infatuation. That doesn’t last a year. And what is this I hear of you and Beaumont, eh? Does he know of my . . . troubles?”
“Yes, he’s been helping me.”
“Pity. I hope it don’t put him off offering.”
“Beau and I are just friends, Papa. Pray don’t say anything to him to suggest we expect an offer.”
Her father gave her a long, penetrating look. “So it is young Beaumont who has been ferreting around in my past, is it? Finding out about my association with Prissie. I am relieved to hear it, though I am sorry he told you. For a moment there, I feared you had been talking to the muslin company. I know I can depend on Beaumont’s discretion. He is a man of the world.”
Lydia left her father under the comfortable illusion that Beau had been doing all the hobnobbing with the demimonde. She felt her father had taken enough blows for one day. Before leaving, she said, “Prissie didn’t give you a parcel to look after for her?”
“You are thinking of the counterfeit plates? No, I didn’t even know she had made them. Poor girl. If she needed more money, she should have told me. I could have found some funds. But she was never a grasping sort of girl. Just a sweet country lass who went astray. She reminded me a little of your mama when she was young—in her looks, I mean. Only in her looks. Poor Prissie, I shall miss her. I sent her mother a check to tend to the burial expenses.”