by Joan Smith
“Nor would I be fool enough to bring my wife on an errand to recover them,” Beaumont replied. “Milady has quite a temper, and is jealous as a green cow.”
“And you, milord, have a marvelous imagination. The ship is for you, Richard,” Lydia said, feeling foolish as she handed it to him. It must have been several years ago that Prissie bought that sailor suit for her son. “A—bequest from your aunt Prissie.”
“Oh, I say! What a handsome gift!” he exclaimed, smiling and examining it. “It is just like Aunt Prissie. She always knew exactly what I wanted. I didn’t even know she owned such a thing. I shall treasure it.”
“I’m glad you like it. And now we had best leave, Beau.”
Richard waved them off, standing by his gray cob, holding the model of the Princess Margaret under one arm.
“There’s a bit of a shocker!” Beaumont said, as the carriage lurched into motion.
“At least he liked the boat,” she said, and dissolved into a fit of nervous giggles.
Chapter Sixteen
“Relieved Richard isn’t your brother?” Beaumont asked, as they drove back to London.
“Relieved, disappointed, too,” she said with a wistful smile. “He seems a nice boy. Fancy old Horace Findley!”
“What has happened to your self-righteous indignation? This siring of illegitimate sons was a greater crime when Sir John was the culprit.”
“What is Horace Findley to me?” she replied with a shrug. “I can’t change the world, but I expect better from my own father.”
“You’ve abrogated the parents’ role to yourself. It is usually the father who expects better from his children. But then I daresay you never caused Sir John a single sleepless night—until now, I mean.”
“It was Mama who lost sleep over me, due to my lack of interest in marriage. It sounded so excessively boring, all duty and no fun.”
“Did she never tell you some of those duties can be amusing?” he asked, with a smile she could not quite trust. His lips were unsteady, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw something more serious. When she failed to reply, he said, “We’ll soon have Richard for a neighbor. He’ll be surprised Lord and Lady Beaumont occupy separate houses.”
“We’ll have to have a word with him, convince him he misunderstood.”
“Either that, or get married,” Beau replied reasonably.
Lydia gave him a long, silent look. Was he joking? Did he feel he had compromised her by being seen with her around London? Did he just feel it was time to settle down, now that he had begun his political life? A father-in-law in the Cabinet would be a help to his career, but somehow she couldn’t think Beau was that devious. Was it possible he actually loved her? She could tell nothing from his impassive face.
He waited to hear how she reacted to this notion, but when she spoke, she said, “We are not the only ones who will have some explaining to do. I wonder how Findley will explain his son to the neighborhood.”
Beaumont felt a sting of disappointment. Most ladies would have made that the start of an excellent flirtation. “Nephew,” he said. “That is the story he told Richard.”
“Horace doesn’t have a brother.”
“He has a sister, has he not?”
“Yes, a spinster who lives in Tunbridge Wells. His wife, Alice, had some siblings, and he has various cousins. Beau!” She sat upright and grabbed his arm. “That is what Horace was doing at the House this morning, wanting to see Papa. He was warning him that he meant to adopt Richard, and that he must not blow the gaff. I wonder how it all happened, Horace jilting Prissie, and Papa taking her on.”
“The two gentlemen are friends. It is not unusual for a gent to arrange a new patron when he gives his mistress her conge. Don’t scowl at me! I am merely explaining how it might have happened. I daresay your papa met her through Horace in any case.”
“Yes, I don’t see how else he would have met a woman like that. Not that I mean to denigrate her, but they would not travel in the same circles.”
They drove on a while in silence while each considered how this new development affected the case.
“About the plates—” Beaumont said.
Lydia understood him at once. “After dark,” she replied. “We shall go back after dark and fish them out of the pond.”
“That leaves Dooley off scot-free.” He sat, frowning a moment. “Unless ...” They exchanged a speaking glance.
Lydia said, “Unless we can convince him to steal them from us, and have Bow Street catch him with the plates in his possession. All we have to do is let him know we have them. He’ll do the rest.”
“We must do it in such a way that he doesn’t smell a trap.”
“He already knows I am not Nancy. He was quizzing Sally about me. It seems Nancy is a blonde. Prissie mentioned it to him. He knows I have some interest in all this. I think he would believe it if I let it be known I have the plates.”
“Too dangerous,” he said at once.
“We must arrange it in some safe manner. I’ll let him know I’m Sir John’s daughter, that Prissie left a parcel with him for safekeeping, not telling him what was in it, of course. I opened the parcel and realized the possibilities of the plates. I am interested in selling them to the highest bidder. He already suspects I’m no better than I should be, after my appearance at the Pantheon. I could say I am in the suds and need the money desperately to— to—what?”
“Buy back some indiscreet love letters?” he suggested.
“Or pay my gambling debts.”
“It’s still dangerous. And how could we let him know all this?”
She thought a moment, then said, “Sally could act as our go-between. She sees him from time to time. Let us go and have a chat with Sally.”
* * * *
“You’re playing with fire, Miss Trevelyn,” Sally said, when they opened their budget to her, explaining what they had been doing, and outlined the plan for Dooley’s capture. “He killed Prissie, and he’d kill you, too, without blinking. He knows you ain’t Nancy. He got hold of Prissie’s mail and there was a letter in it from Nancy saying she was coming to town next week. She wrote it the day you was at the Pantheon, so he knows you ain’t her.”
“Good, then it should be easy to convince him I am Miss Trevelyn.”
Once this was understood, Sally entered into the plan with enthusiasm. “I could say I got a look in your reticule when you was out of the room, and there was a letter in it addressed to Miss Trevelyn.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea.”
“How do you know he killed Prissie?” Beaumont asked.
“When he was here after you left this morning, he had Prissie’s watch, that Sir John gave her. A pretty little hunter’s watch it was. She never took it off, she was that proud of it. It was real gold, not pinchbeck. She was wearing it when she left London. He must of laid his own watch on the shelf. He pulled out his watch to see the time, and it was hers. Be push ed itback into his pocket fast, but I saw it. I let on I hadn’t, or he’d have killed me. She never would have given it to him. He killed her. I know it in my bones.”
“Have you any idea where we could reach him?” Beaumont asked.
“He never gives no address. I fancy he’s looking for you two. He’ll be back here sooner or later.”
“When he comes, I want you to give him a letter from me. I’ll write it now,” Lydia said, and asked Sally for a piece of paper.
She discussed with Beaumont what to write. “I’ll be the one to meet him,” he said.
“No, he might suspect a trick,” Lydia objected.
“He knows we are friends. A lady would never go alone on an errand of this sort. It will look natural for you to send your beau. Let me go.”
After a moment’s pause, she said, “We’ll go together.”
“Very well,” he agreed, although he didn’t intend to let Lydia expose herself to such danger.
“What time should I suggest?” she asked.
“We have to go b
ack to St. John’s Wood. Make it early tomorrow morning. Just at daybreak. It would be too easy for him to arrange a nasty surprise at night. With his criminal connections, he could have a dozen villains lying in wait for us.”
“Why not meet him where he can’t arrange any surprises? I mean at Grosvenor Square.”
“I doubt he would go there. He’d suspect a trap. Besides, we don’t want to involve Sir John.”
“Some public place, then,” she said.
“Why not here?” Sally suggested.
After some more hurried discussion, Lydia wrote:
Mr. Dooley:
I have what you want. The price is two thousand pounds. Meet me at Prissie’s flat tomorrow morning at six. Bring the money if you want the items.
Nancy Shepherd
Beaumont read it over her shoulder. “That should smoke him out. I wonder if he can raise two thousand pounds on such short notice.”
“That won’t stop him,” Sally said. “He’ll come planning to knock you out and steal them.”
“When he asks where you got the letter,” Lydia said to Sally, “tell him I gave it to you. I am sorry to have pulled such a stunt on you, Sally, but I had to do something to find out who killed Prissie.”
“All for a good cause. You made a dandy bit o’ muslin, miss.” Lydia accepted this compliment with equanimity; Beaumont’s lips twitched. “Truth to tell, I did have my doubts about you, for you talked so funny, but Nancy was acting as a lady’s maid, so I thought that accounted for it. Prissie was my friend, too. My best friend. It’s nice of you to go to so much bother for her, her being your da’s chère amie and all. It would put some girls off, like. I’m real glad Richie’s found a good home as well. Can I do anything else to help?”
“Yes, you can get a message off to Grosvenor Square by hansom cab as soon as Dooley leaves you,” Beaumont said, and handed her a golden coin. “To pay for the delivery. Let us know what he says when he reads the note.”
“I will.”
They rose to leave. “Where are you going now?” Sally asked.
“To Bow Street,” Beau replied. “I want to have a few officers nearby to follow Dooley and catch him with the evidence on him.”
“Will they be able to prove he killed Prissie?”
“They’ll try. Someone may have seen him following her at Kesterly, and you can tell Bow Street about the watch—no need to say who gave it to her, but just that she treasured it.”
“Don’t worry that I’ll drag Sir John into it. He was a real nice gent. Always treated Priss like a lady, and me, too, any time I met him.”
“Dooley will pay, whether we can prove it or not,” Beaumont assured her. “They can only hang him once.”
“That’s true. I’m glad Richie has somewhere to go. He seemed a nice fellow. I wonder what Nancy’s really like. It’s good to know Dooley will never get hold of her anyhow. I’ll see she finds some nice gent.”
They left and returned to Grosvenor Square. Lydia was happy that they had the house to themselves. Her papa was still at Whitehall, and Nessie was out visiting. She asked Blake for some sandwiches, as they had missed their luncheon.
“What time should we leave for St. John’s Wood?” she asked as she poured the tea.
“If we leave just around twilight, it will be dark when we arrive. I’ll call for you after dinner. Around eight-thirty. How will you get away from Nessie?”
“You are taking me to a rout party this evening, sir.”
“Lucky me!”
She looked at him questioningly. “Do you mind terribly, Beau, that I’ve more or less dragged you into all this? It’s not really your problem.”
“Mind? I am delighted,” he said, and looked as if he meant it, to judge by his fond smile. “Who else would rescue you when you overestimated your own abilities but your old childhood guardian, who has rescued you from innumerable trees?”.
“Overestimated!” she said at once, rising to the bait. Then she saw the amusement lurking in the depths of his dark eyes and laughed at herself.
As soon as they had eaten, he said, “I shall go to Bow Street now and arrange for company at Maddox Street at six A.M. Let us be there by five-thirty. We’ll want to scout out the area. It will soon be over, Lydia.”
She took his hand. “You’ve been very helpful, Beau. I couldn’t have done it without you. Most gentlemen would have tried to take over and elbow me, a mere girl, aside.”
He just looked at her and shook his head. “Don’t think I haven’t wanted to. You’re not easy to elbow.”
“I was sure you would try to keep me away from Prissie’s flat when Dooley comes. I appreciate that you treat me like a fully rational human being, and not some foolish child who must be protected from reality. That is so degrading.”
After this statement Beau found it impossible to suggest she remain at home during the last stage of Dooley’s capture. Was that why she had said it? He tried to read her thoughts, but he could see no sly light, no laughter or mischief in her expression. She looked genuinely pleased with him. It was amazing how much more attractive Lydia was when she wasn’t mounting her high horse.
“Men don’t act that way because they think women are foolish,” he said. “They just want to protect them because they care for them. Indeed it concerns me that you will be in jeopardy tomorrow morning.” He looked at her, wondering if he dared say more. There, where he fully expected to see the stern face of objection, he saw a sweet, soft smile.
“I appreciate that, Beau.”
“Then you’ll let me go alone?”
“I didn’t say that! I appreciate that you are concerned, and I am concerned about your safety, too. We’ll look after each other. Dooley is a wily customer, from all accounts. I depend on his greed to overcome caution. And in any case, I shall be armed. I brought my pistol to London with me.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Oh yes. I have made it a point to be as self-sufficient as possible.”
He just shook his head. “Of course you have. You make it difficult for a fellow to be a hero.”
“Who wants a hero? From what I have read, they are just show-offs who got lucky. I would prefer a gentleman of common sense.”
“That lets me out. I must be mad, agreeing to this harebrained scheme. Let us hope we are both lucky.”
He picked up the last sandwich and left.
Chapter Seventeen
Nessie rushed home at six o’clock, pink with pleasure. “Such a day! I was visiting Lady Hertford and who should be there but Prinny! He could not have been kinder, my dear. Such marvelous things he said about your papa. We are dining with the Jerseys this evening. You are invited as well, Lydia, if you are free. I told her you might be going out with Beaumont.”
“Oh. Yes, Beau has invited me to a rout party.”
“That’s nice, dear. You can borrow my Hildie to help you dress for the rout, for I shall be finished with her long before you need to prepare. Your papa will be dining out with me. Ask the servants to make you something nice for dinner. And tell Cook I am expecting half a dozen ladies to tea tomorrow afternoon. As Lady Hertford will be joining me, the prince might possibly drop in. We shall want something quite grand.”
She dashed upstairs, still babbling about the prince, so very complimentary.
Lydia relayed the messages to the butler and scampered abovestairs to make her own preparations. The note from Sally had come. Dooley had been back to visit her, and she had given him Lydia’s note. He seemed angry, but Sally was sure he would show up at six A.M. As directed, Lydia forwarded the note to Beaumont at Manchester Square.
Having the house to herself was a great advantage in Lydia’s preparations. She would not have to leave home in a party frock, which would be inconvenient for fishing in the pond for the plates. She would wear her afternoon gown and a pair of stout walking shoes. Her good evening mantle would conceal the frock from Blake’s Argus eyes when she was leaving and returning.
Sir John
arrived home just in time to make his evening toilette. He stopped at Lydia’s room for a word before leaving.
“Are you still angry with me?” he asked, trying to make light of the situation.
His attitude annoyed Lydia. “What will you do, now that Prissie is dead?” she asked.
His first smile faded to resignation. “I shan’t take another mistress, if that is what concerns you, my dear. I have learned my lesson. And with my new duties, I shan’t have time for that sort of thing. Truth to tell, I am getting a little old for all that carrying on.”
“How very French. La Rochefoucauld said something of the sort, did he not? That when age overcomes our vices, we claim the victory for our own.”
“Very likely he did. He also said if we had no faults of our own, we would not take so much pleasure in noticing those of others. Don’t look too hard for others’ faults, Lydia. I am referring not only to mine, but to Beaumont’s. No man likes to be forever apologizing and explaining. A carping woman is no pleasure to be with.”
“I hope I am not a carper!”
“You have a tendency that way. I hope you can overcome it or you will lose that lad. He is an excellent parti. I trust you have not spoken to your mama about this Prissie business?”
“Certainly not.”
“Good. I am trying to convince her to join me here, as I shall be spending virtually all my time in London now.”
“She won’t come,” Lydia said. She knew it as well as she knew anything. “She would be terrified of meeting prime ministers and princes. She would be happier at home.” She would go on embroidering her fire screens and chair covers and wall hangings. No wonder her husband sought solace elsewhere.
Sir John must have been excessively hurt and worried to learn of Prissie’s death, and there had been no one for him to turn to. Of course not Mama, and not herself either. She had only carped and complained, harping on her papa’s offense, and not thinking on how he must feel. She was not as good a daughter as she might have been. This shocking thought sent her mind reeling.