by Jane Feather
“You are always putting words into my mouth, Constance,” he snapped. “Give me a chance to respond in my own way.”
“I'm sorry,” she said swiftly. “It's a terrible habit I have, I know.”
He almost laughed. “Do you really know it?”
“Yes. I jump too quickly. I've been told it many times.”
“By whom?” He watched her now, his gaze slightly softened as he saw the flash of distress cross her eyes.
“My mother . . . Douglas . . . my sisters. All people I love . . . loved.” She shrugged. “I don't seem to have learned the lesson, though.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I think that's enough self-flagellation for one day. And to answer your question, if that's what it was, I don't see the point of women's suffrage, as I've said before. But I'm perfectly happy to tolerate an opposing viewpoint.”
“Tolerate!” Constance exclaimed. “That is so patronizing, Max.”
He thought for a minute, then said, “My turn to apologize.”
Constance accepted this in silence. Then she said, “If you would come to a meeting, you might see the point. You could meet Emmeline Pankhurst. At least open your mind.”
It would also give him the opportunity to see the organization from the inside, he reflected. The closer he got to its inner workings, the more he would discover.
“You could also tell us what the government is doing, or thinking,” she continued into his silence. “You wouldn't be betraying any secrets. You told me that they were at least looking into the issue of whether women tax and ratepayers should qualify. I don't suppose that's a government secret.”
What a conniving creature she is, he thought with a flicker of amusement. She had every intention of milking him for useful information. Which put them both squarely on the court on opposing sides of the net. One of them was going to be useful to the other. It would be interesting to see which one served first.
“I can tell you nothing that the newspapers don't report every day,” he said with an easy shrug. “But I will come to a meeting with you.”
“There's a meeting at Kensington Town Hall at seven o'clock the day after tomorrow. Could you make that?”
“Possibly.” He cast her another sidelong glance. “Are there any demonstrations planned?”
Constance shook her head. “It's just a meeting,” she said. “I'll meet you on the steps, if you like.”
“I assume I'll need someone to vouch for me.”
“Not necessarily, but we do keep an eye on who attends. We can't be too careful, there's so much hostility to the cause.”
“Ah.” He nodded, and she frowned slightly, wondering why she felt a sudden stir of unease, as if something wasn't quite right. She looked over at him, but he seemed his usual perfectly relaxed self.
“And after the meeting you may dine with me,” he said.
It was a statement, not an invitation. “If that's the bargain,” she responded without expression.
“Oh, dear.” He shook his head. “Let me try that again. Miss Duncan, porcupine though you are, will you do me the honor of dining with me after the meeting?”
“I should be delighted, Mr. Ensor, thank you. It will give us the opportunity to discuss your reactions and deepen your understanding of the issues.” She offered him a bland smile, but beneath he could detect a hint of triumph. She was convinced she had had the last word. And she was right, he concluded. For the moment anyway.
“The pleasure will be all mine, ma'am.”
Time to back off, Constance decided. She was sufficiently wary of Max's ability to bite back not to belabor the victory. “I should get back,” she said, stretching languidly. “That was such a clever picnic. Those lobster sandwiches were wonderful. And those baby veal and ham pies . . . I adore them. Did Letitia's cook prepare it for you?”
“Actually, the dining room at the House of Commons,” he said, tipping the remains of the champagne into their glasses. “The chef is very good. I hope you'll dine there with me one evening.”
“I should love to,” Constance said with a gracious smile. She drained her champagne and gave him her glass as he packed the remains of their picnic away in the hamper.
She got to her feet and shook out her cream muslin skirt. “I shouldn't have worn this, it's so pale it shows every stain.” She peered over her shoulder to check the back. “Are there any grass stains?”
Max examined her back view with considerable interest. He smoothed out the folds, patted them back into place. “Not that I can see.”
“And you certainly took a good look.”
“What did you expect?”
She made no reply, concentrating instead on tying the wide green ribbons of her straw boater in a bow beneath her chin.
Max hoisted the picnic basket over one arm and gave her his other and they walked up the bank to where his motorcar was parked on the narrow lane.
“What kind of motorcar is this?” Constance asked as she walked around the shiny dark green vehicle while Max stowed the wicker hamper in the space beneath the front passenger seat.
“A Darracq. They make them in Paris.”
“Is it very expensive?” She ran a hand over the gleaming bulbs of the two massive headlights. It looked enormously expensive.
“Yes,” he said succinctly.
“How reliable are they in general?” She continued her tactile exploration of the vehicle. It was a beautiful thing.
“Not very,” he said, struggling to fit the hamper in the tiny space. “But it's the price you pay. It adds to the excitement.”
“So they often break down in inconvenient places?”
“Oh, they always choose the most inconvenient places to break down.” He straightened and brushed off his hands. “As I say, it's the price you pay for vanity.”
“For showing off,” she accused with a grin.
“If you insist.”
“Actually, I can't say I blame you. It's very beautiful.” Constance stepped onto the running board and looked at the chrome-and-brass interior, inhaling the rich smell of leather. “So, what makes them break down? That lever over there?” She pointed to the gear shift.
“No, the gears are generally reliable enough, so long as you treat them properly. It's the engine and the fuel feed usually. Are you getting in?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.” She jumped off the running board so that he could open the door for her. “I could have climbed over that. It's barely a door at all.”
“True enough.” He closed the door after her and went around the front to crank the engine. It fired on the third turn, he stowed the crank and then swung a long leg over the door on the driver's side and slid into his seat behind the wheel.
“So, what could cause a problem in the engine or the fuel feed?” Constance asked as the car jumped forward on the dirt lane.
“The wrong fuel mixture. A loose wire. Any number of things.” He turned the car in the narrow lane.
“Could one make that happen?” she inquired.
Max finally realized that there was some significance to this apparently artless interest in the workings of the motorcar. He looked over at her. “Be more specific.”
“Well, if for instance one wanted a car to break down at a certain point a long way from convenient assistance, is there any way to do that?”
“Am I being involved in some nefarious scheme here?”
“It's my father. He tells us he's taking delivery of a new Cadillac tomorrow afternoon. But we can't let him keep it,” she said simply. “He has very little patience and if it causes him the slightest inconvenience he'll give up on it in disgust. We have to find a way to fix the engine so that happens.”
“Dear God!” he exclaimed, hooting his horn at a cow that was wandering slowly across his path. The animal kicked up its heels at the strident sound and ran for the open field across the lane. “You and your sisters are planning to sabotage your father's new car?”
“In the interest of his safety, yes,” Constance said with
a sweetly innocent smile. “Better a damaged car and a live parent than the reverse.”
“And you want me to help you?” He was incredulous, and yet it seemed entirely in keeping with what he had learned about the Honorable Misses Duncan since they'd first swum into his ken.
“If you wouldn't mind. It is in a very good cause. Life and death, really. We'd do it ourselves but we don't know much about engines. As yet,” she added.
“As yet,” he muttered. “Perhaps you'd like to drive us home.”
“Oh, I'd love to. May I?” Constance turned sideways in her seat, her eyes shining. “I've been watching you, and it doesn't look that difficult.”
It wasn't once you'd mastered the gears, Max admitted to himself. But he wasn't about to admit that to Constance. “I don't think it's something that would come easily to women,” he stated. “They're not mechanically minded and the gear changes are quite complex.”
Constance gave a crow of laughter. “Why did I expect you to say anything different? Just wait and see, Mr. Ensor. Women will be driving these things before you know it.”
“And in the meantime, on your own admission, you don't know much about engines,” he reminded her. He wasn't prepared to contest her statement, since he was beginning to get the suspicion that if society was peopled by women like Constance Duncan and her sisters, there would be women behind every steering wheel in the country.
“No,” she agreed. “Which is why I am so humbly asking for your help.”
“And how am I supposed to help?” He kicked himself for asking the question. It was only going to lead him into trouble.
“We thought that after Father takes delivery and after his first run, then when he stables it, or whatever it is you do with motorcars in the mews, we could fiddle with it so that when he next took it out it would be unreliable.”
“And when is this operation to take place?”
“Tomorrow night.” She looked across at him. “Are you free tomorrow night?”
“For sabotage?”
“That's harsh.”
“But true.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “He'll be so thrilled with the motor after his first run that he'll want to take it out the next day, and we'd like it to break down on him just far enough from the city for it to be incredibly inconvenient. He won't want to drive it after dark the first day, so once he's stabled it tomorrow evening we could do what's necessary. In fact,” she added with growing enthusiasm, “you don't need to do anything yourself. Just tell us what to do. You won't be involved in any way.”
“No, just an accessory after the fact.”
“Don't worry, we won't hand you over to the authorities.”
“And I won't worry about tarnishing my spotless reputation as a Member of Parliament.” He raised his eyebrows in sardonic punctuation.
“Will you help?” Her voice was suddenly serious. “Just tell us what to do.”
“For God's sake, Constance, isn't there a simpler way to achieve your object?” he demanded, fighting the unnerving sensation of slipping fast down an icy slope. “Why do you have to come up with such a devious scheme?”
“Believe it or not, it is the simplest way,” she said. “Father has to decide for himself to give up the idea, he won't listen to anyone else.” She turned sideways on her seat and laid a hand on his arm. “We really need you to help. There's no one else we can ask.”
“Oh, God help me,” he muttered. “All right, I'll come round and I'll tell you what to do.” Even as the words emerged, Max couldn't believe what he was saying. How could he possibly be agreeing to help in such an addled scheme? He should surely be showing male solidarity with Lord Duncan rather than with the man's eccentric daughters. He looked at Constance in exasperation and found something in the glow of her dark green eyes that answered his question. When she wanted to be, Constance Duncan was irresistibly bewitching. No man stood a chance.
“Thank you,” she said with a radiant smile. “Will you come round at about ten o'clock tomorrow night, then? Father will be at his club.”
“I can't promise a time,” he said. “It depends how late the House sits.”
“Yes, of course,” she said amenably. “Whenever it's convenient . . . we'll just wait up for you.” She busied herself retying the ribbons of her hat more securely against the rush of wind as Max increased his speed.
“By the way, what's the name of this potential secretary you're sending me?”
“Henry Franklin. Should he come to the House of Commons next Monday morning?”
He adroitly swung the wheel to avoid a stray dog that had run barking into the road at the sight of the motorcar, and then said, “It would be simpler to send him to my house. I meant to tell you . . . I've found a suitable house in Westminster. I signed the lease yesterday.”
“Oh, that's splendid. Does that mean we might—” She bit off the rest of the sentence in some confusion. Here she'd been telling herself to pedal slowly and now suddenly she was back in the Tour de France.
“It certainly means we could,” he said solemnly. “Should you decide to speed things up a little again.”
Constance bit her lip. “I haven't. It just slipped out. I told you I'm in lust with you. But I'm serious about learning things about each other.”
Max took his eyes from the road for a minute to look at her. There was nothing playful about her at the moment; in fact, he thought she looked somewhat confused. “Let me return the compliment,” he said, and she gave him a quick and rather grateful smile.
“I don't see why we can't gratify lust and a thirst for knowledge at the same time,” he suggested. His wind-tossed hair shone in the sun, and the blue of his eyes seemed even more intense than usual as they rested on her countenance. The sight of him made her knees go weak again.
She cleared her throat. “About this house . . . ?”
“It's furnished. I have the key.” He patted his breast pocket.
“That's convenient. I should be interested in looking at it.”
“That could be arranged.”
“Where were you all day?” Prudence asked as Constance came into her bedroom dressed for dinner.
“Having a picnic along the river at Windsor,” her sister replied. “I came to borrow your topaz earrings. They go so well with this dress.”
“In the box.” Prudence gestured to the jewel box on her dresser. “What about the rest of the day?”
“Max has taken a lease on a house in Westminster.”
“Oh. Objectivity went by the board again, did it?”
“Maybe.” Constance sifted through the box and selected the earrings. “Honestly, I don't know, Prue. I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels. I've never felt like this before.”
“Not even with Douglas?” Prue turned on the dresser stool to give her sister her full attention. It was unlike Constance to express this kind of confusion.
Constance shook her head, tossing the earrings from hand to hand. “No, it was very straightforward with Douglas. I knew I loved him and he loved me. There was nothing . . . nothing oppositional about our relationship. I didn't feel the need to best him all the time. And yet with Max it's as if there's an edge to almost everything we say. I feel I can't let myself be vulnerable . . . let my guard down. And yet he's never done anything to justify that feeling. Only his Neanderthal attitudes about women.”
She shrugged, and fastened the topaz earrings. “Normally I just despise men who hold those views, but it's not possible to despise Max.”
“No,” agreed Prudence with conviction. “One could loathe him, but one certainly couldn't despise him.”
“And I don't loathe him,” Constance said with a resigned smile. “Quite the opposite. It's very confusing, Prue.”
“I can believe it.”
“But on a more positive note,” Constance continued, “I did get Max to agree to see Henry. On Monday at his house.”
“Oh, wonderful.” Prudence turned back to the mirror and took up her comb ag
ain. “Amelia sent a note to say that she's arranged for the license, and the wedding is scheduled for next Thursday afternoon at four o'clock at the registry office in Caxton Hall. We're to be witnesses.”
“Always assuming Henry plucks up the courage to get himself here,” Constance said a touch gloomily. “The farther I'm away from him, the more pessimistic I get.”
“Don't be. Chas is confident he'll come. She's never wrong.”
“You have a point. Where is she tonight?”
“Dining with David and Hester at Lady Winthrop's.”
“Ah.” Constance raised an eyebrow. “Matters move along, then.”
“So it would seem,” her sister agreed.
“I also persuaded Max to help us with the motor business,” Constance said, a gleam now in her eye. “Tomorrow night.”
“I don't believe it,” her sister declared. “He's so straitlaced, how did you ever persuade him to lend himself to such a trick?”
“It was surprisingly easy, actually. He tried to resist, but somehow . . .” She gave a blasé shrug. “He just couldn't.”
“You are so wicked!”
“I'm in good company, sister dear. As I recall, this was Chas's idea.”
Prudence acknowledged this with a resigned chuckle and rose from the dresser stool. “Are you ready to go down? Lord Barclay is dining with us.”
“Oh, God help us!” Constance exclaimed. “And I was having such a satisfactory day.”
Chapter 13
Is that the doorbell?” Chastity sprang to her feet the following evening and ran to the parlor door.
Constance glanced at the clock. It was just ten-thirty. “It must be Max.” She followed her sister out onto the landing, Prudence at her heels. “Jenkins, is it Mr. Ensor?”
“It is indeed.” Max appeared in the dim light of the hall and put one foot on the bottom stair, looking up at them as they clustered at the top of the stairs. “Did I keep you up?”
“No, no, of course not,” Constance said. “Come upstairs to the parlor. Jenkins will bring you a whisky if you'd like. Otherwise we have cognac up here.”
“Or hot chocolate,” Chastity called cheerfully.