by Jane Feather
“Whisky, thank you, Jenkins,” Max said, and came up the stairs. “Your father's out of the way?”
“Yes. He's been gone all evening. Jenkins has the keys to the motorcar.”
Max's eyebrows lifted. “Your butler knows about this?”
“Oh, yes, Jenkins knows everything about this family. Every dirty little secret we have,” Prudence declared. “He would help us himself but he doesn't know anything about motors.”
Max's eyebrows remained uplifted.
“You look very clandestine,” Constance said approvingly. “Very secretive with that long black cloak. You'll just blend into the shadows.”
“I thought I had better dress the part.” He assumed she had no secrets from her sisters and gave her an unceremonious kiss. Their lovemaking the previous afternoon had been of a rough-and-ready nature, a wild tumble in the deserted house, and he was somehow still in the same frame of mind. She was dressed simply but with customary elegance, in an evening gown of lavender crepe, and he had an urge to rumple her, to pull the pins from her hair, to roll her on the carpet and kiss her senseless. It was not his usual style at all and he found this strange aberration amusing, although puzzling. He put it down to the disreputable if not downright illegal character of the evening's activity.
After an instant of surprise at the salute, Constance offered no resistance to the kiss, and a gleam showed in her eyes, as if she could read his mind and was indulging her own memories.
Her sisters exchanged a glance and moved farther into the room, turning their backs to the doorway. Jenkins came up the stairs with a tray bearing the decanter of whisky and a glass. Without haste, Max raised his head and straightened, moving away from Constance into the parlor. The smile lingered on his mouth and in his eyes, however.
“Did you bring anything to do this with?” Chastity asked, noting his empty hands and clearly empty pockets.
“I don't need anything. Constance said the motor was a Cadillac . . . Oh, thank you, Jenkins.” He took the proffered glass.
“It is, but what's the significance of that?” Constance asked.
“I'll show you when we look at the motor. You need to understand that while I hate to disappoint you, I have no intention of doing damage to that motorcar. It's far too valuable a machine.”
“I quite agree with you, sir.” Jenkins paused on his way to the door.
“Oh, Jenkins, how could you?” Prudence said. “You know how things stand.”
“Yes, I do, Miss Prue, but if there's a way to persuade his lordship to give up the motor without vandalizing the vehicle, then I think we should consider it.”
“Well, of course we don't want to do wanton damage,” Constance said. “What are we going to do, then, Max?”
“A little trick with the fuel tank,” he said, taking a sip of whisky and nodding his appreciation. “Lord Duncan knows his single malts.”
“Our father's tastes are as perfect as they are expensive,” Prudence declared. “Only the best of anything comes into this house.”
Max wondered at the caustic undertone to the comment, but he didn't pursue it. He'd already noticed that something was amiss between Lord Duncan and his daughters, but he didn't feel inclined to pry. Maybe as he got to know them better it would come out. Not that he wasn't already well on the way to getting to know them all far too closely for comfort, he reflected dryly. Engaging with them in an act of sabotage at dead of night was as intimate a deed of friendship as he could imagine. It was certainly as close as he wanted to get to the nefarious heart of the Duncan trio. He had the feeling there was very little they wouldn't do if they saw a need, and he doubted they'd have any scruples as to the tools they used to go about it. He had certainly been shamelessly co-opted.
He glanced across the room to where Constance sat perched on the wide arm of a sofa, so casual, so elegant, yet so wonderfully, wildly sensual when the mood took her, and he understood with absolute clarity why he had allowed himself to be so co-opted.
He set down his empty glass. “This is a rather messy operation, and since I have no intention of dirtying my own hands, I'm wondering if you three shouldn't change into something a little less delicate.”
“Oh, we can do that.” Chastity was already heading for the door. “We'll only be a few minutes.”
“How messy?” asked Constance warily. She had the feeling that Max was rather relishing the prospect of standing aside in pristine elegance while they got themselves covered in whatever grease and mess went into a motorcar's engine.
“Very,” he said with a glimmer in his eye that told her she had been right. “And smelly too.” And now he couldn't help a grin of satisfaction.
Reprisal time, Constance thought with reluctant acceptance. She followed her sisters to the door. “We'll be back in a minute.”
Max poured himself another drink and idly glanced around the room. It was a pleasant, informal parlor, with an endearing shabbiness. He wandered over to the secretaire and his eye fell on a copy of The Mayfair Lady. It was hardly surprising to find the broadsheet here since he knew they read it. He turned aside, and then spun back. Something had caught his eye. Something very odd. He picked up the sheet and stared at the date. Monday, July 31st. But that was two weeks hence. What were they doing with an advance edition?
But of course it was obvious. They were responsible for it. His earlier hunch had been right.
He heard voices in the corridor and dropped the sheet on the desk and walked swiftly to the window. When the door opened he was innocently looking down onto the dark garden, his recharged glass in his hand.
Constance immediately sensed something different about him. A sudden tension between his shoulders, the set of his head. He turned from the window and said, “What a pleasant room this is.”
“Yes, it was our mother's favorite room, very much her own. We haven't changed anything since her death.” Constance's eyes darted around the room, fell upon the secretaire and the broadsheet lying in full view. How could they have been so damnably careless? Had he seen it? Should she ask him, mention it casually, and see how he responded?
It was a ridiculous dilemma. She didn't want to draw his attention to something he might not have remarked. Even if he had seen it he might not have noticed the significance of the date. Current issues were to be found everywhere, so finding one here was not remarkable. But if he had seen it and noticed that it was not the current issue, then their secret could be broadcast throughout Mayfair by tomorrow evening if he chose to betray it. He wouldn't do that, of course. At least not without talking to her first. She was sure of it. Wasn't she?
She walked casually to the secretaire and as casually tidied up the papers on the top. Her gaze flicked across to him but he didn't seem to be aware of what she was doing. Inconclusive, she decided, but there was no time to worry about it at the moment.
“So, are we suitably protected for this dirty work?” Chastity asked cheerfully. “We're wearing our oldest clothes.”
Max regarded them with his head cocked as he considered this. They were swathed so completely in heavy cotton aprons that he couldn't see what they wore beneath.
“We have gloves too.” Prudence showed him the thick cotton gloves. “They're what the housemaid uses to clean the grates.”
“You'll do,” he said. “Let's get on with it.”
Constance led the way downstairs. They took another flight of stairs down into the vast basement kitchen. Three oil lamps stood on the massive deal table.
“There's no gas light in the mews, so we'll have to take oil lamps. Jenkins filled them and trimmed the wicks for us,” Constance explained. She asked doubtfully, “Are you sure we don't need anything? A knife or something?”
“I already told you, you're not going to do any damage . . . not so much as a scratch on the paintwork,” he said, following them out into the small courtyard behind the kitchen. He thought it was like following a trio of Florence Nightingales as they rustled along in their aprons, holding their
lamps high. Three very subversive ladies with lamps. How had he possibly found himself in this absurd position?
They crossed the courtyard and went through a gate into the mews. It was in darkness, no lights showing from the coachman's accommodation above the stable block. The smell of hay, horseflesh, and manure was strong in the air and a horse whinnied from the stable as they crossed the cobbles.
“It's in here,” Prudence whispered, turning a key in a double door in the building next to the stable. The doors creaked open and they went in, holding their lamps high. The light fell on a gleaming vehicle, all chrome and brass, and the smell of new leather was stronger even than the stable smell.
“Beautiful,” Max said involuntarily. He ran a hand over the motor's shining hood. “These Cadillacs are magnificent . . . an ideal model for our purposes,” he added.
“Give me a horse anyday,” Chastity declared, setting her lamp on an upturned barrel. “Do we need the keys? Con has them.”
Max shook his head. “We don't need to start it.” He walked around to the back of the car and bent to look underneath. “Good, just as I thought. Cadillacs usually have a tap, so we don't need to siphon.” He stood up. “Now, one of you find a bucket. Constance, feel under here.” Constance knelt on the stone floor and reached a hand under the car. “Just to your left, there's a tap. Can you find it?”
“Yes, it's here.” Her fingers closed over the tap.
“All right. Keep your hand there. Prudence, bring the bucket and position it beneath the tap. That's right. Now, Constance, open the tap. Let the spirit trickle out slowly . . . very slowly, so you can control the flow. No . . . that's too fast. Close it off again.”
“It would be so much easier if you would do this,” she said, gritting her teeth with concentration. Her voice was muffled, her fingers cramping from the strain, her shoulders tight with the awkward position. “You know what you're doing.”
“Oh, no. This is your show. My hands are going to stay clean.” As if in emphasis, he drove them into his coat pockets. “Chastity, you'll need several more buckets.”
“I'll get them from the tack room.”
“What is this stuff, anyway?” Prudence asked, wrinkling her nose as she straightened. She took off her glasses, which had misted over, and peered at him myopically in the shadowed garage.
“Fuel. Motors have to run on something, or didn't you know that?”
“There's no need to sound so patronizing,” Prudence said, replacing her glasses. “As it happens, I'm with Chastity when it comes to a preferred method of travel.” She bent again to the bucket. “Can you manage, Con?”
“I think so. I think I've mastered the flow now . . . if I keep the tap at half cock.”
“All right, that's enough. You don't want to drain it,” Max instructed.
Constance swiftly closed the tap. She stood up, wiping her reeking hands on her apron with a grimace of distaste. “I think I get the point of all this. How much have we left in?”
“Enough for about two miles, I would guess. A motorcar as big and heavy as this won't do more than ten miles to the gallon. But there'll be spare cans stowed at the back for refueling. Probably in a little compartment behind the jump seat.”
Constance found the compartment. “There are three in here.”
“Take 'em out.”
She lifted them out with a grunt of effort. They seemed to weigh a ton. She shot Max a resentful glare, which he either didn't notice or chose to ignore.
“Now pour about half of each one into the spare buckets. But be very careful. It's dangerous stuff, very volatile . . . it doesn't take much to ignite it.”
“How comforting,” Constance murmured. “I suppose you wouldn't consider lifting this damned can yourself?” She heaved the first one up onto her hip.
“Absolutely not. Aren't women supposed to be a match for men in everything?”
“There are some physical facts you can't get around,” she said with a distinct snap. “And being sardonic isn't helping matters.”
“My apologies.” He tried to hide a grin but failed.
“Let me help.” Prudence came to her sister's aid, supporting the can as Constance tilted it into the bucket.
“Chastity, can you find some lamp oil from somewhere?” Max inquired.
“How much?”
“As much as you can.”
“I'll look in the scullery. I believe there's a barrel of it stored there.” Chastity started for the door, then paused, her hand on the latch. “I'm sure I can manage to roll it across the kitchen courtyard without assistance.”
There was an instant's expectant pause but Max remained silent, nonchalantly leaning against the stone wall, hands still firmly inactive in his pockets.
“I'll help you, Chas.” Prudence released her supporting hand on the fuel can as Constance took its now reduced weight, and went off with her sister.
Constance set down the half-empty can, unscrewed the top on the second one, and hefted it onto her hip. She didn't look at Max.
He couldn't maintain the charade as he watched her struggles in the flickering lamplight. “Here, let me do it.”
“I can manage, thank you,” she said with icy dignity. “You wouldn't want to spoil your clothes. Or dirty those so-perfect hands. Why, you might even break a fingernail.”
“Give that to me.” He stepped forward and laid hold of the can. For a moment she resisted, then realized that they were both going to end up drenched in this foul-smelling spirit if they wrestled over its possession. She relinquished it, controlling a sigh of relief, and stepped back, wiping her hands again on her apron.
“So, the idea is for my father to run out of fuel so that the car will strand him somewhere?”
“That is the idea.” He set down the half-emptied can and unscrewed the top on the third one.
“But won't he notice that these are only half-empty?” Constance was fascinated now.
“They won't be. We're going to mix the spirit with lamp oil.” He set down the third can and casually wiped his hands on Constance's apron. “Is there a tap in the yard?”
“By the horse trough.”
She followed him out into the moonlit yard and stood back while he rinsed his hands at the tap and dried them on his handkerchief. She followed suit at the tap. “What will happen then?”
“You have to get the mix of spirit and lamp oil exactly right for the engine to run smoothly. We're not going to worry about the correct proportions, so the motor will run for a little once the tank's been replenished from the spare cans and then sputter and die. It won't come to any harm, but it will be very inconvenient for the driver.”
“You mean that every time he thinks he's got it going again, it'll stop?” she said with an awed nod. “Oh, that is very clever. It will drive him mad. I think I may have underestimated you, Mr. Ensor.”
“Now, that would be unwise.” He looked at her as she stood in the shadowy silver light of the moon, apron-wrapped, disheveled, her hair coming loose from its pins, a streak of dirt smeared across her cheek, a film of sweat on her forehead. “I ceased to underestimate you, Miss Duncan, somewhere around the time you were climbing over stiles.”
She smiled slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead with the back of a damp hand. “And has anything else occurred to confirm that opinion, Max?”
Would he say anything about The Mayfair Lady? Drop just a hint that would tell her whether he'd seen the edition in the parlor?
The sound of a barrel rolling across the cobbles stilled any response he might have made. Chastity and Prudence rolled the wooden barrel of lamp oil towards the open garage doors. Max licked the corner of his handkerchief and wiped the smear of dirt from Constance's cheek before following her sisters into the garage.
Thoughtfully, Constance followed. Tomorrow there was the WSPU meeting, and afterwards they were to have dinner. There would be opportunities to probe a little then. But she decided she wouldn't mention the matter to her sisters, not
until she had some idea of whether they had cause for concern.
“I hope we didn't go too far,” Chastity said in Fortnum and Mason the following afternoon. “He went out in that motor at eleven o'clock this morning and he wasn't home when we left.” She took a forkful of the meringue on her plate, neatly scooping up escaping crème chantilly as she bore the morsel to her lips.
“In the company of the earl of Barclay,” Prudence reminded her, refilling her teacup. “I'd worry more if he was alone.”
“I think the company of Barclay is worse than no company at all,” Constance stated, setting down her pen and raising her head from the sheet of paper on the table in front of her. “I was having a rather interesting conversation with Dolly Hennesy this morning. I bumped into her at the hairdresser's.”
“Gossip, Con?” Prudence took an almond slice from the plate on the table. She raised her eyebrows, her light green eyes teasing. “I thought you didn't have time for it.”
“I don't,” her sister replied, sipping her tea, unperturbed by the teasing. “But this is germane gossip. Barclay, it seems, is suspected of philandering.”
Prudence no longer looked amused. “That's hardly unusual,” she said grimly, driving her fork into the cake. “Father's not exactly pure as the driven snow.”
“But I don't believe our father goes around fathering offspring on women in his employ.”
Prudence set down her fork and pursed her mouth in a silent whistle. “No,” she agreed. “That he would not do. What are you saying?”
“That the earl of Barclay is well known for dabbling in such brooks,” Constance declared. “At least two women, from what I heard.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I also hear that he has something of a reputation in his clubs for not being . . . how shall I put it? Not being exactly prompt about settling his gambling debts.”
“I know he's loathsome,” Chastity said, her own eyes wide at this revelation. “But surely not even Barclay would do something so . . . so ungentlemanly,” she finished for want of a better description. A failure to settle gambling debts in a timely fashion was probably the most heinous social crime.