Wouldn't It Be Deadly

by D. E. Ireland

  Gasps from several hundred people greeted her words. Pickering choked on his tea. A crash of china sounded from one of the tables, and Eliza noted even the servants seemed stunned. The butler Harrison stood a few feet behind the couple, and she almost laughed at the look of shock on his face.

  A smattering of applause finally erupted, overpowered by dozens of people talking among themselves. After a long pause, guests began to approach the couple on the terrace.

  Eliza turned back to Pickering and Redstone. “I knew the Marchioness was taken in by the Hungarian, but not to this extent.”

  “Taken in? Taken in?” Pickering wiped the tea he’d spilled over his cravat. “Why, she has completely lost her senses! What is she thinking, to marry some foreign mountebank, and at her age. Nepommuck is no more than thirty-two. That fortune hunter should be horsewhipped for taking such cruel advantage of a seventy-year-old woman.”

  This time, Eliza choked. “Lady Gresham is seventy?”

  “Seventy-one this November. And yes, I know it is not gentlemanly to speak of a lady’s age, but this … this is too much!”

  “Calm down, old chap,” Redstone said. “You’ll make yourself ill.”

  “He’s right,” Eliza began. “After all, if Lady—” She caught sight of Mary Finch running through the crowd.

  Eliza stood up for a better look. Pushing guests aside, Mary raced from the other end of the garden. With her feathered aigrette askew, the sobbing young woman shouted, “I won’t believe it! It cannot be true. Emil! Emil! Tell them it’s not true.”

  Her husband ran after her.

  Guests jumped out of the way as Mary barreled past. At one point, she knocked over a maid carrying a tray of tarts, which flew into the air. Cornelius grabbed her just before Mary reached the terrace steps, but the hysterical woman had now caught everyone’s attention. Nepommuck stared down at her with a look of pure hatred … and fear.

  Mary struggled in her husband’s arms, but he refused to let her go. “You don’t understand. He promised to marry me. You did, Emil. Tell her that you love me. Tell her. You can’t marry that old woman!”

  “Good heavens.” Pickering gulped down the rest of his tea.

  Lady Gresham said in a loud voice, “Harrison!”

  The handsome butler appeared behind the Marchioness, who whispered something in his ear. He nodded.

  Meanwhile Cornelius still held Mary tight, his face beet red. “Mary, stop this. You are making a fool of yourself. Of us both!”

  “But I love him. And he loves me. We made promises to each other. Emil!”

  Without warning, Mary suddenly went limp. Cornelius struggled to keep her from falling to the ground. When Harrison reached the couple, he picked up the young woman as if she weighed no more than one of the pink feathers bobbing above her head. She revived briefly as the butler carried her past. Eliza could have sworn she heard her sob, “The baby.”

  Cornelius muttered a terrible oath, his face a mask of fury and grief. After they’d left the grounds, the crowd began to buzz. James Nottingham stood by the fountain, a champagne glass in his hand. He raised it in Eliza’s direction and mouthed, “I told you.”

  She turned to Redstone. “This can hardly be what you expected, Major. After all your years away from England, I can’t imagine what you must think of us.”

  He smiled. “What I’m thinking is that English garden parties are far more interesting than I remember.”

  FOUR

  “If that’s my son, send him away,” Mrs. Higgins said. The doorbell chimed again. “Tell him I’ve gone to call on Cousin Bertie. Better yet, say Bertie and I left on a trip to the Hebrides. We won’t be back for a fortnight.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The parlor maid dropped a curtsey and hurried off.

  Mrs. Higgins settled back in her favorite chair by the window. Below, the Thames sparkled in the morning sunlight. Due to the mild weather, the drawing room windows were open and she smiled with pleasure at both the sight and fragrance of the potted hyacinth on her balcony. Reaching for her teacup, she took an appreciative sip. It was an exquisite Ceylon brew purchased on the recommendation of Colonel Pickering. She found him such an agreeable chap, always brimming with useful information about the most recent imports from the subcontinent and Asia. On his next visit, he promised to bring her a new tea blend from India.

  Unfortunately Henry often accompanied the Colonel, and she did not need to see her dear boy more than once a month. Henry had already paid her a call over two weeks ago, filled with deafening rage over that Hungarian phonetician. And with no small amount of animosity reserved for Miss Doolittle. Ever since Henry and the Colonel met Eliza, her household had been filled with more drama than Drury Lane Theatre.

  Mrs. Higgins almost spilled her tea when her son charged into the room.

  “Mother, I don’t understand why I must ring that bell half a dozen times before anyone answers the door.” Henry thrust a large bouquet of flowers at her. “You ought to give me a key.”

  “Heaven forbid, and take off your hat. This is a drawing room, not the platform at Paddington Station.”

  He flung his hat and coat onto a nearby ottoman.

  The parlor maid entered, looking chagrined. “Sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Henry insisted on coming up.”

  “If you thought that story about visiting Cousin Bertie would fool me, then you must think me as dotty as he is.” He raised an amused eyebrow. “The next time you wish to lie about going on holiday, do not choose a place as lugubrious as the Hebrides.”

  “Daisy, I commend you for doing your best to rein in my son. But since he has already breached the walls, please take these flowers he manhandled. And bring more tea.” She accepted his kiss on her cheek. “Well, Henry, two visits in two weeks. I don’t know whether to be flattered or afraid. And bearing lilacs, too. I’m certain Mr. Eynsford Hill will not be pleased that you brought a spring bouquet for Eliza.”

  “The flowers aren’t for that ungrateful ninny. I brought them for you.” He sat back on the chintz-covered divan with a smug grin.

  “For me? Whatever for, dear?”

  “For helping turn that little traitor into something resembling a lady. And for being so charitable as to offer her a roof over her head after she ran away from Wimpole Street.”

  “I don’t see it as a charitable impulse. I quite enjoy her company. Eliza is a charming girl. As I am sure you have had occasion to learn.”

  “Hah,” he snorted.

  “Eliza has wanted to pay room and board since she began working for Mr. Nepommuck. A proposition I would not hear of, I might add. The girl has pride. Although you seem to have done your utmost to break it.”

  “Is that what she’s been saying? That impudent siren of Covent Garden.”

  “Henry, really. It is entirely too early in the day for such purple prose. I’ve a dressmaker appointment at eleven. Do you have some other purpose beyond delivering lilacs?”

  “I’ve just come from Sibley & Moffett.”

  “Our solicitors?”

  He nodded. “I am bringing charges of fraud and professional sabotage against Emil Nepommuck. They will be serving papers later today.”

  “I had hoped you would change your mind since we last spoke.” Mrs. Higgins was not pleased. “This will play out in the papers, not just in the courts. Nepommuck will not take these charges lightly. Some of his clients move in circles close to 10 Downing Street. And numerous friends reported to me that the Dowager Marchioness of Gresham announced her engagement to him Sunday at her charity garden party.”

  “Pickering passed on the ridiculous news.” His smile grew even more devilish. “Rarely have I been happier to hear some lunatic couple decided to wed. Ah, to be there when that worm learns he has lost Lady Gresham’s fortune along with his students, and what is left of his reputation.”

  “Henry, try to be reasonable for once in your exasperating life. Is it really worth all this trouble and expense just to strike back at him for stealing Eliza away?�
��

  “He did not steal that urchin away. She went to him, cap in hand, begging for a job. And with my teaching methods in her purse.”

  She put up a hand. “I refuse to sit through this litany again. My hearing has only now recovered from the hours of shouting you subjected me to on your last visit.”

  “You don’t think I am going to let that hairy hog publicly take credit for my work, do you? Eliza Doolittle is my creation. No one else’s.”

  “Eliza is her own creation, Henry. You simply provided the tools and the opportunity. A year ago she was fighting to survive in the East End. Now she’s instructing businessmen and mill owners’ wives on how to speak proper English. In less than a year! Give her credit for talent and intelligence. It wasn’t only your vocal exercises.”

  “Damnation. Why does everyone take that girl’s side against me?”

  Mrs. Higgins sighed. “No tantrums, dear. You are much too old for that to be attractive.”

  “Well, I am not going to let those bald-faced lies continue in the paper.” Henry paused. “I’ve responded in kind.”

  “Should I plan a six-month tour of the Continent so I can avoid the uproar?”

  “No, you must stay here. I am sure that a court deposition will be taken from everyone who witnessed how Pickering and I turned that Covent Garden turnip into a lady.” He grinned. “What a lark it will be exposing that pompous Hungarian. Let’s see how many students he has after Sibley, Moffett, and I are done with him.”

  “Let’s see how many of your students remain after this circus ends.”

  “Of course, poor little Eliza will be out of a job,” Henry continued as if he hadn’t heard a word she spoke. He gestured toward the drawing room door. “If she’s at home, maybe we should have her join us. I warned her I’d engineer the demise of her Maestro. But it’s only fair she know that she’ll have to give testimony. Under oath, so if she doesn’t tell the truth, I shall hang that Cockney cabbage from Tower Bridge by her—”

  “Eliza isn’t here,” Mrs. Higgins broke in. “She had a nine o’clock lesson this morning, so she left here an hour ago. Afterwards, she plans to meet Mr. Eynsford Hill and his sister at Belgrave Square for a tour of the gardens and tea. If you wish to speak with her, you’ll have to go to her classroom later today when her afternoon pupils arrive.”

  “She won’t be giving lessons much longer.” Henry stretched back on the divan. “I have seen to that. In fact, I doubt that any of Nepommuck or Eliza’s pupils will be wanting lessons today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Haven’t you read this morning’s Daily Mail?”

  “Not yet.” She pointed to the writing desk. “Daisy put it there with my letters.”

  Higgins retrieved the newspaper and unfolded it with a flourish. “Has Eliza read it?”

  “She is courteous enough to wait until I have looked it over first.”

  He seemed even more satisfied with himself. “Then it will come as a complete surprise when she arrives in Belgrave Square.”

  “A nasty surprise, judging from your buoyant mood.”

  “Of course it’s nasty. Is there any other sort of surprise one should spring on an enemy? I’ve been busy since I learned what that poser was claiming in the papers. So rather than bash his hairy head in—which I admit I briefly considered—I struck back in the newspapers.” He handed the Daily Mail to his mother.

  She started to read, then looked up. “Dear lord, Henry. What have you done?”

  * * *

  When would she learn that it was a mistake to send Freddy off to hire a cab? Eliza cringed as an omnibus almost ran him over. She waved in his direction, hoping to convince him to stop trying, or at least get out of the street.

  Freddy’s sister, Clara, let out a sigh. “Poor Freddy. I’m afraid he never acquired the trick of flagging down a cab.”

  Actually, Eliza suspected he’d have trouble stopping a rag seller pushing his cart.

  “A pity we can’t afford our own driver and car,” Clara continued. “But that just isn’t possible in our current situation.”

  “I’m sure that will change soon.” She squeezed Clara’s arm in a gesture of sympathy.

  Eliza understood that Clara considered the family’s financial condition as one step away from bleak poverty. But the girl was blissfully unaware how well-off the Eynsford Hills were compared with most Londoners. Thanks to a modest inheritance, the family lived a genteel—albeit frugal—life. Try hanging your food in a sack from the ceiling every night to keep the rats from eating it, Eliza wanted to tell her. But Clara was young and unsophisticated. And she regarded Eliza as the epitome of a modern young woman, the latest society fashion in brash elegance.

  Freddy and his mother were just as unworldly. Even after learning that Eliza had been a Cockney flower girl, they treated her transformation as an amusing lark. Had any of them ever caught a glimpse of the East End’s narrow dark streets? She didn’t know whether to be amazed or angry.

  Eliza bit back a scream as Freddy tripped mere inches away from a motorcar heading for Grosvenor Crescent. Hang the niceties. The fellow was going to get himself killed.

  “Freddy, get your arse over here!” she shouted.

  “Oh Eliza, I do love how you know all the new small talk,” Clara said in delight. “Yes, Freddy, move your arse!”

  Two dowagers marched past, glaring at them in obvious disapproval.

  Eliza breathed a sigh of relief when Freddy reached the curb. He looked dashing as always, with his blue eyes, thick mane of blond hair, and skin as clear and rosy as a country milkmaid’s. That such a refined and handsome young man should adore her was another miraculous event in a year that had been crammed with them.

  “Darling, I couldn’t get the attention of even a single taxi,” he said with a sunny smile. “And I nearly got knocked down by an omnibus. It was rather exciting, though.”

  Eliza adjusted his collar. “Don’t worry, Freddy. As I told you before, we can easily walk to Belgrave Place from here. It’s only a few blocks, and the day is glorious.”

  Spring had made a stunning entrance the day of Lady Gresham’s garden party. The weather had been almost tropical ever since. They stood along the edge of Belgrave Square Gardens, and the heady fragrance of its flowers was enough to make her swoon.

  “But won’t you be late for your lessons?” he asked.

  “My next pupil doesn’t arrive until one. It’s not quite noon.”

  Big Ben began tolling the midday hour at that moment. “See, we have more than enough time for a leisurely stroll.” Eliza linked arms with both Clara and Freddy.

  “I do want to get there in plenty of time so you can introduce me to the Maestro,” Clara said. “He must be very busy. I wouldn’t like to interrupt his lessons.”

  “It’s Thursday. He only has one lesson today at three o’clock.”

  “I hope he doesn’t think me too forward. I’ve been longing to meet him ever since you became his assistant. Do I curtsey? He’s the first person of royal blood I’ve ever met.”

  “Lord, no. Just shake his hand and say, ‘How d’ya do.’”

  “You’re so funny, Eliza. What should I call him? Baron? Prince? What do they call him back in Hungary?”

  Eliza suspected they called him “Emil” but didn’t want to disillusion Clara. “I’ve no idea what the Hungarians call him. ‘Maestro’ will do for any Brits who make his acquaintance.”

  “Will he flirt with me? I’ve heard he’s quite the ladies’ man.”

  “Of course. He flirts with every female, and you’re prettier than most.”

  “Has he dared to flirt with you, Eliza?” Freddy asked, clearly outraged.

  “He does now and then, usually when he’s bored. But since Professor Higgins called, he’s barely said a word to me.” Eliza smiled up at Freddy. “Don’t be jealous, silly. I told you. He and Lady Gresham announced their engagement at the garden party last Sunday.”

  “Maybe he shan’t pay much heed to me
at all.” Clara deflated like a pricked balloon. She dodged a pram pushed by a determined black-garbed nanny with a stern face. “I’m not a pupil, after all. Or a marchioness.”

  “That won’t stop him.”

  Eliza knew that Nepommuck would lavish Clara with flattery and attention. Why not? She was a pretty young woman who thought the Maestro was as royal as the Hungarian king himself—assuming Hungary had a king. But once Clara left his sight, he’d forget he ever met her. Nepommuck preferred the company of older women: well connected, discreet, and wealthy.

  “If he dares flirt with you, Clara, I shall have to get in his face,” Freddy said.

  “If you are going to fly into a temper every time a man flirts with me, I don’t know how I shall find a husband,” Clara said. “After all, why shouldn’t I marry royalty? Lady Gresham is marrying the Maestro. And I heard she was the daughter of a Bristol engineer before she wed her late husband the Marquess. As for the Maestro, he must have aristocratic brothers or cousins. Do any of them ever visit him in London, Eliza?”

  “You are not going to marry a Hungarian, Clara, no matter how royal his blood,” Freddy said. “When the time comes, you will marry a British chap. Not a foreign bounder.”

  In defiance, Clara walked ahead of them, her heels clicking on the pavement. Eliza wished Freddy would be gentler with his sister. Until five weeks ago, Clara’s energies had been directed at a prominent banker’s eldest son. The pair even discussed an engagement until the banker learned the Eynsford Hills’ only assets were good looks and a tiny trust fund.

  “Freddy, I am merely introducing Clara to Nepommuck,” Eliza said in a half whisper. “She’s been low after that business with the banker’s son. If this cheers her up a bit, we should let her be. A few flattering words from an overdressed Hungarian might do the trick.”

  Freddy stopped, gazing at her with naked adoration. “You are the most wonderful creature, Eliza. They ought to write songs about you in the West End. There simply isn’t a woman more beautiful or kindhearted than you, my sweet darling.”