by Joan Smith
“Darren doesn’t have the money—in cash, I mean.”
“I realize that. I’ll lend it to him.”
“Oh, would you, Cousin? How kind you are! Naturally he’d repay you with interest.”
“So I would hope,” Salverton said, and again watched the smile fade from her face. Now, why the devil had he said that? He wasn’t worried about the money. “It’s worth a good deal more than a thousand to me to avoid the scandal,” he added, which hardly helped matters.
“I’m afraid we’ve been a horrid nuisance.”
“It’s not unusual for provincials to be taken advantage of on their first foray into the city. I’m happy you came to me, Samantha, however belatedly.”
“I wager you were never taken advantage of, Cousin.”
A rueful smile softened his harsh features. “Now, there you are very much mistaken,” he said in a voice of fond remembrance. It was a tone Samantha had not heard him use before.
“No, really? Tell me about it.”
Salverton hesitated only a moment before speaking. He had never told anyone of his disgrace. He had managed to forget it for a decade, but he found the memory was still green. The affair with Esmée Labelle had taught him a lesson he had never forgotten. Perhaps he had become too cautious, but it was a close-run thing.
“Her name was Esme," he said softly. “She was a minor actress at Covent Garden. I saw her on the stage and went to the greenroom after to meet her. I had just finished university that spring, and thought I was cock of the walk. She became my mistress. I hired her a little cottage in St. John’s Wood, where I set her up and showered her with knickknacks. One night she and her cohort fed me doctored wine. I was unconscious for twenty-four hours. When I came to, she handed me a wedding license indicating we had been married the day before.”
“Her cohort? You mean she had another fellow on the string all the time?”
“He was her older brother, as it turned out. I still hold him responsible. Esmée wasn’t clever enough, or wicked enough, to invent such a scheme by herself. I was petrified that they’d show the license to Papa, and paid them whatever they demanded to keep it quiet. They held me to ransom for that whole season. My papa thought I had taken to gambling. That spree went a long way toward killing my father. In desperation I finally went to my cousin Aldred Blythe, a man-about-town, and asked if there was anything I could do short of murdering the pair of them. Even that occurred to me.
“Aldred nearly split his sides laughing. That stunt was as well-known as an old ballad. It turned out there was no Mr. Spickleton, the vicar who was supposed to have married us, and no church called St. Peter’s-by-the-Woods. They had gotten hold of a forged wedding license. I wanted to forget the whole thing, rack it up to experience, but in the end I felt I owed it to society to expose them. I reported them to Bow Street, and appeared in court to give evidence. Society had me branded as not only a lecher, but a fool. Of course I never recovered the three thousand pounds they had gotten from me, but I’ve made a point to recover my reputation.”
“Was that when you became so—”
“When I acquired my overweening ambition?” he asked in a thin voice.
“And your overweening propriety,” she added, softening the words with a saucy smile.
“I expect it is. I certainly wanted to show Papa I wasn’t the wastrel he thought me. I did take up my seat in the House at that time, and limited my acquaintances to decent, respectable folks. No one has called me Lord Salty since then.”
“I hope Darren’s experience has a similar effect. You have certainly lived down your disgrace. I never even heard that story.”
“I managed to keep it out of the journals, but it was whispered behind raised hands in society.”
Samantha studied her cousin in the moonlight. “I cannot imagine you chasing after an actress. She must have been lovely.” As she gazed at his face, softened by memory, she saw the echo of a younger, more dashing Edward, and wished she had known him.
“l thought so, at the ripe old age of one and twenty. As a matter of fact, I still think so,” he said musingly. “Esmée had titian hair and green eyes. She was a lively little thing.”
“I feel I know you better after hearing your story, Cousin,” Samantha said, Salverton took her hand, squeezed her fingers, and immediately released them. “Well enough to call me Edward, I think.”
“It was only seven or eight hours ago you pokered up when I called you that. I think this horrid escapade of Darren’s has done you some good.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Recalling my flaming youth, now that I am older, I find I can forgive myself.”
“Good gracious! Has it taken you ten years to forgive yourself? I would have thought a hair shirt would wear out long before that.”
“So it should, but when you train an animal harshly, he stays trained after the whip is abandoned.”
“Poor Salverton,” Samantha said, patting his hand.
“Poor Samantha, saddled with a tartar for a helper.”
“You’re not such a tartar,” she said forgivingly.
Having exhausted this topic, she turned to admire the sea before it disappeared from view. She thought about Esmée, and a young Edward.
“It is hard to think of you being in love,” she said.
He stiffened up. “If you’re implying I’m marrying Louise only because her papa is in the Cabinet, you are greatly mistaken.”
“In a cabinet? Is he a loony? Oh, you mean the Cabinet, at Whitehall. Of course. Actually I was speaking of Esmée—thinking of her, you know, so the Cabinet did not come to mind.”
“I expect Esmée was an infatuation,” he said, embarrassed for his outburst. “I recovered, eventually. My feelings for Louise are quite different. She is a much more serious lady, takes a keen interest in politics.”
This hardly reeked of romance, or even love. “Papa had no opinion of politics. He said it was merely the legalized picking of the farmers’ pockets by the chosen few.”
“It costs money to run a country,” he said.
“And pay for Prinny’s extravagances.”
“That, too. I pay my share, and resent every penny of it.”
They reached Brighton within the twenty minutes stipulated by Sykes. It seemed impossible to Samantha that she and Salverton were getting on so well, after she had subjected him to such humiliation. He was beginning to seem quite human. With the proper wife, he would recover from his stiff ways. But Lady Louise, she felt, was not the lady to complete the necessary change. If only she had a little more time to work on him.
Salverton saw her frown and said, “We’re here. Don’t worry, Samantha. It will soon be over.”
“Yes,” she said, attempting a wan smile. That was what she was afraid of.
Chapter Six
Sykes drew the team to a smooth halt at the east end of Marine Parade and descended to speak to Lord Salverton.
“Which hotel do you want to go to, melord?” he asked. “Not one of the fancier ones, eh, when your errand is of a clandestine nature?”
Salverton cast a troubled glance at Samantha. It seemed wrong to take his cousin to a lower-class establishment, yet Sykes was right about the secrecy, damn his eyes.
“No doubt you can recommend one that is clean and decent but not well known, Mr. Sykes,” Samantha suggested.
It annoyed Salverton that she called him “Mr. Sykes.” He was a servant; he was Sykes. And furthermore, he disliked that Sykes called himself, Salverton, “melord.” Servants generally called their master “your lordship.” Even a simple “sir” was preferable to “melord.” That had a touch of familiarity to it. He wished for no familiarity beyond the necessary with the jackanapes Sykes.
In a fit of pique, Salverton said, “We will go to the Curzon, Sykes.” The Curzon was in the heart of polite Brighton, just at the north end of Cavendish Place.
“You’ll meet half of polite London there,” Sykes warned him.
“Let us go to some small
er establishment, Edward,” Samantha urged.
“I’ve already asked my groom to meet us at the Curzon at eight in the morning.”
“I could leave a message for Foley,” Sykes suggested.
Objection had the effect of hardening Salverton’s resolution. “The Curzon, Sykes,” he said firmly.
“You’re paying the piper; you call the tune,” Sykes said doubtfully, and returned to his perch to wheel them along to the elegant Curzon Hotel.
At one A.M., parties were ending; the hotel was bristling with people. Salverton recognized several of them, who would just as quickly recognize him if he descended from the carriage. When he spotted Lady Louise’s friend, Miss Hanson, among the throng, he was ready to change his mind—until Sykes’s face appeared at the window.
“I don’t like to say I told you so,” he said with a saucy grin. “Shall I go on to the Brighton Arms, melord?”
“This will do fine, thank you,” Salverton said, and alit.
Having bit off his own nose to spite his face, he at least retained enough sense to see if rooms were available before assisting Samantha from the carriage. By ducking and dodging he managed to avoid Miss Hanson, and was vastly relieved to be told there were no rooms available.
He could say with an easy conscience when he returned to the carriage, “They’re all filled up. All the better hotels will be at the end of May. We'll try the place you recommended, Sykes.”
The carriage proceeded smoothly north to a street one block long called Stone Street. It was respectable if not elegant. The Brighton Arms was a private residence that had been turned into a rooming house. It had a small tavern-cum-coffee shop on the ground floor. A sign in the window advertised “Vacancies,” but the house was in darkness. Sykes hopped down and opened the carriage door for them.
“The place is closed for the night,” Samantha pointed out.
“That’s all right. I’ll set you up with Mabel,” Sykes said. “My old aunt Mabel Sykes runs the place for me. I’ll see you get a good price, melord.”
“You mean you own the establishment!” Samantha said approvingly, as if the ramshackle house were the prestigious Pulteney, or Clarendon.
“I won it in a game of cards,” Sykes boasted.
Salverton reminded himself never to play cards with Sykes as he took his cousin’s arm to lead her up the cobblestone walk.
Sykes pulled his enormous key ring out of his pocket and unlocked the door. With a flourishing bow he bade them enter. Inside, he lit a lamp and led them to a deal table and hard-backed chair that served as a registration desk at the bottom of the front stairs.
Samantha looked around at a wainscoted hallway with aging flowered paper above. The oak floor was badly warped, but it was not so very dusty. The air was chill and smelled moldy.
“You can use any name you like,” Sykes said, pushing the registry toward them. “I mostly get gents named Mr. Smith or Jones. I’ll tell Mabel you’re friends of mine. That’ll be a guinea each for the two rooms, and another if you want hot water and breakfast in the morning.”
Salverton felt two guineas would have set them up in better style at the Curzon, but he was too fatigued and restive to argue. He placed two guineas on the desk. They promptly disappeared into Sykes’s pocket, where they rattled merrily against his keys.
Below a list of anonymous Mr. Smiths, Salverton wrote Mr. Jones, London. Samantha looked at it and wrote Miss Smith, London, below.
“I feel like a criminal,” she said, laughing.
“What you need is a nice cup of tea,” Sykes said. “I’ll fetch Mabel, then have a quick scour of the inns for your brother and his woman. What is the lass’s name?”
“Wanda Claridge,” Samantha said.
“Wanda Claridge? That’s odd. Bayne’s been seen about with Nancy Hewitt the last months. Is she a dark-haired beauty?”
“That’s her. She’s calling herself Wanda Claridge this month,” Samantha said.
“I first knew her as Sally Bright. Now, what has she been up to that she’s gone and changed her name again?”
“She’s robbed Sir Geoffrey of a thousand pounds.”
“She’s a live one is Nancy,” said Sykes approvingly, “but we’ll catch her.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sykes. I don’t know what we would have done without you,” she said.
Sykes left. Salverton took two steps that led to the archway into the main saloon. He was not pleased but he was not surprised either to see a man in a fustian jacket and stocking feet stretched out on a sofa, snoring.
“Make sure you lock your door before retiring,” he said to Samantha.
She looked over his shoulder at the sleeper and shook her head. “I wager you have not been in a place like this since you were seeing Esmée, Edward.”
“I had hoped I never would be again,” he replied, but he said it with a wry chuckle.
Mabel Sykes soon appeared. The dumpy woman with gray hair scrunched into a knob at the back of her head bore no resemblance to her nephew. Her face looked like a lump of leavened dough with two peeled grapes for eyes.
“This way,” she said, stifling a yawn, and led them upstairs.
The rooms were numbered, not named. “Numbers three and five are the only vacancies. There’s a connecting door between them,” she added, obviously assuming the two rooms were a mere camouflage for debauchery.
“Do you have a key for the connecting door?” Salverton inquired stiffly.
“Oh, no, sir. She can’t lock herself in,” she said with a roguish shake of her head.
Salverton thought it better not to pursue this line. Samantha was shown into her room first. Mabel lit a lamp, which cast a wan beam on a small chamber with a canted roof, unadorned walls distempered in yellow, a quilted double bed with no canopy, a plain wooden floor, and a table holding a water pitcher and basin. Mabel led Salverton along to a similar room done in blue. She said, “Good luck, mister,” and vanished quietly.
Salverton thought he ought to apologize to Samantha for the shabby room. Knowing she hadn’t had time to undress, he tapped lightly at the connecting door. It opened at once, and a tousle of blond curls appeared.
“I was wondering if I should say good night to you,” she said.
She still wore her pelisse. With her bonnet removed, she looked more ladylike, and completely out of place in her surroundings.
“Perhaps we should leave,” he said uncertainly. “There might be one room for you at least at Brunswick Terrace or the Bedford.”
“The rooms are quite clean,” she said. She looked so weary that he didn’t push the matter. “It’s only for one night. Do you mind terribly, Edward? I know it is not at all what you are accustomed to, but if you could view it as an adventure—”
“I’m not thinking of myself!”
“You need not worry about me. I would like nothing better than to fall into that bed and sleep the clock around.”
“As you say, it’s only for one night. We’ll want an early start in the morning. We’re to meet Foley at eight. I’ll have him take us someplace decent for breakfast.”
“You’ve already paid for breakfast here.”
“That was before I saw the rooms.”
“Let us eat here before meeting Foley. It will save time, and no one will see us.”
“Those are two important considerations. Very well. Good night, Samantha. Don’t worry. We'll find Darren.”
“Oh, yes, I have every reliance that Mr. Sykes will find him at one of the hotels. Good night, Edward.”
On this facer, she closed the door. Salverton felt an angry clenching in his chest. Mr. Sykes would find him! There was gratitude for you! He wanted a glass of wine and a cheroot, neither of which was available to him at the moment. He hadn’t brought a change of clothes. He’d have to put on a used shirt tomorrow morning and borrow Sykes’s razor. And meanwhile his report for Liverpool sat unfinished on his desk. When would he have time to finish it?
He had handled this whole affair badl
y. He ought to have come to Brighton by himself and left Samantha at home with her aunt. Yet he knew the trip would not have been half so exciting without her. It was being with a lady that lent the proceedings the air of an escapade.
He undressed and got into bed. The sheets were clean so far as he could tell. The feather tick and pillow formed a cloud of softness beneath him. He was about to doze off, when he heard some sound from Samantha’s room. He was instantly out of bed, feeling in the darkness for his trousers.
When she closed the door on Salverton, Samantha found she was really remarkably hungry, despite a good dinner. Mr. Sykes had said he would get her tea. Had he remembered? She delayed undressing in hopes that he would. Barring the tea, she remembered a small bag of lemon drops in her reticule. Not very satisfying, but better than nothing. She popped one into her mouth.
Sykes’s tap at the door was so soft, she hardly heard it. She tiptoed forward to avoid disturbing Edward, next door. There stood Mr. Sykes with a tray holding not only a teapot, but two cups, a plate of bread and butter, and a nice wedge of Stilton cheese.
“How lovely!” she said softly, and stood aside while he brought the tray in.
“I brought two cups, in case him next door would like to join you.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. He’s gone to bed. At least I heard the bed squawk.” Mr. Sykes was looking a question at her. “Perhaps you would like to join me, Mr. Sykes?” she suggested.
“I don’t mind if I do,” he said. “Just a quick cup before starting my rounds of the hotels.”
“We’re keeping you up very late.”
“Nay, five or six is late. Any time before Mr. Cock crows is early.”
As there were no chairs, she poured the two cups of tea and they took them standing up.
Sykes sipped noisily, then said, “Did you know Wanda has a daughter?”
“No! I didn’t know she’d been married. In that case, at least she cannot get Darren to the altar.”
“She never was married so far as I know. A by-blow, not Sir Geoffrey’s. The girl is called Amy Bright.”
“Wanda never said a word about her. Of course she could hardly tell us, when she was posing as a respectable lady.”