by Joan Smith
Chapter Eleven
Through a crack in the clothespress door I could see that Grindley was carrying a lighted candle. He wore evening clothes, but still managed to look common. He sniffed the air a couple of times and looked around, but was apparently satisfied that there was nothing amiss. He strode purposefully toward the bed, lifted the mattress, and picked up something. Between the dim light and the small size of the article, I could not tell what it was, but I caught the wink of metal. He shook the object a moment in the palm of his hand, frowning, then slid it into his pocket and left.
We soon heard his footsteps running back downstairs, heard the front door close, and our hearts returned to our chests. I pushed open the closet door and stepped into a pitch-black room. I felt a little restraint from Dalton's arm, but that may be because I bolted forward unexpectedly. In any case, he did not try to detain me, nor did he turn flirtatious.
"Let us see what is under the mattress, then leave,” I said at once. “This spree has killed my taste for adventure."
He relit his lamp, and we went to the bed. There was nothing under the mattress. We searched all the way around, and looked under the bed and under the pillow for good measure.
"I believe it was jewelry,” I said, and described the metallic flash. “A ring, perhaps, or something small. It could have been an ear pendant. He has lost all his money at cards and is using jewelry for collateral."
Dalton rubbed his chin in a way I was coming to recognize was an habitual gesture. “That explains his hurry; he is eager to get back to the Rose and Thorn."
"You will be going there now?” He opened his lips, and I said, “Don't worry, I am not going to ask you to take me along. Should we have a look at the other rooms before leaving?"
"No, let us go before Harelson returns. Between bad singing and housebreaking, I have entertained you enough for one evening, but I shall let you know tomorrow if I learn anything at the inn."
When we returned below, the front door was actually hanging open. Grindley had been so eager to return to the card game that he had not bothered to close it properly. “No point bolting the door after the ring is gone,” I said. We closed the door but did not try to lock it.
We slipped quietly out and went along the dark street to Dalton's carriage, parked in the shadows of a big elm tree. Dalton directed the groom to my house, and we were off.
"It looks as if Grindley is our man,” I said.
"We have not proved anything, except that he is a shocking bad houseguest, leaving the door open. Thieves are usually more careful. Attention to detail is ingrained with them."
"Tonight he was not stealing. I daresay he is more careful when he is on the job, as it were."
"Hmmm. Before condemning the man, I should like to know what it was he removed from under the mattress."
"Why should he put anything beneath the mattress unless he wanted to hide it from Harelson? He would not have to hide his own jewelry, which suggests that whatever resided there was stolen. His jewelry box was empty, incidentally. He has already hawked all his own valuables."
"Has he run through all of Lady Harkness's money so soon? A thousand pounds."
"He bought a curricle and team. That does not come cheap. The circumstances are all against him, Mr. Dalton."
"You, of all people, must realize the fallibility of circumstantial evidence, Miss Denver,” he said, with a grin.
"Are you never going to forget the manner of our meeting?"
I moved my hand to the side pocket to recover my pearls, and felt cold steel. I lilted the thing out and found myself holding a pistol. For a joke, I poked it into Dalton's ribs and said, “You should have paid more attention to circumstances, Dalton. Stand and deliver."
I caught a fleeting glimpse of his face in a shaft of moonlight. To my shock and consternation, he had taken me seriously. His face was a mask of astonishment, tinged with anger. “You choose a bad moment, Miss Denver,” he said, in a cold, hard voice. “I am not carrying much cash on me."
"I was fooling, Dalton! You cannot think—"
An uneasy laugh escaped his lips. “I knew that.” But he was in a great hurry to recover his pistol all the same. He reached out at once and took it from me.
"Why do you have a pistol in your carriage? I hope it is not loaded."
"An unloaded gun is not much use. Best put it away before you accidentally shoot someone."
He put it in the other side pocket, while I retrieved my rope of pearls and placed them around my neck again. “Do you always carry a gun?"
"I only began to do so after Tom robbed me. I determined I would not be caught off guard again."
"I could have shot you easily,” I crowed. “Why did you not take it into Harelson's house? If Grindley had caught us, I would have been thankful for that pistol."
"That will teach me to go housebreaking with a lady. You were too much distraction for me,” he replied, with a gallant little bow.
We were soon home. Dalton walked me to my front door. Nothing was said about his putting his arm around me in the clothespress. I was a little piqued about that, and more so that he had actually thought for even a moment that I was planning to hold him up with his own gun.
"Do I pass muster as an accomplice in crime, Mr. Dalton?” I asked saucily, to detain him a moment.
"No. I have just remembered another dereliction on my part. I left the kitchen lamp in Grindley's bedchamber. He will know, if he has his wits about him, that he had company."
"He will blame the servants."
"That chamber did not look to me as if it ever saw a servant from tip to toe of the week."
"True. It is difficult to comprehend a gentleman living in such a slovenly manner."
"Oh, we men are all savages beneath the skin. Prick any one of us, and you will find the primitive lurking."
"I do not think the savage is that close to the surface in you, Mr. Dalton."
"Don't count on it,” he replied, with a suggestive smile. His tone, soft and low, spoke of romance. His hands rose and came slowly toward me, while his eyes glowed with admiration. His warm fingers touched my throat. The breath caught in my lungs, and just as I was about to close my eyes for a kiss, he removed the pearls from my neck.
"I shall return these to the vault,” he said.
I felt warm all over from my folly. Had he seen my half-closed eyes, and the expression of a moonling on my waiting face? I said, “Yes, thank you, Mr. Dalton,” in a stricken voice.
"I wish you will call me Richard. I feel like Papa when you call me Mr. Dalton. Now that we are partners in crime, it is time to lighten the formality, n'est-ce pas?"
It seemed, incredibly, that he continued blind to my behavior. “Very well, Richard, and you must call me Eve."
"I have been doing so all evening, beneath my breath. Good night, Eve.” He placed a fleeting kiss on the corner of my jaw, and left.
I went into the house, pretty well pleased with myself and Richard. Hennie had not returned yet. It was just after eleven when I arrived. I had a glass of wine to settle my nerves, and thumbed through the journals.
At eleven-thirty I decided I was hungry and asked Tumble for a sandwich. At twelve I had finished it, and still no sign of Hennie. The concert must have been over by eleven. What was keeping her? If Brockley had taken her to Mrs. Lament's gambling den again, I would give her a good Bear Garden jaw.
At twelve-thirty my nerves were on edge, and they did not improve when Hennie came home, smiling like the village idiot.
"Still up, Eve?” she said.
"I could not hope to sleep while you were out with that gambler. I daresay you have been at Lament's again?"
"No indeed. Lord Brockley took us all—Lady Filmore and Harelson and myself—to Cavendish Place for a late supper. It was lovely. Everyone was there."
Hennie left me with nothing to say except that I was disappointed to have missed it, which was true.
"Where did you and Mr. Dalton go?” she asked.
&n
bsp; I hesitated a moment, then said, “We came straight home. I had a sandwich while I was waiting for you."
She glanced disparagingly at the plate. “We had lovely lobster patties and a raised partridge pie. So rich, I could do no more than sample the Chantilly.” She knew Chantilly was my favorite treat.
"Dear me, I wonder what David would say of such dissipation."
"Folks have to eat,” she said airily. “What are you and Mr. Dalton doing tomorrow?"
"Nothing special."
"Tomorrow Timothy—he asked me to call him Timothy—is taking me to tea with Lady Collifer. She told me to invite you, too, Eve, but I told her very likely you would be in hands with your garden party for the next day."
Another treat denied me! As the garden party was my first party, however, I did plan to oversee its preparation personally. I wanted everything to be as fine as I could make it. My only retort was to say, “Richard mentioned dropping in tomorrow morning. He asked me to call him Richard."
"That is nice, dear.” She smiled, unimpressed. “I am off to bed now. I would offer to give you a hand with the preparations in the morning, but Lady Filmore is taking me to Madame Drouin's to order those two new gowns you promised me."
How sharper than a serpent's tooth is an ungrateful aunt! I went to bed with a nagging headache, disliking to admit I was jealous of a fifty-year-old lady, but I was. Hennie was enjoying more social success than I, and more romantic success, too. Of course, I was happy for her, in a grudging sort of way, but it seemed to me a young man ought to pursue more urgently than an old crock like Brockley. Then I remembered Richard's arm holding me snugly against him in the clothespress, and that fleeting kiss on the jaw before he left, and had to content myself with that.
Chapter Twelve
I got a leg up on Hennie in the romance department the next day when Richard came calling with Lady Filmore. He brought me a bouquet of roses from his garden, and behaved altogether in a more suitorly fashion than before. The roses were compared to my complexion. How exceedingly trite it sounds, sitting there in black and white. I maintain, however, that when a handsome gentleman is handing a lady a bouquet of roses, she must be critical indeed to find fault with the accompanying speech. He also expressed admiration of my rather plain muslin gown.
"I thought we might take a spin toward Beachy Head in my curricle,” he said. “Have a spot of lunch there, as Linda and Mrs. Henderson are busy."
It sounded lovely, but Beachy Head was twenty-five miles away. Even in a curricle, it would take two hours either way. Throw in lunch, and I would have no time to work on my party.
The ladies were in such a fever to get to Madame Drouin's that they left at once, chatting and laughing like schoolgirls. I concluded that Lady Filmore had also made headway with her beau last night.
"Is the Bow Street officer not arriving this morning?” I asked Dalton.
"I have already met with him. We had a good chat. He will be remaining in Brighton to assist the local constabulary."
"I am glad to hear it. You have not told me what it was that Grindley took from his room last night, Richard. Was he at the Rose and Thorn as we thought?"
"Indeed he was. It was a ring that he used for betting. Nothing unusual, just a gentleman's ring with an onyx stone, and a small diamond set into it. I looked over the list of stolen items the Bow Street officer brought with him. The onyx ring was not amongst them."
"I daresay Tom has pulled off a few small jobs that were not reported. Was Grindley losing heavily?"
"Actually he came out ahead and bought his ring back. He spoke of it as being a memento of his papa."
"Why was he not wearing it?"
"Let us discuss it while we drive."
"I should enjoy a short drive, but I cannot go as far as Beachy Head. I shall be busy this afternoon. You have not forgotten my garden party tomorrow?"
We drove toward Beachy Head, but only as far as Rottingdean. It is a pretty little village. We got out to walk along the chalk cliffs, looking at the sea. The wind was brisk, and we went to the White Horse for tea to warm up after.
I was curious to learn how his sister was faring with her beau, and said, “Hennie tells me your sister is taking tea with Lady Collifer this afternoon. I expect Lord Harelson will accompany her?"
"I am not so sure of that. The romance seems to be cooling. The pity of it is that the less he calls, the more convinced she becomes that she is in love with him."
"That is so often the way. If she were the one to beg off a few times, perhaps his love would quicken."
"So I have told her, more than once. I dislike to see her trotting after him in public. That display last evening at the concert, for instance, was embarrassing. I am hoping she will improve, with your friendship. She will not learn any aggressive tricks from you, Eve."
"Are you referring to my still being single at twenty—in my twenties, sir? That is ungallant of you."
"Certainly not! Most ladies marry too young. Linda was hardly out of the schoolroom when she fell head over ears in love with Filmore. A lady of twenty-five would show better judgment.” Dalton saw my quick flash of anger and was amused. “Your Foster is no model of discretion,” he murmured.
"I have nothing to hide. Nor does my quarter of a century ensure wisdom. Aunt Hennie is close to fifty, and she is behaving like a greenhorn. What is your opinion of Lord Brockley, Richard? One tends to mistrust a sailor. I was nervous as a broody hen last night when she came home so late."
"You have been listening to rumors,” he said. “There is nothing in that story."
"What story!” I exclaimed, coming to rigid attention.
"Why, the story that he had something to do with his wife's death. Those foolish rumors often surface when a man comes into so much money at a relative's death. Especially when the heir was alone with the invalid. Lady Brockley had been ailing for years. That she happened to die shortly after Brockley returned from sea was not a coincidence. He gave up his ship to be with her in her declining days."
"You mean the man is a murderer, and Hennie has been running around town alone with him? Good God!"
"I have just been telling you those rumors are untrue."
"That is as may be. Tell me the whole story."
"There is not much to tell. Brockley Hall is deep in the countryside, isolated. Lady Brockley used to be sociable, but when she fell ill, she retired to Brockley Hall and had no visitors except a few local friends, and a doctor, of course."
"What ailed her?"
"I don't know, exactly. A sort of consumption, I believe."
"And she was very rich, you say?"
"She brought a considerable fortune to the match, but Brockley had the use of that while she was still alive, or could have, if he wanted. As he was usually at sea, he had nowhere to spend the blunt. It is a great injustice to tar him only because she died a month after he joined her."
"I must warn Hennie of these rumors."
"Is your aunt wealthy, then?"
"No,” I admitted. “Her late husband had two livings, but there is not much money in that."
"Well then, unless Brockley takes to twirling his eyes at you, I think you worry for nothing. If that occurs, I promise you I shall take care of him."
That had an interesting proprietary ring to it, but it did not calm my fears for Hennie's safety. We soon finished our tea and returned to Brighton. At the door, Richard said, “I shall be in touch with you later about this evening. I have heard of no parties. Perhaps we shall enjoy a quiet evening at home, for a change."
This sounded promising, and I quickly agreed to it.
Hennie was back from the modiste when I got home. I only half listened to her raptures about her new gowns. She had left off gray, and ordered one in blue, one in mauve. I was eager to warn her about Brockley.
"I know all about that rumor. Brockley told me himself,” she said grandly. “That is the sort of gentleman he is."
"Mighty generous of him, when he knew you were bo
und to hear it anyway."
"He knows I have two hundred pounds a year. He is not likely to murder me for that, when he owns an abbey, and has an income of ten thousand a year."
"That much!” I exclaimed, before I got a guard on my tongue. “I should bear it in mind all the same. Perhaps he has acquired a taste for murder, and enjoys it for its own sake."
She tossed her head angrily. I think I heard the word “jealous,” but did not choose to challenge her.
I made a point to be in the saloon when Brockley called for her that afternoon. I looked daggers at the man, but found my nerve left me at the last moment, and did not either taunt him about his late wife, or utter any threats if he tried anything with Hennie.
After about two minutes of my glaring, he said, “Shall we lift anchor, Alma, while the fair wind holds?” It sounded odd. No one ever called Hennie Alma. Even David called her Hennie.
"Are you sailing to Lady Collifer's?” I inquired grimly.
As they went to the door, I overheard him say, “That young lady is cranky as a bag of cats. It comes from not having a husband, I daresay. That is no way to get one."
I did not hear Hennie's reply, which is as well for her, as it sounded supportive. It seemed the old tar was hatching a mutiny against me.
I called Cook to discuss the garden party refreshments. Tumble joined us to discuss the arrangement of tables. We decided to have a long table and chairs set up in the backyard, with food that did not require a deal of formal service.
Not to be outdone by Brockley's dinner, I asked for lobster patties and a raised pie of game hen, along with hams and cold roast fowl and a good many side dishes. Tumble thought we needed more servants. He said he would arrange to hire extra footmen for the occasion. Cook would not permit any strangers in her kitchen. She would manage with our own female servants.
When all was settled, there was nothing more to do regarding the meal but hope for good weather. We could retire indoors in a pinch, of course, but what I really wanted was an alfresco party, to show the garden. I went out to speak to Luke. I wanted everything properly trimmed, with no dead flowers on the bushes, and no rough patches of lawn.