by Burnett, May
“Everything is frowned upon, it seems to me.” Milla wrinkled her pretty nose. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother to learn all these tiresome rules. Living among the ton increasingly sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.”
“It depends. If you have been brought up amongst them, like Susan, or are naturally easy-going and conventional, it is less of a burden. But in your particular case, I also question sometimes if all that work will be rewarded. You will set their back up one way or another, because you are not meek and have no deference towards those who consider themselves leaders of society. They will instinctively feel that, even if your outward behaviour is perfect.”
“So what would you do in my place?”
“After all our joint efforts, I would still try fitting in for a short time. If things do not work out, you can always turn your back on society and do with your life and liberty whatever you choose. You do not need them.”
“Yes, but independence is nothing without money to support it,” Milla said. “Worrying about society is pointless unless we can get hold of that document. If it becomes public, not only will I be penniless, but my name will be mud.”
“You could always claim that Fenton was not of sound mind when he wrote that will.”
“Remember that our wedding was a scant two weeks earlier. It will be difficult to argue that his consent then was valid, yet the will was not. If both are ruled invalid, I would be even more ruined.”
Abigail could not deny it. “Your brother and Susan would not allow you to starve.”
“What, live on their charity, after having known wealth and independence? Never.”
Abigail would not have wanted to be in the skin of the unknown Chatteris. Milla was not a woman to be lightly crossed. And the blackmailer would have to deal with Abigail, too. She might not be as naturally ruthless as Milla, but in this particular cause she would do whatever had to be done.
She sat down at the writing table and penned a short note to Lord Barton, without giving particulars. One never knew into whose hands a letter might fall. The hotel provided a messenger when she rang the bell. This instant service really was most convenient.
“I have to see my banker,” Milla said once the man had left. “This will undoubtedly prove an expensive business.”
“From what you said, in the draft will Chatteris was to have received five hundred guineas?”
“As best I remember, but with such a weapon in his hands he would be a fool if he did not ask for more. He has me over a barrel.”
“I hate having to wait for him to approach us. We hardly want our presence in a London hotel to become common knowledge, but how else will Chatteris learn where to find us?”
“I thought of that during our journey. Why not put a message in a newspaper? Or all newspapers? To B.C.: the party you have contacted is interested in the proposed exchange, and can be reached at the Hotel Bonnard.”
“As long as it is not obviously connected to us, it is a good idea,” Abigail said. “I am not sure about naming our hotel; maybe we could suggest some other way to contact us? It would also be preferable if someone else puts the notices in the papers. Journalists gossip, after all. They may sense there is a juicy story behind that cryptic message.”
“They print a hundred similar messages every day. But by all means have Lord Barton put the notices in the papers, make himself useful for a change.”
“How are you going to explain the need for so much ready cash to the banker?”
Milla raised a haughty brow. “That is nobody’s affair but my own. Let him think what he wants.”
“People always think the worst. You could mention that you plan to fund some charity, no need to go into details. ”
“If you say so,” Milla said without enthusiasm.
“Should we seek legal advice, as well?” Abigail suggested.
“Not yet. Nobody else must know or guess that this will even exists. But we might find the name of a first-rate solicitor, just in case.”
“I suppose you would not want to use the firm that handled your inheritance and the Molton family’s business,” Abigail said. “This might be a conflict of interest for them, as the sixth Viscount was their client. They may feel duty bound to carry out his last will.”
“That would not be their main consideration,” Milla said cynically. “They would come down on the side of the greatest profits for their own chambers.”
The maids reported that everything was unpacked.
“We had better make an appointment with a fashionable seamstress right away,” Milla decided. “Abigail, where is that list we established?” Unable to talk of their main object in the maids’ presence, during the journey they had exhaustively planned their new wardrobes, with lively contributions from the servants.
“I have it here, but remember that my information is two years out of date. Perhaps we should walk around a little and observe what is in fashion now – at least for outdoors, – before deciding on the best styles to order. We can buy fabrics too, to take back to Dorset with us.”
“I would prefer to have finished garments rather than fabrics to take back,” Milla said. She gave permission to the excited maids to walk out and see a little of the town, with a small sum for transport or food. They had never left Dorset before.
“Everyone will know this street and the hotel – take a hack back if you should get lost,” Abigail warned. “Don’t go off with any strangers, or gossip about us. Beware of pick-pockets and stay together.”
Since both women were in their thirties and plainly dressed it seemed unlikely that danger threatened them in this respectable area of town, but they both looked scared as much as excited when they left to explore the immediate environs, promising to be back within two hours.
“This is the most thrilling thing that has happened to them in years,” Abigail said with a small smile once they were gone. “They will impress all their fellows back in Dorset with what they saw in London, for years to come.”
“I know almost as little about the capital as they do.” Milla flopped down on the sofa in an inelegant manner. “For tuppence I would disguise myself as a servant and sneak out to see more of the city.”
Abigail sat straight up in alarm. “On no account! A servant as young and pretty as you could be kidnapped and end up in some brothel, or sold overseas. You must not step anywhere without at least one other woman at your side, to protect your person as much as your reputation. As the widow of the notorious sixth Viscount Fenton you already will be looked upon with suspicion. The slightest deviation from decorum could permanently exclude you from society.”
Milla groaned. “I know. You have only told me that about two hundred times since we met.”
“I don’t want to be a spoilsport,” Abigail said a little guiltily. “Indeed I fully understand your feelings of impatience and frustration, after the simple life you have led in Cornwall and Dorset.”
“Funny how one only appreciates one’s advantages after having given them up. In Cornwall I did not prize my freedom. The life of a noble, rich lady seemed eminently desirable, because completely out of reach. But I cannot truly decide what I want, until I have tried everything.”
That made sense. Maybe Milla was maturing at last. Of course, Abigail thought with momentary bitterness, very few women were offered the chance to try everything.
Chapter 5
“Barton? What brings you to this hotel?”
Jeremy had been crossing the lobby without looking right or left, and had to suppress a curse that rose to his lips. Running across Lord and Lady Melbrington, elderly friends of his father, was the worst of luck on his delicate if still unknown mission. “Your servant, Lady Melbrington, Sir. I am meeting an old friend. Don’t tell me you are lodging here?”
“No, of course not, we were trying out the food in the dining room. Stay away from the pheasant.”
“I shall remember, should I have occasion to eat here.” Jeremy endured five endless minutes of sma
ll talk before he could take his leave, and even as he advanced towards the broad staircase leading to the upstairs rooms he was conscious of curious gazes at his back. Well, it could not be helped. He had too many acquaintances to go anywhere in London without running into one or other of them.
The cryptic message from Miss Trevelyan had roused his curiosity, and he had lost no time to come to her – but did she have to reside in a hotel? For an unmarried young lady of gentle birth, it was not quite the thing, even if she was well chaperoned. And if she was still with young Milla that was hardly the case. Too bad that Jeremy’s sister Susan was fixed in Cornwall with her young child, expecting again, or she would have insisted that her friend stay with her in a respectable household. But it was time to jettison this notion that he was in any way responsible for Miss Trevelyan. After all, she had made it clear twice over that she did not want him.
Jeremy knocked at the door with the engraved number thirty-eight on the third floor, as indicated in the note. It swung open within seconds.
“Lord Barton,” said a warm contralto. Milla Northcote – or Lady Fenton, these days, as ridiculous as that was – looked most attractive in dark grey silk. No longer tanned and windblown, but undeniably elegant. If she resented him for killing Fenton, it was not apparent from her ironic smile.
But what arrested his attention far more was the young lady who had opened the door and was now shutting it carefully, before making a small curtsey. “Thank you for coming so soon, Lord Barton.”
He stared at her, trying to reconcile the vision before him with his memories of his sister’s friend, the girl he had danced with at Almack’s and escorted all the way to Cornwall. The lady whose most painful secrets he shared, who had twice rejected his offer of marriage.
If he had thought of Miss Trevelyan since he last set eyes on her, he would have expected her to have lost what youthful bloom she had possessed at eighteen or nineteen. Yet the young lady – girl was no longer appropriate –now standing before him confounded Jeremy. She was thinner; her face had lost its babyish roundness and acquired character. She stood straighter and with more confidence than she had exhibited even before the tragedy that had befallen her. Her fair skin was translucent and unmarred. She still was not any great beauty, but far more attractive than he remembered. The simple gown, devoid of the endless ruffles she had worn as a debutante, underscored the drastic change. This was a woman to be reckoned with, no longer a helpless victim.
“I could not hesitate, in view of your note,” he said to Miss Trevelyan, bowing at both ladies. “What is this dire danger to my sister? Any hint of risk to Susan would bring me instantly, as you had to know.”
She smiled. “It is not physical danger, fortunately, but Susan’s reputation is in jeopardy, as is Milla’s too. Let Milla explain why. Will you take a seat? I could call for tea.”
“It would be best if the hotel employees do not see me here in your suite,” he said. “No tea, thank you. I must say, you both look lovelier than ever.”
“Thank you,” Miss Trevelyan murmured, while Lady Fenton looked at him between her long lashes in a way that might have excited him did he not know her so well. “Please do not try to work your wiles on me,” he told her bluntly. “Even if it is only practice. You will find many other willing victims the moment you go out in society.”
She smiled languorously, and nodded once before launching into an explanation involving a missing will, ruin, scurrilous slander and a blackmailer. She presented the problem in a logical manner, he had to give her that much, and more concisely than most ladies of his acquaintance could have managed. But then he had never taken young Milla for a fool.
“Let me see if I understand correctly,” he said when she came to her conclusion. “An unknown party that you only know as B. Chatteris has possession of the original will written by Fenton – the late Lord Fenton – and is offering to sell it to you? And you have to get hold of it and destroy it, to avoid not only the loss of your whole inheritance, but also scandal involving yourself and my sister Susan?”
“Exactly,” Miss Trevelyan said. “I find it most disheartening that the villain is not content to stay dead. It is as though he was plotting this revenge from whatever hell he is roasting in.”
“As I sent him there myself, I cannot contradict you.” Jeremy hated having killed in cold blood, but his regret was greatly mitigated by the fact that it had been Fenton. This new problem proved once again that the man had been unfit for civilised human society.
“Chatteris is both a place in Cambridgeshire and a last name,” he said, “and if the draft will you saw did not contain the letters B.C. I might be inclined to think that the blackmailer was using an alias. Yet how could he know that you had seen the draft will, and would recognize the significance of his reference to female penitentiaries? That is the most ridiculous way to dispose of one’s private fortune that I have ever heard of. In and of itself it might offer an argument that Fenton wrote the testament while of unsound mind. Did he even get it properly witnessed?”
“We cannot be sure,” Miss Trevelyan said. “And for reasons you will understand we are reluctant to consult a solicitor at this point, while there is still hope to recover the document.” She went on to explain about the message they were going to insert into the papers.
“It is the logical next step,” he admitted. “But it will be best to keep your names and even the hotel completely out of it. I shall place the notices, and ask Chatteris to communicate his demands via some intermediary – my tobacconist, possibly.”
“That sounds safe enough,” Miss Trevelyan replied, smiling at him. He had always been partial to her smile. “How much do you expect the man will want? If he is too greedy, it may be impossible to fulfil his expectations.”
“Let’s hope he is not that stupid.” If he was, beating the fellow up or getting the will away from him by force would make him see reason. “I can also consult a solicitor, without naming names, and make enquiries about this B. Chatteris. The dead man’s servants and intimates are the most likely lead to his identity.”
“The new Viscount and his mother had never heard of Chatteris,” Milla remarked. “We thought it might be some family connection, but apparently not.”
“Maybe a friend?” Miss Trevelyan suggested.
Jeremy shook his head. “Unlikely. I was not close to Fenton, but a friend who frequented the same house parties and clubs would almost certainly have crossed my path at some time or other. God knows I have far too many acquaintances in this city. So, what do we know of the mysterious Chatteris? He was to have received five hundred guineas and Fenton presumably sent the will to him, no doubt counting on the man’s self-interest to hand it to the lawyers. Why did Fenton not send the will straight to his solicitors, though?”
Miss Trevelyan’s brow creased in thought. “Maybe he did, and ordered them to give the other envelope to Chatteris after some time had passed. Possibly he did not trust them to execute such unusual provisions without outside prompting? Could he have deliberately planned this delay? This blow so much later is far crueller, than had the will been known from the start. Nobody likes to give up what they already have in their possession. Even worse is losing your good name when you cannot throw his lies back into a dead man’s mouth. It is truly diabolical.”
“I almost wish Fenton were still alive, to call him to account for this new offense. But it is not like him to lull his enemies in false safety when he hated with such insane passion. He would have wanted to hurt and punish them sooner rather than later.”
“I agree,” Milla said. “Fenton was not a patient or subtle man. I don’t expect he really thought he was going to die, either. If he had the will all this time, why did Chatteris not act sooner?”
“He mentioned a temporary embarrassment,” Miss Trevelyan reminded her. “Maybe he is not quite the villain we think, and only needs the money because of sudden reverses on the ‘change, or at the gaming table.”
“Another possible
clue, but there must be thousands of men in London right now who urgently need money,” Jeremy said. A gambler, yes, that made sense. Fenton had been fond of high-stakes play. He might ask around some of the establishments the man had frequented.
“There is one more thing we need to discuss,” Miss Trevelyan said. “Do we warn Susan and her husband of this danger? She is entirely blameless, and never encouraged Fenton to fix upon her with that sick obsession. To have her name linked to his after all this time, when she is married and a mother, would be cruelly unfair. Fenton was just imagining things as he wanted them to have happened. But society is unlikely to understand that.”
“What do you suggest, Miss Trevelyan?”
“Since she is in delicate circumstances again, this is hardly a good time to worry Susan – she is in no position to do anything about the threat. We can tell her later, when we have solved the issue, or maybe never.”
“I agree,” Jeremy said. “Unless you feel that your brother needs to know, Lady Fenton?”
She shook her dark head decisively. “North is very busy developing the mine and his other business ventures. Let’s not distract him with this.”
“Then we are all agreed,” Jeremy summed up. “I shall place the advertisements in the papers as soon as I leave you, and will inform you when I have any news. Let me know immediately if you hear anything more from Chatteris, too.” He hesitated. “Is there not some other respectable establishment where you could stay, rather than this hotel? Susan would not like it.”
“Susan is far more pragmatic than you give her credit for,” Miss Trevelyan said drily. “As nothing would prevail upon me to seek shelter with my stepmother, no, there is nobody else. I have no other relatives in London, and Milla’s are in Cornwall.”
“Yes, well, in that case I suppose it cannot be helped.” Maybe he could find some better solution, but he had to deal with the more immediate problem first.