Miss Treadwell's Talent

by Barbara Metzger

  Shimpton’s neckcloth was tied high enough to hide his weak chin, but it was therefore high enough to impede the movement of his neck. This was not, perhaps, the best arrangement for a bruising rider. For Shimpton, it made no difference. The horse knew its way home and would get there when it got up enough energy.

  “Er, yes,” Maylene replied. “Here I am. Did you want something?”

  “Wanted to discuss marriage with you.” Hyatt was choking, and not because his own neckcloth was too high or too tight. Refusing to look at the earl, Maylene addressed Shimpton: “I think such a discussion ought to wait until we are more private, don’t you, my lord?”

  “Oh, right. Wouldn’t want the Ideal dangling after the same female. I’ll see you tonight, shall I, then? And you too, Earl, what? You’ll be back at Lady Tremont’s, won’t you?”

  If he weren’t afraid of giving Shimpton’s gray heart failure, Socrates would have taken his riding whip to the whopstraw. The dunderhead might as well have announced in the broadsides that the Earl of Hyatt was as balmy in the brain box as the rest of Lady Tremont’s cabalistic coterie.

  One quick glance at him and Maylene nodded. “Yes, tonight. But for now you mustn’t keep your horse standing. I will see you in Curzon Street, my lord. Good day.”

  Without a word, Hyatt set his horses to a trot, putting as much distance between him and the vapor-minded viscount as Hyde Park would allow. He did not stop until they’d reached a narrow track that bordered the Serpentine. He pulled up and told Jem Groom to go to the horses’ heads. With any luck, he thought, no one else would be around to identify the quiz in his curricle.

  “Let us get down a bit, Miss Treadwell, and commune with nature. I realize you are more used to communing with the dead, or Shimpton, which is almost the same, so this should be a pleasant change.”

  In charity with him for once, for the day truly was delightful and she was not spending it with the viscount, Maylene accepted his hand and stepped down from the curricle. “Although Mama does prefer to call the deceased ‘dematerialized.’ ‘Dead’ sounds so permanent, don’t you think?”

  “Oddly enough, most people do believe that death is permanent. Of course you believe in angels and such, Miss Treadwell. Or is it ghosts and goblins?”

  “And things that go bump in the night. Yes, I believe such things are possible, after we pass from this plane. Of course we’ll never know until we get there, so I choose to keep an open mind. What do you believe, my lord?”

  “I believe we should walk along the water’s edge. The view can almost make you imagine you’re in the country.”

  Maylene believed he didn’t want to share his feelings or opinions with her. He was quiet as they walked, picking their way across the wet grass between muddy tracks and horse droppings. Maylene’s toes were already feeling damp. He’d said a drive, so she’d worn her slippers, not boots. They’d be destroyed. Hyatt, of course, was wearing high-topped Hessians and wouldn’t notice if they waded through a stream. The scenery was almost worth the sacrifice of a pair of shoes, though, she decided, for ducks and swans floated on the quiet waters, and children played along the embankment. Two boys had a sailboat on a string, and a toddler threw bread to the birds under the watchful eye of his nursemaid.

  “How charming,” Maylene said. “Thank you for bringing me.”

  “My pleasure,” Hyatt lied. Deuce take it, it was no pleasure at all. If he wanted to be in the country, by Jupiter, he’d go to the country. He owned enough of it, where he wasn’t tripping over some friend of his grandmother’s or an old schoolmate. He was in Town now for Mondale’s sake, though, so he would get on with it.

  “I brought you here to discuss last evening with you, Miss Treadwell. I realize we may have gotten off on the wrong foot”—he ignored her “humph” of agreement—“and thought that if we had a little chat, a friendly coze, you know, we might come to terms.”

  Maylene stopped in her tracks. “Terms, my lord? Are you attempting to buy us off again? I told you bribery won’t work. My mother gets her inspiration from Max, not money.”

  “Come down from the boughs, Miss Treadwell,” he said, tugging her onward, toward a bench by the water’s edge. “I thought that you might explain to me your mother’s theories, so I could understand more fully. For instance, who the devil is Max?”

  “Max is no demon at all, as I said. I do not know what to call him, other than a spirit. Mama never likes to speak of him, for she finds his absence too sad. His visits give her great joy.”

  “Your father?”

  “No, my father’s name was Maynard, hence my Maylene. And I am sorry to say neither found any joy whatsoever in the marriage. Theirs was an arranged match that suited no one except their parents. I hardly knew him, for he was always at some race meet, house party, or hunting box. He drank to excess, gambled to ruin, and rode untrained horses. He kept mistresses, and Mama kept waiting for him to kill himself. She won.”

  “You are very open about your past.” No other female of his acquaintance would admit to such a sordid family history, common though it might be.

  “The failure of my parents’ marriage is general knowledge; why should I try to hide it? Besides, Mama has nothing to be ashamed of. She led a blameless life in the country, although she would have been within her rights to…”

  “To take lovers?” Her blush told him Miss Treadwell was not as comfortable with such modern views as she pretended. She’d change her tune if she married Shimpton. “But Max?”

  “I think Max must have been the child she miscarried before my birth. She always says that only great love can bridge the beyond, so that seems the likeliest answer.”

  “Very well, so Max speaks to her. But Lord Crowley doesn’t?”

  “No, only Max.”

  “What about Shimpton’s mother? The ton breathed a sigh of relief when that dragon stuck her spoon in the wall. I cannot fathom why anyone would wish to bring her back.”

  “Lady Shimpton, ah, speaks through Max. I am not quite sure how that works. I don’t believe Mama understands it herself. When that happens, she is more exhausted than usual.”

  As were all actresses after difficult performances, Hyatt thought. He had kept enough of them to know.

  “And do you think such activities are good for people? Calling up their dead relations?”

  “I do not believe it hurts anyone.”

  “Only their pocketbooks?”

  Maylene was silent, watching the swans. She’d never approved of her mother’s hobby much either, but loyalty to her mother, and necessity, were strong influences, too.

  “Tell me,” Hyatt said, steel in his voice, “do you not feel the slightest remorse for fleecing the poor sheep who come to you?”

  So much for a comfortable coze.

  Chapter Nine

  The buttons were off the fencing foils.

  “I feel sorry for those who have lost loved ones and cannot go on with their lives without some comfort from strangers. If my mother provides that comfort, fine.” Maylene turned to go back to the carriage, but was prevented by Hyatt’s hand on her arm. The ground was too slippery to struggle.

  “What,” he asked, “is your perfidy now a public service?”

  Miss Treadwell did not spar by gentleman’s rules. She went straight for the throat. “And what of you, Lord Hyatt? What do you do to serve the public welfare? You gamble and drink and wench, just like my father.”

  “No, I win. Furthermore, no one depends on me for the roof over their heads except my tenants, and they are well provided for.”

  “And they in turn provide the wherewithal for you to live the life of the idle rich. You are nothing but another mindless pleasure-seeker, just like the others of your sort.”

  Hyatt could not defend the indefensible any more than Miss Treadwell could. He despised the wasted, wastrel existences most of his fellow peers enjoyed, which was why he seldom took part in the social Season. “At least I conduct myself with honor,” he insisted. “Wh
ich is more than you and your little band of parasites and predators can say. Bloodsuckers all, and it makes no difference to you if your victim is bled dry. You’ll go on to the next innocent, unwary pigeon.”

  Now Maylene did push against his arm, but the earl was not ready to release her. “How dare you,” she gasped. “As if you were truthful when you invited me for a friendly drive! Next you are going to say Aunt Regina is a villain because she wears false teeth.”

  “And false everything else, too.”

  “So it gives her pleasure to look younger than her age. Who is hurt? I ask again. And who gave you the right to sit in judgment of us lesser mortals, my lord High Hat?”

  “Why, you little shrew. I’ll—”

  Whatever his intentions, they were interrupted by a call from the opposite bank.

  “Miss Treadwell, Hyatt, isn’t it?” Lord Patterson peered across at them. “I thought so, but wasn’t sure until I heard your loud voices. Good day to you.” He was throwing a stick for Toby along the water’s edge. “Lovely day, what?”

  The day was positively ghastly. Maylene wished it were over. She could not offend the elderly peer, though, not when he had been so generous, so she called back, “And how are you and Toby going along?”

  “Fine, fine,” Patterson said, coming closer, despite Hyatt’s muttering about doddering old fools who doted on dogs. “But, you know, I think something is wrong with Toby.”

  Maylene could see that Toby was in the pink of health and happiness, dancing at Patterson’s feet, barking at the ducks, rolling in the damp, muddy grass. “He looks fine to me, my lord.”

  Patterson bent to scratch the little dog’s ears. “Oh, he is well. But the thing is, I don’t think he is my Toby after all. Don’t tell your mother, Miss Treadwell, but this little fellow stole my kippers this morning, right off my plate. My Toby would never have reached across the table that way, no, he wouldn’t. And I think I always knew my own laddie was gone; he would have come home else. And if he had returned, I’d only lose him again soon, for he was growing old.”

  Too old to be chasing runaway carriages, obviously, Maylene thought.

  Patterson went on. “But I am not complaining, mind, nor criticizing your mother and her friend Max. In fact, you folks did me a good turn. You see, I’d never have replaced the lad on my own. Now I have this fine little chap. He’s not the same, but he is lovable in his own way. I think Toby would be happy for me.”

  “I’m sure he would. And this, ah, Toby is very similar in looks.”

  Patterson nodded. “Except that my Toby had been gelded. Coming back from the dead is one thing, but…” He shrugged. “We’ll come to terms about the kippers, see if we don’t.”

  “Of course you will,” she said, waving as he hurried after the little terrier, who was trying to steal the toddler’s ball.

  Maylene turned back to Hyatt, who seemed to think it uproarious that the old Toby had been neutered and the new one was intact. And that their deception had been discovered. At least he wasn’t storming at her. But Maylene, too, felt vindicated. “You see,” she said in triumph, “we made the lonely old man happy. Perhaps we did bend the truth a bit, but it was for his own good. And who is to say that Max didn’t send just the right dog for him when we went looking?”

  The touch of humor about his lips disappeared. “And what will you do for Mondale? Find him a brown-haired six-year-old in an orphanage? He’s missing his daughter, for God’s sake, not a dashed dog! I insist you leave the poor man alone! Play off your tricks on fools like Shimpton and Patterson, not any friend of mine.”

  Maylene stamped her foot, then regretted it immediately as mud squelched into her thin slippers. “Who are you to insist on anything? To dictate my actions?”

  “Who? I am the one who has enough power to ruin you and your mother. One who can make sure that women like Lady Crowley and Sir Cedric’s wife never cross your doorstep. I can shred your reputation so badly that even Shimpton won’t have you, or destroy your credit with the banks and merchants. In other words, I am the one who can see you forced out of London if you do not leave Mondale alone. Tell him you cannot help and let him go, or I’ll make sure that dead dogs are the only company you’ll ever have. Neutered ones, by gad.”

  Hyatt could to it, Maylene knew. Their social standing was already shaky and their financial credit uncertain. She was disappointed to think that he would do it. “You disgust me. If my betrothed was lost somewhere, I’d be scouring the countryside. But instead of trying to help the duke in his search, you are spending your time browbeating innocent women.”

  There was nothing innocent about this female, except perhaps in the technicalities, Hyatt thought. He was right to be concerned, he knew he was, for the Treadwell House troop meant to bewitch poor Mondale with their cork-brained cosmology. Otherwise the chit would have backed down by now. A man would have, rather than tempt Hyatt’s powerful right arm or his deadly aim with a dueling pistol. Any other female would have capitulated long ago. Any other female would be in hysterics by now, not standing with her arms on her hips, her foot tapping in a pile of duck droppings, and sparks flashing from her blue eyes. If looks could kill, he’d be lying there alongside the foul fowl stuff.

  But he was an earl, by Zeus, a man. And a man did not retreat, not from a frowsy young female who looked like a green hornet in a bonnet. The only problem was, he couldn’t think of what else to do. If he weren’t a gentleman…

  “Ho there, Hyatt,” someone called out.

  This someone was definitely not a gentleman, and definitely not someone for Miss Treadwell to know, no matter her failings. She was still a lady, and he was responsible for her welfare since he’d brought her to the park. So Socrates grabbed her elbow again and spun her around, turning Miss Treadwell’s back to the dirty dish Finster. He shook her when she protested, and pulled her closer against his chest.

  Maylene could barely breathe, except for the scent of Lord Hyatt. Pressed to his superfine coat, she pounded on him with her free hand. How dare he! This was the outside of enough! First he shouted, then he manhandled. Why, the man was a positive menace! And he smelled good, all citrus and spice. “Unhand me, you cad!”

  Then she heard, “Ssorry to interrupt, Hyatt, can ssee you’re busy.”

  Could he be trying to protect her? Maylene peeked over her shoulder under her bonnet’s rim. And stopped trying to get out of Hyatt’s sheltering hold. The man who was speaking had pointed teeth, what there were of them, so he lisps. He had a scar down one sallow cheek, under the pockmarks, and his once-white linen was the color of the dishwater it should have been soaking in. Good grief, the man looked like a footpad. A not very successful footpad at that. And Lord Hyatt knew him?

  “Finster,” he curtly acknowledged.

  “Heard you wass here.”

  While Finster paused to spit tobacco juice through the filed front teeth, Hyatt muttered, “Is there anyone who doesn’t know?”

  “And heard you wass going to the witch’s ssabat tonight.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “I’ve got a message for Lady Tremont. Tell her that if Ingraham’s journals are made public, she’ll be at the other end of the sséancess.”

  “The other end?” Maylene whispered.

  “Beyond,” Hyatt told her softly, still trying to keep her face averted from the loose screw. Then he surprised Maylene even further by saying, “The lady is a friend of mine, Finster. I take threats against her personally.”

  Finster spit again, somewhat closer to Hyatt’s boots. “And I take hanging personally. You tell her.” He slithered away to where a bare-ribbed roan was standing, mounted, and disappeared through the nearby stand of frees.

  “Thank you for warning that creature off, Lord Hyatt,” Maylene started to say, “and for trying to shield me. What an unpleasant man.”

  “Unpleasant?” he shouted. “Unpleasant? The man is a maggot! He’s a bastard, literally and figuratively, who’s been thrown out of every club and gamin
g house for cheating. He’s been caught rigging horse races, and there were rumors that he fired early when some poor fool challenged him to a duel. Of course the fool couldn’t bring charges because he was already dead. And you find him unpleasant? Is that an example of your intuitive powers, Miss Treadwell?”

  “You seem upset, my lord.”

  Socrates had been angry at this young woman before. He’d been irritated, possibly even irate. Those were like summer breezes to the cyclone of rage that was blasting through him. He felt that he was about to explode from the blood boiling within. “No, Miss Treadwell, I am not upset. I was upset to think you were running a thimblerig on my friend. I was upset that you lied to Patterson, and I was upset that you are trying to trap Shimpton into marriage. Now I am outraged! Your mutton-headed metaphysics was bad enough; now you are mucking about with makebaits like Finster, and I am going to have to get involved! Are you such an imbecile that you cannot see how dangerous a game you play? Do you have any idea at all what you and your mother are dealing with? I suppose you’ll tell me that Max will protect you from maw worms like Finster.”

  “It is no concern of yours,” Maylene tried to interject.

  Hyatt wasn’t listening. “By all that’s holy, Ingraham knew the truth of every criminal case for the last fifteen years. He was barrister to half the high-born defendants, and got most of them acquitted. The information in those journals could ruin a good portion of the ton. They’re not lost, you ninnyhammer. Mrs. Ingraham is broadcasting their disappearance to extort more money from her dead husband’s clients.”

  “You cannot know that, my lord.”

  “What, do you believe she simply misplaced evidence that could be worth a fortune in the wrong hands? Damn, I never thought to find anyone stupider than Shimpton, but you win the laurels. Lud, if you two do marry, I pity the children you’ll have—haystacks for hair and elephant ears, with not an ounce of intelligence between them. Just what the world needs, blast you.”