Miss Treadwell's Talent

by Barbara Metzger

  One of Campbell’s nephews showed a disgruntled Grover out, no closer to possession of Treadwell House than before. The earl took his seat next to Maylene.

  “You do not wish to join our circle?” Mrs. Ingraham asked hopefully. “Campbell won’t mind moving over.”

  Socrates would rather sit next to a scorpion than the black-clad, blackmailing widow. “No, I am simply an interested observer. Please do not let me interrupt.” While Lady Tremont was refocusing her group’s concentration, he whispered, “A word with you afterward, Miss Treadwell?”

  After his defense, Maylene could only nod. Besides, Lady Crowley or Mrs. Ingraham would be too happy to carry tales of any confrontations. She smiled for their benefit. She wished she had a glass of wine, for her nerves’ benefit. Instead, she took up her pad and pencil, ready to justify the Fund for Psychical Research with her notes, ready to ignore the earl. The restless drumming of his fingers on the back of the sofa near her ears made both of her tasks harder.

  Lady Tremont must have made contact with Max, for Maylene recognized the delighted smile on her mother’s face. “Good evening, dear,” the baroness said. “I am so pleased you could visit with us tonight. We have a lot of company on our search for answers. Can you feel their energy? Their love, reaching across the ether?”

  Max must have felt something, for Lady Tremont nodded. “Yes, dear. First our good friend Lady Crowley has returned, hoping to speak at last to her beloved husband.”

  At the word “beloved,” Hyatt sneered. “The man was a dirty dish, and she is better without him.”

  Maylene agreed, but told him to shush anyway.

  “Yes, dear, it’s her last good-byes she wishes to make. Lord Crowley died so suddenly, you recall, that she never got a chance.”

  Hyatt did not refrain from commenting: “He was in his cups, and in the arms of a doxy, else he wouldn’t have wrecked the curricle on the bridge. They never did find his body, did they?”

  Maylene did not answer.

  “What’s that, dear? Lord Crowley is too busy to converse with us again? He’s practicing, you say?”

  Lady Crowley glanced around. “I don’t feel him flying about the room.”

  “Not his flying?”

  Not the harp, Maylene hoped.

  “Oh, he’s singing with the choir? How lovely, dear.”

  Hyatt whispered, “He’d have done better to practice his swimming.”

  “Why, I can almost hear him!” Lady Crowley cried, cupping her hand to an ear.

  Maylene and the earl could almost hear him too, a soft baritone humming.

  “Why, I never knew Aloysius could sing.” He’d done nothing but shout during their married days. “And he has such a lovely voice!”

  “Which sounds remarkably like that of the young footman who opened the door for me this evening,” Hyatt noted in a low aside meant just for Maylene’s ears.

  “Lady Crowley is pleased,” she replied just as softly. And indeed the widow of nearly two score years was smiling as gayly as a girl of seventeen. “Aloysius singing with the heavenly chorus. If that don’t beat all. Ah, well, perhaps he’ll stop by to chat with us another time.”

  Lady Tremont passed on the request, and then asked if Lord Shimpton’s dear mama was free to speak to her grieving son. After a few moments of swaying, indecipherable murmurings, and odd facial contortions, the attractive baroness transformed herself into a frowning, jaw-jutting gorgon. “You here again, sonny?” she squawked. “Why ain’t you at some ball, doing the pretty with the gels? You ain’t never going to find a wife this way, holding hands with old Crowley’s widow.”

  “A ball, Mumsy? Me?” Shimpton would rather face his mother’s disapproval than a roomful of debutantes. Lady Crowley handed him her handkerchief to dab at the sweat on his forehead. “But…but you know I can’t dance.”

  “Then ask Miss Treadwell to teach you. She won’t mind.”

  Maylene groaned. She minded very much. Hyatt chuckled, but her mother, or Shimpton’s mother, was going on: “Decent sort of female, don’t you know. Clever and capable. Pretty, too.”

  At least no one could see her blushes in the candlelight, Maylene prayed.

  The viscount was confused, a not unusual state. “Thought you’d be mad ’cause she looks like Caro Lamb.”

  “She looks like a lamb lamb, you clunch—an adorable little baby sheep.”

  Maylene had her hands over her eyes by now, mortified. The earl’s laughter did not help. The spirits were not through with Shimpton yet, though, for that rasping voice next demanded that the viscount retire his gray gelding. “You ain’t never going to impress a female on that decrepit old nag. No, you’d do better to get yourself a landau so you can take a gel and her mother for a drive in the park. That’s the way it’s done, sonny. Mind, you let the coachman drive, Frederick, not you.”

  “At least they’re not setting a hazard loose on Hyde Park,” Hyatt commended, still smiling. “The idea of that rattlepate at the ribbons is alarming.”

  He did not think it so funny when Shimpton stuttered, “But, Mumsy, I cannot go buy a coach and pair. You always did that for me.” And the voice answered, “Don’t worry, Frederick, Lord Hyatt will go to Tattersall’s with you.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Maylene laughed now, especially when everyone turned in the earl’s direction, various degrees of hope and amusement in their expressions. He nodded in scant courtesy.

  “There, that’s settled, sonny. Just see he don’t introduce you to any loose women on the way.”

  Maylene could hear the earl’s teeth gnashing. “Your mother is skating on very thin ice,” he said.

  Her mother was already undergoing another transformation. This time when she emerged from her trancelike state, one side of her mouth hung lower than the other, and her eyelids drooped. She spoke in the rusty, wheezing voice of an old man. “Are you there, Sophie?”

  “Ingraham?” The barrister’s widow gasped. “Is that you?”

  “Whom were you expecting, wife, Lucifer? He’ll be calling on you soon, you follow the path you’re heading.”

  “Path, Ingy?”

  “You know, Sophie, those journals. They were never meant to be seen by anyone. That’s why I made you swear to keep them locked up tight.”

  “But, I…”

  “Couldn’t leave well enough alone, eh?” The voice took on strength, the measured cadences of a practiced orator. “I left you a handsome jointure, Sophie, whereby you could live well if you aren’t extravagant. You are getting greedy, wife. Know this, then”—the voice rose to a crescendo—“if you choose to disobey my wishes, then my wrath will be upon you!”

  Shimpton was shaking, and Lady Crowley gave a little squeak. Aunt Regina shrank down in her seat.

  “That’s Ingraham to the life,” the Duke of Mondale whispered to no one in particular. “I heard him at trial a few times. Damn if I don’t expect to see his white wig next.”

  Mrs. Ingraham, however, did not seem fazed at all, not even when the clap of thunder boomed through the parlor, shaking the very walls and leaving the scent of brimstone behind. Maylene could not help her involuntary start, and even Lord Hyatt was impressed. “Very dramatic, if a tad overplayed. Gun powder down the chimney?”

  Maylene shrugged. Campbell had thought it a good idea; she hadn’t.

  “Nice try, but too bad the widow isn’t affected,” Hyatt said, noting Mrs. Ingraham’s composure. “She doesn’t believe a word of your mother’s playacting, and it will take more than a cheap parlor trick to discourage that one from her villainous intentions.”

  Lady Tremont was not finished, however. Still in the barrister’s voice, she loudly declaimed, “Hear this, Sophie. If you try to use those journals for immoral gain, I shall have my own revenge. I’ll tell everyone what your father did for a living—and what your mother did for hers. I’ll make sure everyone knows that you cheat at silver loo, and that you pass wind when you are nervous.”

  Even Lord Sh
impton was wrinkling his nose. She was nervous, all right.

  Mrs. Ingraham leaped to her feet and shouted, “This is nonsense, and you are all a bunch of fools!” then fled the room.

  “I hope she made her contribution on the way in,” Hyatt commented. “You and the others have earned it. I doubt you’ll be troubled by the likes of Finster after this night’s work, thank goodness.”

  “Was that a touch of approval I detected in your voice, my lord?” Maylene wanted to know. Not that she wanted his approval, of course.

  “What, for your mother’s performance? She could have put Sarah Siddons to shame. It’s too bad acting on the stage is not considered respectable for females of good birth. Lady Tremont might have made an honest living.”

  As opposed to what she was doing now, he implied. Maylene turned in her seat so her back was toward the earl, to listen to her mother.

  “Max, dear, I received an affecting letter from a young man who could not be here this evening, although I am hoping he will attend our little sessions some time soon. He was kind enough to make a generous donation to our research, in hopes we might discover the answer to a question that is plaguing him.”

  Hyatt was back to tapping his fingers on the back of the sofa. The man was not a restful sort, drat him, Maylene thought—nor a forgiving one. To occupy her mind with anything but their coming conversation, she wrote down the name of the man her mother mentioned, Lieutenant Canfield, although recovering what the lieutenant was missing was beyond her woeful talents, or anyone’s.

  “The dear lieutenant was a gallant officer, Max, until he was struck by a nasty cannon ball during the Peninsular Campaign. Talavera, I believe he said. He was fortunate enough to survive, unlike Sir Cedric’s youngster, but the brave boy did lose his leg there.”

  While Lady Tremont wiped a tear from her eye, Hyatt exclaimed, “Good grief, Toby’s ballocks were bad enough. Never tell me your mother is going to try to bring Canfield’s leg back!”

  His voice was loud enough that Lady Crowley’s complexion turned somewhat green. Or perhaps she’d been holding Shimpton’s hakelike hand too long.

  “Don’t be absurd, my lord,” Maylene told him. “My mother is neither a grave-robber nor a resurrectionist. If you’d only listen, you’d hear that she is trying to help a troubled young man.”

  A disabled veteran would be helped more with the offer of a position, Hyatt knew, than any higgledy-piggledy in the hereafter. There was little enough work for able-bodied ex-soldiers, much less one so handicapped. The earl made a mental note to check with the War Office. If the lieutenant was in difficulties, he’d see what he could do. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “The dear boy is wondering, Max, if he and his missing limb will be reunited in the beyond, since it was buried on foreign soil. He thought we might have an answer for him. What’s that, dearest? You’ll ask Admiral Nelson? What a downy idea! Of course the hero of Trafalgar would know if all his parts were gathered together. I am sure the admiral is much sought after, but do you think I can tell our dear lieutenant to call next week, Max? Yes, I am sure he will feel much better if he starts getting out and about, rather than staying close to home. Perhaps we can introduce him to some likely young ladies, too? Why, yes, the right female would never notice his missing limb, Max. How very clever you are!”

  And how devious her mother was, Maylene thought, in getting another eligible gentleman into her daughter’s vicinity. Canfield would be invited to tea before the cat could lick its ear.

  Hyatt could also see the martial light of matchmaking in her mother’s eyes, for he teased closer and whispered, “At least, Miss Treadwell, you won’t have to teach Lieutenant Canfield to dance.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Max, dear, do you recall that we asked about another young man, Mr. Joshua Collins? We would be so pleased if we could help find the dear boy.”

  Maylene fancied they would be so wealthy from the reward that she could stop worrying over the bills. She might even set some of the money aside for a small dowry, to make herself slightly more eligible on the Marriage Mart. She smiled to think that some gentleman might wish to wed her for her money, since none had come forth for her looks or her mind. Even Cousin Grover wanted the house and a wife who could not refuse his advances.

  Socrates wondered about this Collins fellow. When he’d checked with Bow Street this morning, he’d asked about the man and the reward Lady Tremont had mentioned last night. None of the thief-takers knew of Collins, so Hyatt had to wonder who wanted him and why. Lady Tremont wasn’t saying, he noticed, and Miss Treadwell grew dreamy-eyed at the mention of his name. Hyatt’s hand clenched into a fist

  “So are you able to tell us anything at all, dear? What’s that? I cannot hear you, for the music.”

  “What music? I don’t hear any music,” Lady Crowley complained. “Is Aloysius practicing again?”

  Maylene wrote the word “music” on her notepad, although that did not tell her anything. The missing heir was a music instructor, after all. She’d expect him to sing or play. Maylene did pencil in “What kind of music?” because sometimes her mother’s later recollections were good places to begin an investigation.

  Frowning, Socrates watched Miss Treadwell scribble. This was what the Treadwell House ladies called research? The Royal Society for the Sciences would laugh them out of Town, if any of those august gentlemen had a sense of humor.

  “Do speak up, Max. Yes, that’s better, dear. Mr. Collins is not beyond, you say? Why, that is wonderful news, Max. Yet? He’s not there yet, but might be soon? Oh, dear. Is that blood I see?”

  Lady Crowley gasped and clutched her throat. Lord Shimpton leaned closer to her, and she gasped again. Maylene wrote: “Blood. Near death? Injured? Accidentally or on purpose?”

  “And someone else is looking for him, too? Oh, my. Can you try a little harder, Max, because it sounds as if the dear boy needs our help, if we can find him in time.”

  Hyatt wished he knew what the deuce the flea-brained females were up to now. No, he told himself, he didn’t want to know. He was already hiring injured veterans, helping a jackass at the horse auctions, and defending Miss Treadwell from her own cousin, by Jupiter. Next thing he knew, he’d be assisting at the dance lessons.

  “We’ll try again tomorrow, Max, dear. I know you are growing weary, darling, for your voice is growing faint, but we have one more question. It’s His Grace of Mondale, come looking for his precious daughter, who’s been missing over a sennight. The naughty chit’s got her father all upset, Max, so can you tell us where dear Lady Belinda is?”

  Hyatt sat up straight, both fists clenched now. Gone was the restlessness, replaced by angry intensity. “If you witches make Mondale suffer any more…”

  “What did you say, Max? That music is still playing, so you’ll have to speak up. We’ll ask about Mr. Collins again next time, dear. We really need to know about the young lady now, for her own sake and for the dear duke, who is so concerned. And for Lord Hyatt, of course, who is going to marry her, unless she has eloped, as our Maylene thinks.”

  Hyatt glared at Miss Treadwell. “Dash it, she did not run off!”

  Maylene was listening for something to write, so she did not answer, but her shrugged shoulders gave eloquent testimony to her opinion. She’d run as fast and as far as she could, Maylene decided, rather than wed such a beast. Why, she’d rather make for the border with Shimpton this evening, than make her apologies to Hyatt later. Besides, he was going to ruin them anyway, no matter how she begged his pardon for the park episode. Wasn’t he looking like thunderclouds already? Some women might find that dark brooding look attractive; Maylene found it frightening. She wrote down “music” again, then crossed it out.

  “Have you found anything for us, Max?” her mother was asking again.

  “He’s found a rich purse in Mondale,” Lord Hyatt muttered.

  “You haven’t? Well, I suppose that is good news. I didn’t get the feeling that Lady Belinda had gone
aloft, either, but I am sure His Grace will be pleased to hear that you agree. Have you any glimmers of where she might be, then?” Lady Tremont’s brow furrowed in concentration. “There’s that wretched singing again. Max, if that is Crowley’s choir, they need a great deal more practice.”

  “Do you hear the singing?” Viscount Shimpton whispered loudly to the duke, who was listening intently. His Grace shook his silvered head.

  “No,” he said in disappointment. “Dash it, I was hoping for more. A sign, a clue, even a wild guess. That would be better than what I have now.”

  “You have Thisbe’s word that the chit is alive,” Aunt Regina hissed across the table, “and that’s better than Bow Street could do for you.”

  Maylene could see that her mother was growing weary, or perhaps she was disappointed that they’d have to tell the duke they couldn’t help him. Having a duke at their gatherings was a coup. Maylene would miss his largesse, not his large friend.

  “Do you think the duchess would help us, dear?” the baroness asked. “His Grace was hoping you might ask her, if you happen to come upon Lady Araminta, of course. A mother always knows when her child is in trouble.”

  “Damnation,” Hyatt swore. “That means we have to come back.”

  “And what’s that, dear—he should bring a handkerchief of Lady Belinda’s when he returns?”

  Lady Tremont was confused. Maylene was horrified. Hyatt was outraged. “This is going to go on forever, isn’t it? Now that you have the poor man in your coils, you’ll just keep finding new ways to keep him coming back. Until he runs out of blunt, or Bow Street finds Belinda. Confound it, I should have gotten him drunk at White’s.”

  “Now there’s the perfect solution,” Maylene bit back, as upset as Hyatt by the news that this torture was to continue. “When all else fails, resort to the bottle. That’s sure to bring his daughter back to the duke.”

  “As much as a bunch of numbskulls nattering to nomads of the next life.”