*
Not in the hedge tavern she’d landed in, they wouldn’t. And not when Lady Belinda had gone many miles more than forty, traveling in a ramshackle hired coach, with a scarf over her hair and a rough cloak over her rich doming. No one noticed such commonplace carriages and their working-class passengers—no one except the villains who’d held them up to steal the fine leather trunks tied behind, along with her purse and all her jewels. Now she couldn’t have afforded to send a letter to her father if she wanted to. Besides, mentioning her father’s name in such surroundings would see her held for ransom, or sent back for the reward she knew the duke would offer. And she could not go home.
*
Still undecided about leaving London in the morning, Hyatt was not inclined to linger at Treadwell House. There was not even going to be one of the baroness’s bogus journeys beyond for entertainment, due to Miss Tolliver-Jones’s presence, the earl understood. She was deemed too young and too delicate for such an experience. She was also too flighty altogether to be trusted with the personal aspects of, say, Canfield’s inquiries, or Mondale’s. Instead, there was to be cards. The elder Treadwell ladies, it seemed, adored playing and rarely got the chance. Hyatt would never ordinarily sit to dinner with such an ill-favored group, much less game with them for chicken stakes. He could not, however, like the way that loose screw cousin was ogling Miss Treadwell and the rose at her neckline—his rose. Socrates agreed, therefore, to make up one of the two whist tables.
The duke, Lady Tremont, Lady Crowley, and Lieutenant Canfield were already discussing their modest stakes. Mondale seemed relaxed for the first time since his daughter’s disappearance, the earl noted, and the soldier was at last at ease, out of the presence of the younger females. Mrs. Howard, who insisted everyone call her Aunt Regina, invited Socrates to sit at her table. Tremont gave up his leering to dive for the seat opposite her though, leaving Hyatt to partner Miss Tolliver-Jones, whose aunt had taught her the rules last week. Lud. He set out to forfeit a polite amount, wondering how much blunt he would have to lose before tossing in his hand. He also wondered why Miss Tolliver-Jones kept shifting in her seat as if someone, some balding libertine, was pressing his leg against hers under the table. Pretending to drop a card, Hyatt looked.
“Why don’t you shift your seat an inch or two, Miss Tolliver-Jones?” he asked. “Then the light won’t be shining so directly in your eyes.”
The chit gratefully slid her chair closer to Aunt Regina, while Hyatt gave Grover a dark glance. If Grover moved his own seat so much as an inch, they both understood, he’d be answering to the earl. Grover did not like the question. “Aren’t we ever going to play?” he whined.
Maylene was on the sofa, next to Lord Shimpton. No one would play with the doltish viscount who could barely count to twenty with his shoes on, so it was left to Miss Treadwell to entertain him. She was not a gambler and would not have minded sitting out if the company were more stimulating. The footstool was more stimulating than Shimpton. Happily, she had recalled a book about dogs in the library, a children’s book, with a lot of pictures. While Shimpton was trying to sound out the German dachshund and the French chien and the English d-o-g, Maylene was free to watch the company and free to see how solicitous Lord Hyatt was of Lady Crowley’s pretty niece.
The chit would have her head turned for sure, Maylene decided. She was too young to see past the practiced smile, the casual flirtation, the way Maylene could. Miss Tolliver-Jones would think Hyatt meant all the pretty compliments, and then her heart would be broken. Besides, she’d forever after compare all the nice young boys she’d meet to the Ideal, and they would not measure up—not even halfway up. So poor Miss Tolliver-Jones would never be happy with a likely lad, and she’d end up an old maid or, worse, in Maylene’s opinion, married to a man she could not love. Before the chit’s life was irreparably ruined, therefore, Maylene had to separate the two.
She let a few more hands of cards go by before she stood and walked around the tables, offering a glass of wine here, a dish of comfits there. She arrived behind Hyatt’s seat in time to hear him compliment Aunt Regina on her playing. This was no Spanish coin, for a huge pile of good English coins sat in front of the old lady. Hyatt was losing without even trying, and losing plenty, paying his partner’s shot, too, of course. If they hadn’t been playing for pocket change, he’d have lost a fortune. “You are amazing, ma’am. You could take your place with the finest whist players at White’s.”
Aunt Regina puffed out her enhanced bosom. “Why, thank you, my lord. But I cannot take credit. It’s my talent, don’t you know. All the females in the family have some gift or other. Thisbe has an affinity for the afterlife, Maylene is a finder, and I win at cards.”
“She cheats,” Maylene whispered in his ear as she reached over to place another deck of cards on the table, this one not marked. “That’s why Grover is always so eager to be her partner. Perhaps he’ll be able to dine at his own board this week, thanks to you.”
Hyatt almost dropped his cards. That sweet old lady? he thought. The one with her false hair, teeth, eyelashes, and who knew what else? In this house? Why not? Now that he thought to look, he spotted an extra spot or two on the backs of the cards. And Mrs. Howard’s gown had long, loose sleeves, with more than a scrawny old arm up them, he’d wager.
But he wouldn’t wager with any Captain Sharp, not even for pennies a point. Socrates yawned. “I think I had better quit before I lose High Oaks.” That was his country estate outside Brighton. “And it grows late.” It was so early, most Londoners had hardly begun their evening revels. It was so early, in fact, a fellow could still get into Almack’s, if he wanted to be latched onto by limpets like Miss Tolliver-Jones. She wasn’t at that hallowed altar of matchmaking because she was not yet out, of course, but it was Wednesday. Why was Miss Treadwell not attending the Marriage Mart? Perhaps, he pondered, she was not invited. Perhaps the Treadwell House trickery outweighed the title in the minds of the starchy patronesses. Good. At least some poor devils were safe from making cakes of themselves.
Finishing a hand at the other table, Lady Tremont called for tea. It would be gauche to refuse, Hyatt knew, but he’d be damned if he’d listen to Miss Tolliver-Jones’s giggles for another half an hour. “Do you play, miss?” He gestured toward the pianoforte in the corner. Since most debutantes were expected to perform, that was a safe bet, the only one of the night.
“Like an angel,” the chit’s aunt cooed, shoving her niece in the instrument’s direction. “Show him, love. There is talent in our family also.” Lady Crowley giggled, the same annoying high-pitched titter as Miss Tolliver-Jones. No wonder her husband wouldn’t talk to her from the thereafter.
Socrates did not offer to turn the chit’s pages, to at least two women’s disappointment. Instead, he strolled across to where Miss Treadwell and His Grace were deep in conversation. Whatever tomfoolery the witch was pouring in Mondale’s ear now, Hyatt didn’t like it.
The duke seemed to. “Miss Treadwell has been suggesting a new avenue of investigation, Soc. She believes one of Belinda’s friends has to have an inkling of her whereabouts.”
“We’ve asked and asked, Your Grace, and none of them was the slightest help. Besides, any more questions and everyone will know that the lady has disappeared.”
“I don’t care anymore, and the news will be out soon, when she does not return from her aunt’s in Wales. What is a little gossip compared to my daughter’s safety?”
Hyatt cared. The chit would be ruined unless he married her, and he was no longer so certain he wished to be leg-shackled to such a flighty female. “They would have said something if they’d known.”
“To you, my lord?” Maylene asked. “Break a friend’s confidentiality to her own fiancé? Did you try? I can imagine how far you got, if you were wearing such a scowl.”
“Of course I did not interview the chits myself. I don’t go to their dos and I don’t even know which girls were her bosom bows. We hired inv
estigators. And I do not scowl.”
Maylene was not about to let herself be intimidated by the scowl he was insisting he did not wear. “You don’t know her friends and don’t know her interests, but you think you can find her?” The scorn dripped from her lips.
“What, you think you can? Or Max, whoever the deuce he is.”
“He is a longtime…friend of my mother’s.” No one needed to know how long or how friendly. “He, at least, seems willing to try.”
“Yes, by letting his deceased dog show the way. You never said—is Alex a pointer, then, or a scent hound? A retriever? Perhaps we should consult Shimpton’s book.”
Mondale quickly put in: “Miss Treadwell thinks that a female might be more effective at getting answers out of Belinda’s friends, Soc, and I agree. Besides, if Miss Treadwell is willing, how can I refuse? We were just deliberating how best to make the introductions before you came.”
“Why, I should think all of Lady Belinda’s friends would be at Almack’s, husband-hunting,” Hyatt drawled. “You could simply go there, Miss Treadwell.” Then he added, “If you have vouchers, of course.”
His tone indicated that he’d believe Princess Esterhazy would tie her garters in public before she allowed the likes of Maylene Treadwell through the sacred portals. Her chin came up. “I do not attend Almack’s, my lord, because I am not hunting for a husband.”
The earl pointedly looked around the room at all the single gentlemen. “Your mother is.”
Ignoring him, Maylene continued, “And I do not think that is the appropriate venue for quiet chats, not under the glare of all those eyes and expectations.”
“But you do have vouchers?” Dash it, he’d make Mondale see the chit for what she was, one way or the other.
She was furious now, at his belittling tone. “Of course I do, Lord Hyatt. What I don’t have, my lord, is a new gown to wear every week, or a carriage to carry us there. The other thing I do not have, which you very well know, sirrah, is a dowry to attract the sprigs of the nobility who go there seeking brides. I choose not to waste their time or mine!”
Chapter Sixteen
Lud, he’d made a mull of it again. Instead of revealing Miss Treadwell to the duke as the scheming harpy she was, Socrates had made himself took base. Now his old friend was frowning at him, and the chit had tears in her blue eyes. Thunderation, how was he to know old Tremont had left them in such extremely queer straits? And there were plenty of other poor females at Almack’s. Of course they were to be found sitting against the walls, dash it. Hyatt would be damned if he’d apologize yet again though. And he surely would not send round another dinner.
“Be that as it may,” he said, “you do not travel in the same circles as Belinda’s friends, so they have no reason to confide in you.”
The duke was nodding. “He’s correct my dear. Belinda’s friends are a silly lot, barely out of the schoolroom, but I cannot imagine any of them betraying a secret to a stranger.”
“Oh, I am not expecting them to tell me where she went, if they know. I merely wish to find out her interests, her hobbies, which museums she might have visited, with whom she corresponded. That type of thing.” She turned back to Hyatt. “Unless you can tell me that, my lord. After all, as her betrothed, you should know the lady better than anyone. Which modiste did she patronize, for instance? She might have ordered a warm cloak, a domino, or a traveling costume—something that might tell us her intentions, if not her location. Dressmakers are prodigious gossips.”
“How the deuce should I know where she had her clothes made? I told you, I did not follow her about through the Season. That’s for debutantes and green boys.”
“And men who wish to win the hearts of their ladies. I do not believe you care for Lady Belinda at all.”
“Of course I care for her! I’ve known her since she wore pigtails and pinafores.”
“And I have known Grover Treadwell, Lord Tremont, since he wore hair. That does not mean I wish to marry him. And if you care so much, then why are you doing everything possible to prevent me from looking for her?”
“Because you haven’t a chance in hell. Or heaven, or wherever your pet ghosties reside.”
“I don’t know, Soc,” the duke said. “A woman’s got a different outlook. I never thought to send someone to ask at the dressmakers’, for instance. If her supposed chaperone wasn’t prostrate with grief, she might have thought of it. Then too, if she weren’t such a pawky creature, she might not have let Belinda go off to that house party with her friends, instead of her or her maid. Still, Miss Treadwell has some good ideas. I can check the modistes’ bills for addresses, and look through Belinda’s desk again for any letters.”
“And find out which lending library she subscribed to, Your Grace. If she was a frequent customer, the clerks might recall if she purchased any guidebooks, or if she met anyone clandestinely between the book stacks.”
Maylene hurried to find her notebook and pencil. Thinking aloud as she wrote, she put down “dressmaker,” and “lending library.” “Milliners, her favorite museums, anywhere she might have met someone.”
“What, your intuition tells you she’s run off with another man?” Hyatt demanded.
“No, I am merely thinking what I would do, should I find myself almost betrothed to an ogre.”
The duke coughed, but Hyatt said, “Belinda isn’t like you, thank goodness. And she never objected to the match.” He was shouting by the time he’d repeated himself. “She never objected, by all that’s holy.”
“And it was a suitable arrangement,” Mondale added.
Maylene shouted back at Hyatt, “If the lady was so eager for the engagement, my lord, where is she? And I beg to differ with you, Your Grace.”
Having heard loud voices, Lady Tremont left trying to feed the lieutenant another slice of lemon cake to join the trio by the fireplace. She thought her daughter’s ideas for finding Lady Belinda were excellent, unless Max sent them searching in another direction tomorrow night. “But if dear Max cannot help us, then I am sure Maylene can. She is quite talented at this sort of thing, you know.”
Studying the lists of establishments Miss Treadwell wanted him to locate or investigate, the duke could only agree. “If Bow Street were half this thorough, I’d have my girl back by now.”
“Maylene says it’s all a matter of logic and reasoning, but I always believe there’s another force guiding her, a talent. What do you think, Your Grace?”
“I think that however she manages it, my money is on your daughter, ma’am.”
Maylene was still thinking, chewing on the end of her pencil. “The money. That might be a problem, Your Grace.”
Aha, Hyatt thought, the money. Now the minx would show her true colors.
“You see, all these people on the lists are working folks, Your Grace. They cannot take time to talk to me without being recompensed. And bribes, if you will, can loosen the tongues of even the most taciturn of gatekeepers or mantua-makers.” She stared at her pad. “I am afraid I have not the resources.”
How guileless she seemed, the earl thought, lowering her eyes at being forced to confess her financial embarrassment. She’d be asking Mondale for an abbey next.
She did not need to ask; the duke offered, or as near as made no difference. “Of course not, Miss Treadwell, and I would not think of allowing you to expend your own blunt. I’ll have my secretary send over a draft on my bank in the morning. You’ll tell him how much, and when it runs out, just speak to me.”
Hyatt was livid that Mondale would trust the chit—with his chit. She’d take his blunt, and they’d be no nearer to finding Belinda. Just as he’d thought, this had been Miss Treadwell’s goal from the first, to milk Mondale of every shilling she could. Socrates would be willing to wager that nary a tuppence got into the outstretched palm of any clerk, carriage driver, or clothier.
Lady Tremont was smiling at the duke as if he’d volunteered to make their mortgage payments, which in Hyatt’s opinion was
what Mondale’s carte blanche amounted to. And she was not satisfied with that, he realized, when the older woman said, “But I think Maylene’s original idea of speaking to Lady Belinda’s girlfriends is our best chance, if we can arrange for her to meet them on social terms, not as your emissary, come to snoop out their secrets.”
Mondale nodded. “I can see it done. There is to be a ball next week that I know Belinda was looking forward to. I’ll see that both of you, and your aunt, of course, receive invitations. All the Season’s debutantes will be there as Lady Belvedere is firing off her younger sister, a school chum of Belinda’s.”
“That sounds perfect, Your Grace. And if you can introduce Maylene to some of them, it’s a fine start. Lady Crowley might know some others, and I am sure to recognize a few of their mamas, although I have been out of the social swim for years now.”
“Society’s loss, ma’am.” Mondale’s gallantry brought color to Lady Tremont’s cheeks.
“And the dressmakers truly are a font of information,” Maylene reminded him.
“Especially,” the duke added, “when they are gaining a grateful new client. Some of the blunt could go to a new gown, Miss Treadwell. In fact, it should, as required armor to face the belle monde, don’t you know.” He held up a hand, so the light glimmered off the ruby signet he wore. “No, I insist. The ton will be at its most splendid, and you will feel better outshining them, my dear. My wife always said nothing gave a woman confidence like a costly new gown. And no need to worry about a carriage, either. I’ll come for you myself.”
Exclaiming over His Grace’s graciousness, Lady Tremont led the duke off to discuss with Aunt Regina who else would be attending the Belvedere ball. The Earl of Hyatt and Miss Treadwell were alone in that part of the room.
“I see what this is all about,” he accused as soon as the others were out of hearing. “You want the brass, of course. But the chance to weasel your way into Society again, that’s the real purpose behind your efforts to win the duke’s trust. You want to meet Belinda’s friends. Hah! They are nothing more than a bunch of chattering monkeys. They barely know their geography, much less where Belinda might be. No, despite what you say about remaining single, your ambition is to join the Quality at play and snare yourself a parti, like every other shallow jade.”
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