Miss Treadwell's Talent

by Barbara Metzger

  No decree of damnation could keep Lord Shimpton away, of course. He couldn’t understand half the words the chap on the street was saying, he told Maylene, but he did wonder if the fellow knew anything about dogs.

  “He’s nattering on about the Hounds of Hell, so I got to wondering what breed of dog they were. Thought your mother could ask Max for me. And Max could ask his friend Alex. I meant to ask Hyatt myself, until he cracked his curricle into that tree. Thought he was a downy cove, the earl. A’course, having a female aboard can make anyone clumsy, I s’pose. If he ain’t here, I’ll toddle round to the clubs to ask him. ’Less you think the bloke with the Bible really does know what kind of canine they are. Wouldn’t want one for a pet, don’t you know.”

  Maylene thought Fingerhut wouldn’t know his own name after one more glass of brandy. At least she hoped so.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Since there was no company, Maylene took up her account books. That way she would not have to think about the company that wasn’t coming, for which she was glad, of course. The columns of figures never yielded the same sum twice, though, and she found herself staring out the window on the back garden more than at the ledgers. That was how she happened to notice Aunt Regina and her mother scurrying out the service entrance and around the corner, intent on finding the latest fashion magazines or the least expensive silk warehouse, without encountering the reverend. They were going to a ball, by the stars, and meant to make the most of it. Maylene knew she ought to get back to her columns, for, despite the duke’s offer, she could not permit him to pay for new ensembles for them all. She’d find the money somewhere, since the prospect of new clothes had both the older women in alt.

  Maylene was not so thrilled. Oh, ’twould be lovely to have a real ball gown and attend a fete with the glittering throngs, but what if they all looked at the Treadwell House ladies askance? What if her mother was laughed at or cut? What if no one invited Maylene to dance? She supposed Shimpton would be there to partner her, so perhaps she should not waste money on new slippers. And she did have a mission, to meet Lady Belinda’s friends. But Lady Belvedere’s ball might be Maylene’s last chance to meet the man of her dreams. After that, she’d buy herself spinsters’ caps and a pug dog—and bury those dreams deeper than the debts her father had left them.

  With such dismal thoughts, Maylene was pleased when Campbell scratched on the library door to announce a visitor. The butler wasn’t wearing his full-pocket smile, so Maylene knew the visitor wasn’t—well, wasn’t anyone who was not coming back, and whom she would refuse to see if he did.

  “Not Reverend Fingerhut?”

  “No, miss, that one’s in the kitchen, seeing what Cook is preparing for dinner.” Campbell stared past her left shoulder. “I don’t rightly think you ought to be home, Miss May.”

  “Mama and Aunt Regina know more about fashions than I, Campy, and I really needed to work on the accounts.”

  “No, miss, I mean I don’t know as you ought to be at home to this caller.”

  Technically, she had not ought to receive gentleman callers without a chaperone, at least until she donned those cursed caps. “Tell Nora to step down, then.” Campbell’s brow was still furrowed. “Ah, he’s not a gentleman, then?”

  “Not a lady, more like. Though she did say as it was a matter of importance, and needing to make an appointment with Lady Tremont.”

  “A client? We could definitely use another paying customer, Campy, especially if Mama and Aunt Regina have their way about the ball. Do you think she can afford…that is, does she believe in supporting the Fund for Psychical Research?”

  “She says she’s willing to pay anything if you can help her.”

  “And you’ve kept her waiting? Send her in, Campy, and see if Cook can produce something for tea.”

  The woman who followed the butler into the library was decidedly not a lady, not with her rouged cheeks and darkened eyes. She might be nearing sedate middle age, but her hair was the color of sunset, and her figure was that of a moon goddess. She wore a gown of primrose sarcenet, or most of a gown, Maylene concluded, parts having evidently been dispensed with in the interests of…certainly not economy, for where the gown wasn’t, were magnificent necklaces of diamonds and rubies. They made Aunt Regina’s glass gems look like colored pebbles. The caller’s expanse of bosom made Maylene’s chest look like a paving stone.

  The woman was making her own inspection, noting the faded carpet, the frayed drapes, and the frumpish hostess, Maylene was sure. “Won’t you please be seated, Mrs., ah, Miss…?”

  “Mademoiselle Lafontaine. Fleur Lafontaine. But you ain’t Lady Tremont.”

  And Fleur Lafontaine was as French as Yorkshire pudding. “No, I am her daughter, but I act as her secretary.” She gestured toward the ledgers on the desk. “And make all the arrangements for Mama’s gatherings.”

  “Good. Then it’s you I want to talk to. How much will an investigation cost me? Lord Volstead says you and your mother are the best.”

  “I am sorry, Miss Lafontaine, but our services are not for hire. We conduct scientific research, not detection work.”

  “La, don’t go getting niffy-naffy on me. I know you nobs think talking about money is common, but that’s what I am. Your man already explained about your fund, in that ugly urn out in the hall. I just want to know how much of my brass will get the thing done right.” Miss Lafontaine waved an immaculately manicured hand in the air, displaying a collection of rings that could outfit a harem.

  Maylene hid her own ink-stained fingers under her skirts. “Why don’t you, ah, explain the situation, and I can better decide if my mother can help you.”

  “You ain’t missish, are you?” the older woman asked. Maylene was able to reassure her caller that, despite the high-necked, out-of-style gown devoid of all ornamentation, she was not at all missish. She couldn’t afford to be, but that’s not what she said.

  “Good, for the story ain’t for any schoolroom chit’s ears. Then again, I didn’t suppose old Tremont’s gel would be a milk-and-water miss.”

  “You, ah, knew my father?” Maylene hoped her voice did not express her dread that Miss Lafontaine knew her parent in the biblical sense.

  “Everyone knew your father. A connoisseur of the theater, don’t you know.”

  Her father was a womanizer who’d haunted the green rooms. “Then you are a, um, thespian?” Maylene asked, actresses not being held in high esteem. Thespian sounded more polite; Cyprian sounded more accurate.

  “Retired. Come into a bit of the ready, don’t you know.”

  The ready visited Rundell’s regularly, it seemed. Maylene nodded. “But you have lost something?” She was hoping to avoid any further mention of her father.

  “Not exactly lost. There’s no wrapping it in clean linen, Miss Treadwell. I bore me a child nine years ago.”

  “Not to my father?” Dear heavens, and to think that she’d often wished for a brother or sister! If they were skirting the borders of respectability now, Maylene could not imagine the social stigma of an illegitimate half sibling.

  Miss Lafontaine waved her hand again. “Old Maynard? Lud, no. And the father doesn’t matter.”

  It did to Maylene, who started breathing again.

  “The thing is, I gave the baby, a boy, up for adoption. A nice young couple, the solicitor said.”

  “And now you want him back?”

  “No, I still don’t lead any kind of life to raise a child in. But now I can pay for his schooling and see that he’s hosed and shod, don’t you know, if that young couple cannot. Or I can make other arrangements if they ain’t treating the boy right. The only thing is, I can’t find the little blighter. The solicitor who handled the papers died, and his partners handed his files to some jumped-up clerk who won’t let me see the records. Not for any price. Ryan must be the only honest lawyer in all of London. Can’t even bribe his assistants.”

  “Ryan? Of Hand, Hadley and Choate?”

  “That’s the
one. Oily chap, ready to jump out of his skin if you say boo. Do you know him?”

  “Yes. He had an inquiry for my mother also. But we are not on such terms that he would divulge privileged information.”

  “Didn’t expect that. I thought you might have other ways to get the records.”

  “You are not suggesting I break into his office, are you?” That had been the first thought that entered Maylene’s mind, too. She could not do it, of course, more’s the pity.

  But no, Fleur was an honest woman now. If she’d wanted a cracksman, she’d have hired the best. Instead, she was hoping that Lady Tremont would have some insight.

  For the weight of the purse she tossed on Maylene’s desk, Miss Lafontaine could have insight, hindsight, oversight, and underbite. Maylene took out her pad to make notes.

  *

  Could one catch insanity by association, the way one could contract the pox by proximity? That was the only answer Lord Hyatt could think of for his behavior. By everything holy, he was delivering invitations for Lady Tremont and her family to attend Lady Belvedere’s ball. He did not want the shabsters to attend, did not want them associating with decent people, did not want to so much as see Miss Treadwell and her silly curly head again. Yet his feet were definitely pointed toward Curzon Street, and he had the invitations in his pocket.

  Called to a cabinet meeting, the Duke of Mondale had begged Hyatt to speak to Susannah, Lady Belvedere, for him. How could Socrates deny his old friend, who was also going to be his father-in-law someday? As Mondale insisted, Hyatt had more time, and he did know the young matron better. Better than he wanted to.

  So aside from all the other reasons he had to be aggravated with Miss Treadwell, Socrates added having to fend off a married trollop without offending her. Dash it if Susannah wasn’t willing to trade invitations to her ball for invitations to his bed. He’d had to hint about a previous involvement, though he hadn’t visited Lady Ashford in days, sending the widow an expensive gewgaw instead of listening to her complaints at his continued absence. Already enduring a relationship with a spoiled Society dasher, Socrates was in no hurry to take up with another, and a married one at that, even if her husband did spend all of his time at his clubs, as she claimed.

  In addition to lying about the state of his affairs, Hyatt had to make up a Banbury tale about the Treadwell ladies being connections of his grandmother’s, and his request for invitations a favor to her. He could not simply say the women were playing at constable and crook, and needed to interview the other guests. He could not, most definitely not, let Lady Belvedere think he wished the ladies invited for his own sake. For one thing, she’d be liable to withhold the invites out of spite or jealousy. For another, she’d spread the story all over Town, that Hyatt was smitten with the attics-to-let antidote.

  What a waste of his time! The visit to Lady Belvedere’s was everything he hated about so-called Polite Society: the subterfuges to protect one’s privacy, the pretenses to protect one’s reputation, the twenty minutes of prattle to get one scrap of paper that no one wanted in the first place.

  And it was all Maylene Treadwell’s fault, with her lies and lunacy. It just might be her fault, he was beginning to suspect, that Lady Ashford’s voluptuous figure did not interest him, nor Lady Belvedere’s bold manners. Damn her.

  So aggravated was he that Lord Hyatt was not watching his steps as carefully as he might have been, if he suspected paper-skulled prelates might be praying in the street. Socrates almost tripped over the kneeling minister, then begged his pardon, offering a hand to help him up before the man’s words penetrated his musings. By Zeus, the dusty deacon was damning her, too! The earl drew his arm back to shove the words down the dastard’s throat, then caught himself. Good grief, he’d been about to clobber a man of the cloth.

  And he agreed with him, by George, that the treacherous Miss Treadwell’s chances of getting into heaven were slimmer than the lamppost to which the cleric was now clinging. Still, he could not let the man keep spewing his brimstone in front of her house. Now that he’d invoked his grandmother’s name to get her the invitations, Socrates convinced himself that Maylene’s reputation reflected upon him and his family.

  First he politely suggested that the preacher go elsewhere, then he threatened to call the Watch. Finally, he tossed some coins onto the plate. And more coins. Reverend Fingerhut’s convictions were too strong, or Lady Tremont’s brandy wasn’t strong enough. He went back to decrying the evil inside Treadwell House. Hyatt went in.

  “Nice try, my lord,” Campbell told him, leading him toward the library, where Miss Treadwell was already entertaining a caller.

  A caller? Bloody hell, little Miss Treadwell, with her cherub’s curls and angel’s blue eyes, was entertaining a Covent Garden convenient! And he’d worried what people would think if they heard the sermonizing. If word of this visit got out, Miss Treadwell might as well rip up the invitations in his pocket. Max would be the only gentleman who spoke to her.

  And the demented female was all set to make introductions, to a woman she ought never have acknowledged, and a man with whom she oughtn’t be alone. Worse yet, her guest was patting Miss Treadwell’s hand as she stood to leave. “Oh, no need to do the pretty, ducks. Lord Hyatt and I are old friends. Aren’t we, Soccy?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Soccy? Maylene had to remember to close her mouth as Fleur Lafontaine glided past her and stroked the earl’s cheek. No need to wonder how close friends the two were. She was not jealous, she swore to herself. She was outraged. After all his pompous piety, Hyatt was purring like a kitten. “I’ll see you to the door,” she said to mademoiselle. And her turned back told his lordship that she’d see him when hell froze over.

  Instead of following her hostess, though, Fleur latched her silk-clad arm onto Hyatt’s elbow, choosing the male to escort her as naturally as water ran downhill. Good grief, Maylene thought as they went past her, chatting cozily, he wasn’t the one, was he? The father of Miss Lafontaine’s child? The thought was making her nauseated. No, that was Fleur’s heavy perfume.

  Campbell opened the door and stepped back, bowing. While Hyatt was busy checking on the churchman on the cobblestone, Maylene hissed in Fleur’s ear, “Is he the father?”

  “Who? Your darling butler?” She stopped teasing when she saw how serious Maylene was about the matter. “Soccy? No, more’s the pity. But you shouldn’t be getting your petticoats in a pother, lovey, even if he were. The Ideal’s not for the likes of a poor gambler’s gel.”

  Who was on the shelf, with a bosom, compared to Fleur’s, as flat as that selfsame shelf. “Of course not,” Maylene protested. “I would never suppose… That is, I only wished to ascertain the facts of the matter.”

  Fleur smiled her disbelief. “The fact is, it never meant tuppence who the papa was then, and it means less now. I want to find the boy’s new father, not his old one.”

  “Yes, of course. I will be consulting my mother, then, as we discussed.”

  Miss Lafontaine turned, winked at Campbell, blew a kiss at Hyatt, and smiled once more at Maylene. Then she accomplished what no one else had been able to do that day. She got rid of Reverend Fingerhut

  “Bernie? Is that you? Lud, it’s been an age since Mother Mcready’s.”

  “No, no. You must be confusing me with someone else, madam. Mother who? No, I’m sure we never met.” But he took off down the street so fast the skirts of his black frock coat billowed out behind him like a crow’s tail.

  Fleur tossed her head. “How many devouts can there be with dimples on their butts? Follow him, driver.” She stepped into her waiting carriage, calling, “Ta ta, my cherries. Bony chance.”

  Hyatt did not wait for an invitation, and he did not wait for Campbell to close the doors before dragging Maylene back toward the book room.

  “My God,” he shouted as soon as they were down the hall. “How could you think of entertaining the likes of her? You might as well rip up Lady Belvedere’s invitation, if
she doesn’t rescind it herself.”

  Maylene crossed her arms over her suddenly, by comparison, paltry chest. “I should not have to remind you, my lord, that whomever I choose to entertain is no business of yours. No more than your, ah, acquaintances, past or present, are any concern of mine. Now that you have brought it up, though, my lord, is there no woman in all of London that you have not kissed?”

  Deuce take it, Socrates thought, did she have to keep reminding him of the liberties he’d taken? He was having enough trouble forgetting, himself. He ran his fingers through his hair, disordering the dark curls. “I knew you’d be throwing that back in my face the minute I saw the blasted female.”

  “Her name is Mademoiselle Fleur Lafontaine, in case you have forgotten.” In case he’d known so many high-flyers, she implied.

  Pacing the book room, Hyatt said, “Her name is Florrie Fountain, and she’s one of the most notorious wh—ah, women in London.”

  And the most successful, Maylene added to herself, watching his long strides wear out the threadbare carpet.

  “You do know that she isn’t respectable, don’t you? Blast it, you’re not that much the fool, I swear.”

  That might have been the closest Lord Hyatt had ever come to a compliment, so Maylene chose to consider it as one. Somewhat mollified, she answered, “I know that Miss Lafontaine has a problem.”

  “Tell her to take it to Gilly Pimstoke. He’s her current protector. Or that attics-to-let apostle outside. Lud knows her soul needs praying for.”

  Maylene shook her head. “No, she came to my mother and me for help, and I have promised to try to get it for her.”

  “Zounds, you’d help Napoleon if he had a hangnail, and enough of the ready, wouldn’t you?”

  Maylene went toward the door, indicating that the interview was over. “You have made your opinions perfectly clear, my lord. Good day.”

  “No, Miss Treadwell, it has not been a good day.” Socrates reached into his coat pocket and extracted the vellum cards. “I spent all morning wheedling these out of Susannah, Lady Belvedere, and now I see they will be wasted. You are intent on ruining your reputation, and mine with it, it appears. Next you’ll be having Florrie in to take tea with Lady Crowley, I suppose.”