Miss Treadwell's Talent

by Barbara Metzger

  He followed her right past the senior clerk, who pointed toward one of the younger men to escort her to Mr. Ryan’s office.

  Maylene glared at him over her shoulder, but he came in with her anyway.

  Maylene made the introductions, for there was nothing else to do without creating a commotion. Hyatt nodded briefly, then took up a stance behind Maylene’s chair, his arms folded across his chest. Ryan’s Adam’s apple bobbed a few times, but he politely offered wine or tea. Maylene refused both, for both of them. If Hyatt was thirsty, let him go to a coffeehouse or one of his clubs.

  “I’ve come, Mr. Ryan, to tell you about last evening’s findings.” She could hear Hyatt snort in the background.

  “You found something?” Ryan’s watery eyes took on a shine that rivaled the oiled gleam of his hair.

  “We feel that Mr. Collins might be near a body of water.”

  “We…? Your lordship?”

  “We believe nothing of the kind. For all I know your man might be at sea in a canoe or on the back of a camel in the Sahara. Lady Tremont’s ghostly friend’s dog smelled water, that’s all.”

  If he were a papist, Mr. Ryan would have crossed himself. If Maylene had a cross, she would have put it through the dastard earl’s heart. “It’s a clue, merely, Mr. Ryan. Have you checked with the shipping offices for the passenger lists as well as the crew rosters?”

  “We checked all of the boardings. The man is a violinist, Miss Treadwell, a music instructor. He would not have signed on as a common seaman, no matter what difficulties arose, though we would have heard about any untoward incidents in Bath.”

  “Is it possible a press gang was working anywhere near his last position?” she asked, dreading the thought of a sensitive artist aboard one of His Majesty’s warships.

  “In Bath? That’s highly doubtful.”

  “But you said he’d left Bath, given notice. He must have made plans to go elsewhere, then. He simply did not arrive at his destination.”

  Ryan jotted down a note. “I’ll make inquiries with the Navy, although those gentlemen are not very forthcoming. Are you sure Lady Tremont could not identify the music she heard last time? That sounded promising.”

  “No, I am sorry. The water is all she mentioned.”

  “Will she be trying again tonight?” the solicitor wanted to know. “We are running out of time.”

  Maylene stood and could sense Hyatt stirring right behind her. “No, I’m sorry, but the sessions are too exhausting for my mother to conduct with such frequency.” And they were too aggravating when Max did not cooperate. “She needs to rest in between.”

  “In the Bond Street shops,” the earl added helpfully. Maylene stepped back, hoping to make contact with his toes, but he’d moved closer to the door. She took a few steps in that direction, saying, “I will be sure to let you know if we—” She clapped her hand to her forehead and swayed on her feet. “Oh I think I am going to—”

  She did. Maylene swooned, right into Hyatt’s arms. Hi caught her up and carried her back to the chair, where she lolled, limp. He started chafing her hands. “Dash it, Maylene, wake up!”

  Ryan was wringing his hands. “What shall I do? Send for your carriage? Fetch her maid?”

  Since neither of those helpful items was in the vicinity, Hyatt kept rubbing her hands and cursing. “Look in her reticule, man. Maybe she carries smelling salts like any respectable female.” He tossed the solicitor her netted purse.

  “Oh, I couldn’t search her personal possessions!”

  “Devil take it, give it back, then.” Hyatt made to grab for the strings, but Maylene’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Water,” she croaked.

  “If you are playing Lord Nelson again,” Hyatt shouted at her, “I’ll wring your blasted neck!”

  Maylene licked her dry lips. “Water, please.”

  “I’ll go. Right away. Back in a flash.” Ryan dashed out of the office. As soon as he was gone, Maylene brushed off Hyatt’s hands and jumped to her feet, hurrying to shut the door.

  “What the deuce?”

  Maylene was already at the standing files at the back of Ryan’s office, opening drawers and checking contents. “Braverman, Byron. I wonder if that’s…? Eggerton, Eastwood, Ah, Ladelow, Lafayette, Lagenthorpe. Oh, rats!”

  “What the devil is going on? You could be arrested for whatever it is you’re doing—and me along with you!”

  “I didn’t invite you here, my lord, recall, so you can leave now.” She continued riffling through the folders, muttering words no lady ought to know, much less use.

  Socrates grabbed her shoulders to pull her away from the file cabinets, but she broke away to look through Ryan’s drawers. “Good God, woman, have you no scruples at all?”

  “Yes, and they tell me to help Fleur Lafontaine assuage her guilt at abandoning her baby. I’m not going to steal the child back, for goodness sake, only make some inquiries that would let her improve his lot in life. All I need is a name, but the records must be so old they are kept in the outer office, drat it.”

  She was about to sag back into the seat, defeated, when the earl said, “Try Fountain—Florrie Fountain.”

  She gave him a grin like the sun peeking from behind a mountain at daybreak on a spring day—after a long winter. “Foggarty, Foote, Forman. Yes! Fountain!” She glanced quickly at the top page. “Here, write this down.”

  “What, carry evidence that we tampered with the files? Don’t be more of a peagoose than you must be. Read it and memorize the damn thing before Ryan gets back.”

  “You are right, of course,” she told him, flashing another dazzling smile. “It’s Macaleer, in Hans Town.” With that, she shut the drawer, turned, and threw herself back into Hyatt’s arms.

  “Bloody hell,” he cursed, then heard Ryan at the door. “She thought she was recovered and stood too soon. Here, give me the water.”

  “Oh, my,” Ryan said as Maylene coughed and sputtered. “I thought she wanted to drink it.”

  *

  By the time Hyatt hired a hackney and returned Miss Treadwell to Curzon Street, Maylene had recovered from her pique. Her hat never would. Neither would Socrates.

  He sat opposite her in the carriage, arms crossed over his chest as he watched her fluff her curls and dab at her damp neckline. Damn, he thought, the little fool had no idea what notions such actions could provoke in a man. And he was a bigger fool for having the notions. “You are totally without principles and utterly incorrigible, Miss Treadwell. You have betrayed that man’s trust and forced me into committing dishonorable acts in order to protect your reputation.”

  “And you were brilliant. Thank you.”

  She sent him another of those sunshine smiles, the kind that had to warm the coldest heart, he decided. So what if he was the biggest fool in kingdom come? He smiled back. “I was, wasn’t I?”

  “Definitely. Now all I have to do is check parish records for Hans Town and have Campbell’s nephews ask some questions of neighbors’ servants. We’ll know in a few days if young Francis Fountain, or whatever the Macaleers call him, is in need of his mother’s assistance.”

  “And if he is not, will you still let Florrie go disrupt their lives? Perhaps they don’t want him to know he’s not their flesh and blood. Or that his mother is a light-skirt.”

  “I think that if the little boy seems content with his life, then I will speak to the Macaleers and ask their preferences before giving Miss Lafontaine their direction. That seems fair, don’t you think?”

  “You are actually asking me, Miss Treadwell? Now I might swoon.”

  When they reached Treadwell House, more in charity with each other than they’d been since their first introduction, Maylene invited the earl in for tea.

  As he followed her to the parlor, Hyatt asked, “What, your private preacher hasn’t eaten everything up?”

  “Oh, Florrie—Miss Lafontaine, that is—frightened him off. He didn’t mind damaging our reputations, but his own was a different m
atter. I only wish I’d had a chance to ask him the name of his church.”

  “Good grief, never tell me you are thinking of joining his congregation?”

  “No, just an odd thought I had.”

  Lady Tremont and her aunt were already sitting around the tea service. Maylene rang for fresh hot water while she listened to them itemize their purchases. “What a lovely afternoon you missed, dear,” her mother said. “And you also missed Lord Shimpton with his new pet.”

  Maylene reached for the plate of lemon tarts, to offer them to Hyatt. “Ah, he found a dog, then?”

  “Not exactly.” Lady Tremont recounted Shimpton’s tale while Aunt Regina sat chortling.

  “Do you really think he couldn’t tell the difference? Not even Shimpton could be so buffle-headed, could he?”

  The earl was carefully considering her questions, but Lady Tremont answered, “Oh, no, he knew it was a cat. A pretty little tortoiseshell kitten, now that it’s clean and dry. But he swears he was fated to rescue the little mite, that Max and Alex foretold it and led his footsteps right to the tiny creature.”

  “And you should see him carry on with it,” Aunt Regina added. “He wears the cat around his neck like a boa, saying he’s going to start a new fashion. Now that I think of it, I had an ermine tippet once, with little glass eyes. I haven’t seen it this age.”

  “It was a horrid weasel, and the moths got to it.” Lady Tremont shuddered in remembrance.

  Aunt Regina shrugged her padded shoulders. “At least it hides his weak chin.”

  “Perhaps there is a divine plan after all.” Hyatt was smiling.

  Lady Tremont was not. “You also missed Lieutenant Canfield, Maylene. He came to bid us farewell. He is returning to his family’s home in Hampshire.”

  “How nice for him, Mama.”

  “Nice?” Lady Tremont was looking at her daughter the same way she used to when a much younger Maylene tore her petticoats. “He is going home to make an offer for his childhood sweetheart. He was so impressed with the dear admiral’s words that he has decided to put his luck to the test”

  “And I am sure he’ll succeed,” Maylene said. “A girl would have to be attics-to-let to let him get away.”

  Her mother might have been eating sour lemons instead of lemon tarts. “That’s precisely my thinking. Why, with a little encouragement you could have—”

  “But let me tell you our news, Mama, Aunt Regina. Lord Hyatt and I have accomplished a great deal today.”

  The earl and Maylene were smiling at each other, Lady Tremont noted. Now that was a great accomplishment, indeed. Miss Lafontaine’s son could cross his own bridges.

  *

  Little Frankie Macaleer was not crossing any bridges, however. He was crossing the Atlantic Ocean.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Fleur shed a few tears. She blotted at her darkened eyes with a tiny scrap of lace-edged lawn.

  Maylene shed more. Hyatt handed her his monogrammed handkerchief.

  Fleur’s perfect complexion stayed unblemished; Maylene’s cheeks turned all splotchy, her eyes red and swollen. Hyatt felt his own throat grow raw at seeing her tears.

  “I thought you’d be pleased that the boy is well cared for and doesn’t need anything, Florrie,” he said.

  “But it’s the end of the world he’s going to. I’ll never get to see him.”

  Socrates refrained from saying that she’d made that choice nine years ago. “It sounds like a great opportunity for his father, to manage a sugar plantation in Jamaica.”

  “And the neighbors said the whole family was excited to be going,” Maylene added. “Especially little Frankie and his sister.”

  “To think my boy has a sister,” Fleur sobbed. “Why, it’s almost as if I lost two babies.”

  Lord Hyatt had insisted on accompanying Maylene to Miss Lafontaine’s little row house on the outskirts of Town. A ladybird’s love nest was no place for a lady, but for Miss Treadwell to be meeting Florrie in public would have been worse. Now he was sorry he’d come. The place was respectable enough, neat and uncluttered, with no signs of Florrie’s latest protector. And the women were weeping over good news. “Dash it, Florrie, you should be happy the boy doesn’t need your blunt. He’s never wanted for anything, and won’t, if the father is as ambitious and hardworking as the local curate reported.”

  His words did not seem to comfort the flame-haired woman, for she cried louder. “Now that I’ve got the brass, it’s too late to do any good with it.”

  Maylene blew her nose. Hyatt should have been disgusted at her sniveling and her flushed face. He wasn’t. He wanted to comfort her—in his arms. Lud, where had that thought come from? He should be admiring the high-flyer’s still stunning looks, rather than Miss Treadwell’s high color.

  “It’s never too late to do good,” she was saying now. “Why don’t you take the money that you would have given to Frankie and donate it to a worthy cause? I know of a deserving charity.”

  She knew of an ugly Chinese urn. Socrates suddenly decided Miss Treadwell’s eyes were shifty and her face was spotty. And she had that same revolting drip at the end of her nose as that makebait cousin, Tremont. She must have manufactured those tears the same way her mother scripted her conversations with the deceased. Damn her for being the Devil’s handmaiden.

  “There is an orphans’ home in Bloomsbury,” Maylene continued, explaining to Fleur, “where my mother and I read to the children once a week. The orphans never have enough food or warm clothes, and they get almost no education. We do what we can, but it is a pittance compared to what the boys and girls need.”

  Hyatt sighed. Miss Treadwell was an angel. And she was beautiful, inside and out. Swollen face, squinty eyes, shaky morals and all—she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  “Orphanages are dreadful,” Fleur agreed. “That’s why I made sure my boy was going to be adopted, going to the solicitors all legal-like. I never wanted him to land in a place like that.”

  “But not every child can be as fortunate as Frankie—Francis—in his mother or in his adoptive parents.”

  “You’re right, Miss Treadwell, and I’ll do just what you say. I’ll make me a generous donation in my baby’s name. Aye, and get Gilly to cough up some blunt, too. He’s likely fathered a few of the poor bastards himself in the orphans’ asylum, so he’d ought. If I contribute enough of the ready, maybe they’ll let me visit with the nippers, despite my, ah, profession.”

  Maylene was sure they would. “I’ll speak to Matron for you. Or you could come with Mother and me at nine of the clock on Tuesday morning.”

  Hyatt coughed. “I doubt Miss Lafontaine rises so early.”

  Maylene blushed, adding even more color to her reddened face. “You will be welcome whenever you choose to visit, mademoiselle. And here,” she said, pushing forward the leather wallet that Fleur had paid her in reward money. “Add this to your donation.”

  “No, lovey, I can’t do that. You earned it, fair and square. I asked you to find the boy and find him you did.”

  “But the children at the orphanage need the money much more than I do.”

  Fleur eyed her guest’s worn gloves and unadorned gown. She wasn’t so sure. It was going to take more than a fashionable crop and angel blue eyes to win the likes of the Ideal. She pushed the wallet back across the low table between them. “But you can help teach the tykes their letters, and I’d never be able to do that.”

  “And I’ll add my donation to Florrie’s so they won’t miss yours, Miss Treadwell,” the earl said, which caused Maylene to cry some more.

  “You’re a good girl, miss, and a real lady,” Fleur told her. “And you deserve something special for the favor you’ve done me, and all those others you’ve helped. No, I don’t mean more blunt.” She held up her hand when Maylene would have protested. “Something just for you.” Fleur reached up and lifted a necklace over her head and held it out to Maylene.

  Now Socrates felt like crying. The pe
arls were bigger and longer than the ones he’d handed Mondale to give her.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Maylene said.

  “Of course you can, lovey. Gilly hates me to wear them anyway because another gent gave them to me.”

  Maylene looked over to the earl, who nodded. Then she put the pearls on, and Fleur led her to the mantelplace mirror to admire them. Socrates thought they looked absurd on the dull-as-ditchwater dress, with her face all tear-stained and her nose shining, but what he said was, “Exquisite.”

  Maylene spun around and embraced Fleur in a hug. Fleur kissed her cheek. “Go on now, ducks, afore you make me all weepy-eyed again.”

  Then, in her excitement, Maylene turned and hugged Hyatt, too. He meant to kiss her cheek, and she meant to thank him for his support. Instead, their lips met—and stayed that way until Miss Lafontaine cleared her throat.

  Florrie wondered what would have happened if she’d given the chit diamonds.

  *

  “I am sorry,” Socrates said as soon as they were back in his open carriage, Jem Groom driving his chestnuts. He was not sorry at all.

  Maylene did not pretend to misunderstand. She could feel the blush starting at her toes, which had barely stopped tingling from the pressure of his kiss. It was all she could do not to reach up and touch her lips in wonder. “No, do not apologize, my lord. It is I who must beg your pardon. Why, I practically threw myself at you. You were only…only reacting.”

  “Dash it, I am a grown man in control of my emotions, not an unlicked cub overcome by lust.”

  And she was a grown woman who eschewed emotions in favor of logic and reason. Yet they had shared a kiss—in front of a courtesan—that could have lit a fire in Florrie’s hearth. “I am equally to blame, so let us forget that anything happened.” She might forget her own name, sooner.

  “But you still persist in thinking that I go around kissing every woman in sight, innocents as well as those in the muslin trade. As a matter of record, Miss Treadwell, I do not as a rule take liberties with young ladies, and Florrie and I were never lovers.”