Miss Treadwell's Talent

by Barbara Metzger

  “Then tomorrow? Shall I invite the duke for tomorrow?”

  “Oh, goodness. Tomorrow we are promised for the theater, and the next evening we should have your cousin Grover and Miss Tolliver-Jones over for dinner to celebrate their betrothal.”

  Maylene was willing to celebrate getting Grover out of their hair, but poor Miss Tolliver-Jones ought to be receiving condolences! “I think they will be off on their honeymoon by then, if Lady Crowley has anything to say about it and if she can procure a special license in time. The sooner the two are wed, the sooner the gossip will cease. Besides, I am sure the duke will not wish to wait so long before hearing our theories.”

  “Oh, do we have theories, dear?” Lady Tremont rose and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “I knew you would figure it out, darling. You have such a knack for that kind of thing. I am truly blessed to have such a talented daughter.” She started out of the room, but Maylene blocked the door.

  “Oh, no you don’t, Mama. You are not leaving until you explain why you are suddenly loath to hold a gathering and what has you so upset. Has the duke made you improper advances?” Mondale’s friend was a rogue; the duke might very well be one also. Maylene wasn’t sure what she could do about it, for a young woman of one-and-twenty could not challenge a duke to a duel, and their only male relative was hardly fit for the field of honor. Besides, Maylene did not believe in violence, unless, of course, someone had insulted her mother.

  “His Grace? Of course not. He has been everything kind and…and delightful.” With those words, Lady Tremont sank onto the sofa, her head in the cushions, weeping.

  “Goodness, Mama, an eminently eligible gentleman is treating you well, and all you can do is cry? That makes no sense. Don’t you like Mondale?”

  “Yes, I do,” her mother waited, dampening the sofa pillows. “But…but I don’t think Max does.”

  Now was not, perhaps, the best time to remind her mother that Max was deceased. “Um, why would you think that?”

  “Because he was so uncooperative at the last session, giving us nothing but that silly dog’s yammering.”

  Maylene knelt by the side of the sofa, stroking her mother’s hair. “But, Mama, if the people we are looking for are not in the beyond, it might be beyond Max’s powers to help us locate them.”

  “No, he is upset, I know it. He thinks I am being unfaithful.”

  “How can you be unfaithful now, when you were married all those years? Heavens, you said Max was married, too!”

  “But Max was merely fond of his wife, and I never cared for your father, no, not the slightest. He was not a very nice man, you know.”

  “But the duke is, and you do care for him?”

  “Yes!” Lady Tremont moaned into the pillows, her shoulders shaking.

  “And does His Grace reciprocate your feelings?” Maylene thought she knew, but wanted to hear her mother’s opinion.

  The baroness sniffled. “I think so, but he is so upset over his daughter that it is too soon to say. And he did love his wife, you know.”

  “And you loved Max. That does not mean you both have to be alone for the rest of your lives.”

  “But my dearest Max will be! Alone, that is, for the rest of eternity. Except for that stupid dog that ran into the burning building instead of barking for help. I never told Max, of course, but Alex had the brains of a flea.” She sobbed again. Her words were muffled by the pillows. “And he had fleas, besides.”

  Maylene felt they were digressing. “But just because you feel affection for the duke and he for you”—Maylene crossed her fingers in hope—“doesn’t have to mean that you cannot still love Max.”

  “I shall love dear Max forever,” the baroness declared, her voice quavering. “But he is only a man, no matter how immaterial or immortal. What if he does not understand and thinks I am being disloyal to his memory? He’ll leave me, and then, when the duke gets his daughter back, he’ll also leave me. You’ll go off and get married, if God is merciful and answers a mother’s prayers, and I’ll have no one! I’ll be all alone with Aunt Regina!”

  “Mama, Max loved you—you said so yourself. And his love stayed so strong even after he went aloft”—ashes, Alex, and all—“that he can come back from the beyond to comfort and guide you. How could anyone who loved so deeply, so endlessly, not wish to see his dear one happy?”

  Lady Tremont lifted her head from the cushions before she suffocated. “Do you think so, dear?”

  “I think we had better ask Max tonight to make sure.”

  And they’d invite Lord Hyatt, of course.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Oh, how vexatious, Max. You say that Lord Crowley made time tonight to come hear his beloved wife’s final farewell message? The dear woman will be so sorry she missed him!”

  The dear woman had not forgiven her friend for being related to a ne’er-do-well knave who went around compromising young females into advantageous marriages—advantageous to the balding baron, of course. Lady Crowley had also been too embarrassed to show her face in public, and too distraught over having to write to her sister and brother-in-law that their daughter was to be wed in the morning to a lecherous lordling with pockets to let. Then again, the chit’s titters were so annoying, they ought to be happy to be rid of her at any price. Having Grover in one’s family, despite the title, was a heavy price indeed. Lady Crowley envisioned nothing coming from the match but thin-haired, runny-nosed little sneaksbys with incessant giggles. No, Lady Crowley could not face leaving her bedchamber and her restoratives.

  Without the widow, Lieutenant Canfield, or Sir Cedric and his wife, who had reconciled themselves to the loss of their son, they were a small group at Lady Tremont’s round, dimly lighted table that evening. Even Aunt Regina had begged off, still feeling dyspeptic after her raid on Lady Belvedere’s buffet.

  There were so few gathered to join their mental energies, in fact, that Lady Tremont insisted Lord Hyatt and Maylene take up places at the table, along with Frederick, Viscount Shimpton; James, the Duke of Mondale; and Campbell, the butler of Treadwell House.

  Maylene thought her mother might want her nearby for comfort, and was touched. Then she touched the earl’s bare hand and suspected her mother’s motives as more matchmaking maneuvers. Drat! How was she supposed to concentrate on the beyond when she kept wondering what his lordship’s skin felt like, beyond his cool, firm grasp. She supposed his body under the blue superfine, under the thin linen shirt, would be all-over hard with muscles, lean and— She caught herself from leaning closer, drawn by his citrus and spice cologne.

  Shimpton’s sweaty palm on her other side did not aid her in communing with the afterworld, either, for it kept her thinking of washing afterward. At least he no longer smelled so bad, if one did not mind the aroma of kippered herring that lingered about him, since the addlepate would insist on stuffing his pockets with treats for his kitten. The feline did not seem to mind at all, sleeping in a contented ball on his lap. Since the viscount had hurriedly purchased a striped waistcoat and dark pantaloons to match the little creature, the cat hairs did not show so much.

  The evening had begun as usual, with Lady Tremont’s chanting, swaying, and whispers of encouragement for everyone to focus their thoughts on their loved ones who had passed on. Her eyes firmly closed, Lady Tremont had called out to Max. And again. Then she had smiled, a beatific, blissful smile. Maylene could breathe again.

  “Max, dear, you came. I was so worried and afraid. I don’t know what I would have done if you left me again.” She paused to listen. “What’s that, dear? You couldn’t help the first time? Of course not. I never blamed you for dying. For staying at an inferior inn, perhaps, or for sleeping so soundly after a night of indulgence, but— What did you say, dear? I cannot hear you because of the noise.”

  Maylene looked at Campbell, who shook his head. They’d had nothing planned for the session. His nephews were out making inquiries about the investigations with the lists the duke had provided, so the adjoining
room was empty. Aunt Regina’s groans could not be heard at this distance.

  “It sounds like…” Lady Tremont’s smile faded. “Oh, you brought Alex again. Yes, I brought Mondale, but it’s not the same. No, His Grace is not a lapdog, Max.”

  Hyatt’s brows were lowered, giving him his habitual severe, dark look, but the duke was chuckling. Lady Tremont went on. “Yes, dear, I know Alex is good company, but must he bark so much when we are trying to converse? What’s that? He’s very excited tonight? Max, dear, Alex is always excited. I hope they have no carpets where you are now. But shall we get on with the night’s inquiries? Yes, dear, I suppose that if we think loving thoughts for a moment he will calm down.”

  “Nice doggy, good Alex,” Lady Tremont chanted, urging the others to join in while she muttered under her breath, “I don’t see why the little ratter cannot go on to the Happy Hunting Ground on his own for once.”

  The noise must have died down, for the baroness smiled again and started to announce Lord Shimpton’s presence, who had come to talk to his much-mourned mama. That’s when Max reported Lord Crowley’s availability.

  “Perhaps he will be free another night, dear, to honor us with his presence. With him going off in that carriage accident that way, the river and all, why, I am sure he’ll want to say good-bye to his beloved wife, too. Meantime, Lord Shimpton has come to introduce his new pet to his dear mother.” The viscount lifted the kitten onto the table, where it stuck its little claws into the linen cloth and arched its back at the candelabrum in the center.

  The baroness freed her hands from the duke’s on one side and Hyatt’s on the other to clamp them over her ears. “Yes, I know it’s a cat! Please tell Alex that it is all right! He says what? Max, what language! You should wash his mouth out with soap! No, not with a kitten, with soap!”

  Shimpton quickly scooped the cat back into his lap, under his waistcoat, scaring the creature worse than any barking could.

  “Lady Shimpton?” the baroness reminded Max with more than a hint of impatience. “Is she nearby to speak a few words to her loving son?”

  She was. Lady Tremont grew stiff and still, trembling for an instant. Then her eyes snapped open, and her nose twitched. “I smell cat piss!” she shrilled in Lady Shimpton’s voice. “Devil take it, sonny, you’ve gone and got a cat instead of a dog! And you should have been looking for a bride in the first place! Didn’t I tell you so?”

  “Mumsy? You said to find someone to love me. At least I thought that’s what you meant. Neptune loves me.”

  “Neptune? What kind of asinine name is that for a she-cat?”

  “He’s a girl?” Shimpton pulled the kitten out of his waistcoat and held it up, dangling. While the cat yowled its displeasure, Maylene peeked over the viscount’s padded shoulders and past his ear-high shirt points. “Yes, she is.”

  “How can you—”

  Lady Shimpton’s voice quickly interrupted: “Neptune? Petunia is more like it.”

  “No, I’ll just call her Tune, I suppose.”

  Maylene felt like clapping. The viscount was developing a backbone after all these years. She hoped he’d try for a chin next. She reached over to pat the cat, which immediately sank tiny needlelike fangs into her hand.

  “I suppose that puts you out of the running for the next Lady Shimpton,” Hyatt whispered to her as he handed over his handkerchief to bind the puncture wounds. “He’ll never take a wife his cat doesn’t like.”

  Maylene just scowled at Socrates, then caught herself. Any more association with His Arrogance and she’d have permanent frown lines on her face. She had no intention of wedding Viscount Shimpton, no matter how much he improved. Now she had to worry about pleasing the cat, though, before she found him a suitable bride. Maylene was beginning to believe that such a female did not exist.

  Lady Tremont, meanwhile, was recovering from her enactment of Shimpton’s mother with the aid of a glass of water and the duke’s solicitude. She was ready to move on. “Miss Lafontaine could not be with us this evening, Max, dear, but she sends her appreciation for your assistance in locating her son. Very well, Max, thank you to Alex also. Yes, I admit that he was correct when he said he smelled water, but he could have been a bit more specific, you know. Of course I do not expect a dog to know his geography, Max.”

  Socrates leaned closer to whisper in Maylene’s ear. “And here I always thought it was another lover who could come between a twosome. Deuce take it if it’s not a four-legged creature that makes the most awkward triangle. Never get a pet, Miss Treadwell, if you want to get a husband.”

  Lady Tremont ceased her one-sided bickering to say, “We are still seeking Mr. Joshua Collins, dear. Have you any new ideas where we might search?”

  Maylene sat forward, intent on her mother’s words. She did not expect to hear curses come out of her mother’s mouth, at least not in her mother’s own voice. “Damn it, Max. I know your blasted dog smells water. Now can you make the plaguey beast be quiet before I get the headache? We want to ask if you think Mr. Collins might be in Brighton. There is plenty of water there, you know. What’s that, dear? Bother, I can’t hear you. Now there’s loud music besides the dog’s incessant barking. What, is Lord Crowley practicing for the choir again?”

  “What kind of music, Mama?” Maylene softly called.

  “‘Tune’? Alex says ‘Tune’? Yes, that is what Lord Shimpton is calling his kitten. For Neptune, don’t you know, because he found the dear puss in the water, just as you said he would. Pardon, as Alex said he would. Yes, I think he is a good dog. No, we are not interested to know that chasing cats is not permitted in the hereafter. We wish to know if Mr. Collins is pursuing his musical career in Brighton. Do you hear violins, dear? What, they hurt Alex’s ears? I am sorry for that, to be sure, but what about Mr. Collins?”

  Lady Tremont shook her head and looked around at the little group. “‘Tune’ is all I can hear over the music and the barking. Let’s try our last inquiry, shall we?” She shut her eyes and concentrated. “Max, dear, are you still there?”

  “Where the deuce would he go?” Socrates whispered.

  “Hush,” Maylene whispered back, squeezing his hand. “She is about to ask after Lady Belinda.”

  “Right, and we might miss Belinda’s street address if we don’t listen carefully to some reincarnated dog’s yipping. I’ll wager we all get cat-scratch fever before we hear an intelligent remark.”

  Maylene feared he might be right, for her mother’s face was turning an alarming shade of purple and her cheeks were puffed out. “Yes, Brighton is on the water, and Tune is the cat, by heavens! I know Alex is excited to have the kitten around, Max, but he could try to be more considerate. A young girl is missing, and barking ‘Tune, Tune, Tune,’ at the top of his shrill lungs is no help whatsoever! He’s that excited? Oh, dear. Yes, now I understand why animals are usually not allowed past the Pearly Gates. You have to go? Of course. But you will come back another time, won’t you? Max? Dear? Oh, my. He’s gone, and I never got to say good-bye.” A tear rolled down Lady Tremont’s cheek. “Now I know how Lady Crowley must feel.”

  “He’ll come back, Mama,” Maylene hastened to reassure her mother. “Max just has other, ah, responsibilities. But Alex did seem to be affected more when you mentioned Brighton, didn’t he?”

  “I think so, May, but there was so much barking and noise that I could not be sure.”

  “And you did not recognize the music?”

  “No, I am positive it was nothing I have ever heard before.”

  “Then Brighton seems to be our only clue to both mysteries. We’ll have to go, don’t you think, Mama?”

  Hyatt’s eyes narrowed. Hell and damnation, what was it about this female that caused him to suffer from amnesia? Not five minutes in Miss Treadwell’s company, and he could forget his principles, forget his promised bride, and forget what an unparalleled adventuress the vixen was. Then she’d make a comment like the one about Brighton and restore his memory all too jarringly,
damn her. The Treadwell ladies must have gotten wind of his plans to take the duke to his country estate outside of Brighton next week, before His Grace gave himself heart palpitations with worrying over Belinda. Of course they would manage to wriggle an invitation somehow.

  Socrates had noticed the way Lady Tremont was looking at Mondale—the way a hungry cobra looked at a mouse. She’d set her sights on a bigger goal than merely lightening Mondale’s purse; now the baroness wanted the whole thing. Coiled to spring, she was not about to let the poor bastard get out of her range. And the duke didn’t even realize he was prey. Unconcerned that he was not the owner of the manor house, Mondale was even now convincing the ladies that there was plenty of room at Hyatt’s country place. They’d never find good accommodations on their own in Brighton, not with the summer season and the Prince Regent’s descent on the city so nearly upon them, Mondale explained. And why should they go to the additional expense, and suffer the discomforts and dangers of journeying without escort, besides? No, they were assisting him and Hyatt, the duke insisted. The least the men could do was invite the women to stay at High Oaks.

  “Isn’t that correct, Socrates? Tell them we’ll be delighted to have some female companionship.”

  About as delighted as the mouse.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Repent, read the placard. Leave the dead to rest, not to witches.

  “Bloody hell, it’s that pious pimple on God’s backside again.” Lord Hyatt was so angry at Maylene, so angry at the duke, and so angry at himself for being angry, that he ripped the sign from Reverend Fingerhut’s hands, tore it in two, and smashed the stave it had been nailed onto against the lamppost outside Treadwell House. The reverend fled down the street before he met a similar fate.

  “Tsk, Soc, that was a man of the cloth, no matter how deluded.”

  Socrates did not repent. Not a bit.

  “It’s not like you to be so violently wrathful. And you were nearly rude to Lady Tremont and her daughter. Ruder than usual, I should say. What’s got into you?” the duke wanted to know. “You’re not bilious from the ball like Mrs. Howard, are you?”