by Joan Smith
“I was playing with Uncle Cottrell and some other saints when she summoned me. So boring, not even any good gossip, but only prosing on about politics. You must tell me what politics is all about some day. Now I shall read my novel.”
“Fine, you do that,” he said.
She frowned as he left. Was that why he said he hadn’t stolen the diamond? Because he meant to pay Charney in cash?
Belami straightened his shoulders, put a politely indifferent smile on his face, and strode up to Her Grace’s chamber. The duchess sat up in bed, pillows piled around her like a sultan.
“Oh, it’s you, Belami. I sent for your mama,” she told him, lifting her chin to show she had taken umbrage.
“Unfortunately, Mama is indisposed.”
“Small wonder, with this miserable business on her hands,” Her Grace replied with relish.
“New Year’s is always a trifle trying, is it not? I expect she had more champagne than was good for her. Was there something you wanted, Duchess?”
“Yes, I wanted to talk to your mama. Why do you think I sent for her?”
“I shall be happy to relay any message for you.”
“Hmph. You can tell her for me this is a demmed lumpy mattress she has given me.”
“Would you like to have it exchanged? Another room, perhaps?”
“No, no, I just got settled in here.”
“Any other messages to add?” he asked with a satirical glint in his eyes. “Damp sheets, smoky flue, draughty windows . . .”
“Heh heh, you’re a caution, Belami. I like a lad with spirit. Sit down. Sit down, boy, and talk to me. I’m bored to finders with no company but my own. I believe I shall go down to dinner. That was really what I wished to tell your mama.”
“She will be delighted to hear it,” he said with a slight inclination of his head.
“Yes, since the betrothal is on, it is high time we make the announcement formally. We’ll do it at dinner this evening, which is why I must be there. Your Uncle Cottrell will do the pretty. Tell him so.”
He leveled a black stare at her. “It will be best to wait till the storm is over and it can be announced simultaneously in the London papers,” he parried.
“That was never the plan. Planning to shear off on us?” she asked with a narrow-eyed glare in his direction.
“One never knows how an incident such as the loss of your diamond will affect a relationship.”
“It hasn’t affected us. Deirdre and I. Nothing has been said about calling off. Speak to Cottrell. Have it announced,” she ordered.
He gave a barely perceptible nod of his head in grim acquiescence to her command. He did not wish to annoy her at this time, as he had some fairly impertinent questions to put to her. He began with vague queries as to where she usually kept the diamond. Insurance was not involved in the theory currently favored that Deirdre was involved. And as this was so, why had the theft been done so publicly and dangerously?
“When we picked it up at the bank, we drove directly to my home—Herr Bessler and myself, I refer to. We had a glass of sherry, and he left. Here is where it has rested, from the minute I got it from the vault.” She slapped her bony breast. “I had it on under my gown during the trip here and all the time I was here. What has that to do with anything? We know when and where it was stolen.”
“I like a clear picture of all that led up to it. Did Bidwell happen to call on you during the latter part of December?”
“Certainly not! I don’t encourage such seven-day beaux as that to dangle after Deirdre. Especially when she was already engaged.”
He saw that it would have been impossible to steal the diamond without assaulting the duchess, as she wore the thing on her. That could account for doing it in public perhaps. “It is dangerous traveling with jewels. Did you never consider having paste replicas made, as so many do?”
“Duchesses do not wear paste,” she decreed grandly. Then she relented, slapped her knee, and cackled like a hen. “By God, I wish I had! What clever thoughts have been going through my mind as I lie here alone. If I had a copy, and it had been stolen before the claim ran out, I could have claimed my reward and still have kept my jewel. Not that I could have worn it in public again. No, there was no copy. Never mind thinking what you are thinking, my lad. Duchesses don’t lie either.”
“They do read minds, do they?” he asked with a flashing smile to which even an aging duchess was not entirely immune.
“By Jove, I can’t quite read yours. Why are you asking these questions? What are you after, eh?”
He hardly knew, but he plodded on, picking up such details as had occurred to him during the day. “Are Bidwell and Bessler on terms?” he asked. If Bidwell hadn’t called in person, then he must have had a go-between.
“Nodding acquaintances, no more, until they turned up here together. I believe they frequent the same club. Not one of the grander ones, of course. Do you think that rattle of a Bidwell is involved?”
“I’m still open-minded on the matter. If you have no further messages for my mother, I shall leave you now, Your Grace.”
“Send someone up to amuse me.”
“Herr Bessler?”
“I’m bored with him too. Send Cottrell. I’ll give him a quizzing about politics. His monologues are better than Bessler’s for closing my eyes. He could put Macbeth to sleep.”
“I believe he is at cards.”
“Bother! Send someone. Send Pronto Pilgrim.” Belami felt that was a meeting he would not mind auditing, but as he had more pressing matters to attend to, he found Pronto and sent him up.
“Me? What does she want to see me for?”
“She’s lonesome,” Dick told him.
“If she wasn’t such a nag she wouldn’t be lonesome. Nobody goes near her if they can help it. Dashed harpy. I’ll take cards. That’ll keep her quiet.”
Chapter 9
There was a music room at Beaulac in the west wing. As Bertie did not play any instrument, nor much like to listen to music, it was not a well-used chamber, but when Belami reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard the ghostly, distant sound of a piano badly out of tune. Curious, he walked along the corridor to see who was brave enough to tackle it. Lady Lenore, he thought, judging from the sprightly waltz, which grew louder as he approached the door. He was greatly surprised to see Deirdre Gower at the keyboard, her hands flying over the ivories and her whole body swaying in time to the music. He had never credited her with much sense of rhythm. Dancing with her on the few occasions when he had done so was much like dancing with an articulated doll. The limbs moved, but jerkily. He should have suspected from her undulating walk that she had rhythm.
She finished the tune and sat still, her head drooping forward. A deep sigh escaped her, followed by a word that sounded like “damn.”
Belami lightly clapped his hands and walked forward. “Bravo, Deirdre. One of Méhul’s waltzes, wasn’t it?”
Her head whipped around to stare at him. “Your piano is out of tune,” she said, and immediately got up from the bench.
“You seem a little off-key yourself. Till you join my family, we have no one who plays.”
“I’m not joining your family,” she said firmly.
“I wish you would tell your aunt so. She has just ordered me to make the announcement this evening.”
“No! You mustn’t, Belami,” she pleaded.
“It will come as a shock to a few people,” he said, looking to see what reaction this got.
“What do you mean?”
“I was thinking of Bidwell,” he told her.
“Bidwell? What has it to do with him?” she asked, her face a mask of incomprehension. It was enough to make him doubt his convictions in that regard. Was it possible he was wrong about Bidwell?
He gave his enigmatic Mona Lisa smile, designed to confuse his victims.
“I’m not marrying you,” she said, and made to brush past him. Quick as a lizard’s blink, his hand flew out and grabbed her arm.
She was jerked to a stop, and looked up at him. There was hardly six inches between them. His eyes held hers, then he slid his gaze down to her lips. She had the strongest sensation he was going to kiss her. Something in her chest began growing and expanded till she felt suffocated. Her breaths came in quick, light sounds.
“You had best tell your aunt so,” he said, and with a little laugh he released her arm.
“Don’t worry, I will,” she shot back, and marched from the room. Even when she was angry her hips swayed. He stood watching her retreat, with an appreciative smile on his face.
Her Grace was playing piquet with Pronto when Deirdre burst in on them. “I must speak to you at once, Auntie,” Deirdre said.
“Be happy to leave,” Pronto offered with the greatest alacrity. Demmed duchess was cheating. She’d dealt herself a pair of face cards from the bottom of the deck, or her nightgown sleeve, or under her coverlet. Wasn’t even a good cheat. The two cards she’d discarded peeped up from under the blankets. She’d won a golden boy from him too, by Jove. Dick had to hear about this. A woman who’d cheat at cards would cheat at diamonds too.
“Very well. Run along, Pronto,” the duchess said.
“I don’t want you to announce the betrothal this evening,” Deirdre said as soon as they were alone.
“I wish we had announced it in London the day he offered. He wished to tell his mama first in person, he said. It was a put-off, Widgeon. If you cannot get him to the altar now, when he is in such deep disgrace with us over my diamond, you’ll never accomplish it. Strike while the iron is hot, my girl. It’ll cool down soon enough,” the duchess advised her.
“I don’t wish to take advantage of the situation. It isn’t fair,” Deirdre replied with a noble toss of her head.
“All is fair in love and war,” her aunt pointed out.
“But this is not love.”
“No, ninny, it is war. You’re fighting for a husband. I’ve done the reconnaissance for you. I’ve worked him into a corner and spiked his guns. Ha, he’ll have you now. See if he don’t.”
“But I don’t want to marry him.”
“Enough of your but’s,” the duchess said peremptorily. “You didn’t want to marry Lord Twombley either, a perfectly respectable earl, with ten thousand a year. What do you want? I am not a hard woman, Deirdre, but I am not quite a fool either. I’m eighty years old, and if I see eighty-one I shall count myself blessed. I have a fortune to leave you. I mean to see a decent gentleman in charge of it and you before I go. Belami is well to grass. He ain’t overlooking my money, but he ain’t marrying you for it either. He has plenty of his own. What’s amiss with the fellow? I swear I could take a tumble for him myself, if I were half a century younger. He’s got a flashing eye in his head that could melt a milestone.”
“Well, it doesn’t melt me,” Deirdre said mulishly.
“I said a milestone, not an iceburg. Have you been trotting after that nipper of a Bidwell?” the duchess asked, wearing a sharp, questioning look.
“Certainly not. Where does everyone get that idea?”
“Belami seemed to think so. I took the notion he was very jealous.”
“Really?” Deirdre asked with a little smile turning up the corners of her lips.
“Why, he asked a million questions about him and you,” the aunt exaggerated wildly. She was indeed no fool. She knew a girl didn’t smile at a charge of jealousy on her lover’s part if it didn’t please her. And why should it please her, if she was as indifferent as she claimed regarding Belami? “If you want to hold off a little on the announcement, it is quite all right with me. You may tell him I said so,” the duchess added, to ensure another meeting between the brangling lovers.
“Thank you. I shall,” Deirdre replied. With a pretty curtsy, she turned and darted from the room to seek out Belami, and if she had any opportunity to flirt with Bidwell in front of him, she’d do that as well.
She went to Snippe’s door and rapped. Pronto opened the door an inch to squelch any caller. “We’re busy,” he told her.
“I wish to speak to Belami. It won’t take a moment,” she told him, and pushed her way in.
“Matter of fact, I want to speak to you,” Pronto decided, and shut the door. “That aunt of yours—a regular Captain Sharp. ‘Pon my word, she yanked a pair of kings from her sleeve and fleeced me with them.”
“She only cheats when she knows she’s playing with a Johnnie Raw,” Deirdre said, then turned to Belami. “I spoke to Auntie. You are not to announce the engagement this evening after all,” she told him, with a vastly superior smile. “Ac-tually, I doubt that you’ll ever be announcing it at all.”
“I am much obliged to you, ma’am,” he replied with a stiff bow.
“The pleasure is all mine.”
“One hesitates to disagree with a lady, but I must insist the pleasure is mutual.”
“Then you should have been firmer with Her Grace,” Deirdre answered, trying to control her rage at his arrogant sneer.
“I am but a reed in the wind, vis-à-vis the ladies. They command, and I am honored to obey.” A little bow accompanied this satirical utterance.
“I must go and speak to Bidwell now,” she retaliated. “You wouldn’t know where he is, Pronto?” she asked, never looking within a right angle of Belami but noticing from the corner of her eye the sudden jerk of his head toward her.
“Billiards room, all alone and smoking a cigar. Place is blue with smoke.”
“Thank you.” She left the room, slamming the door behind her.
It was opened much more quietly than it had been closed, to allow Belami to watch her route. She did not go toward the billiards room, but returned upstairs to begin her toilette for dinner.
“Bidwell. Looks black,” Pronto said wisely.
“She didn’t go to him,” Belami pointed out.
“Mentioned him. Going to tell him she don’t have to marry you. Pleased as punch about it. Quite a facer for you, Dick, being jilted.”
“It’s better than being shackled to her. Ac-tually, I’d sooner fry in hades than be that woman’s husband.”
“Expect you’ll get your wish,” Pronto told him with a hateful smirk.
Deirdre made a careful toilette, to appear in best form to flirt with Bidwell and make Belami jealous. She had not previously indulged in the primeval pastime of flirtation and had therefore little idea how to set about it. Her aunt was right. This was war. In her mind there was a vague intention of bringing Belami to his knees before her. He was a toplofty, haughty, spoiled rake who deserved a lesson.
She chose a white crepe gown with spider gauze overskirt. She had to arrange her own hair, as the duchess monopolized the woman who, in theory, was dresser to them both. As she brushed out her dark curls, she remembered Belami’s request that she wear it loose, for him. Why had he said that if he was so happy to be free of her? She would wear it loose and be sure to mention to Dick that Bidwell preferred it this way. It looked rather nice, she thought as she brushed back a wave, which fell forward again in a provocative curl at her temple. She usually wore simple pearl earrings, but for this occasion she borrowed a much finer pair of her aunt’s dangling diamond drops, which bounced against her cheeks when she turned her head. The scent bottle was used to anoint her wrists, the back of her ears, the hollow between her bosoms, as she had seen Lady Lenore do. Why would she put perfume there? In her innocence, she supposed the perfume wafted up, to enchant a lady’s partner.
When she was finished, she pirouetted in front of the mirror feeling strangely reckless, with the heady perfume around her, the earrings bobbing against her cheeks, and her hair untrammeled and abandoned, now that it was free of its pins. She smiled at the image in the mirror and found the smile unsatisfactory. It looked cold, unenchanting. She remembered watching Lady Lenore the night before. A strange, lazy smile she had, with her eyelids half closed, while she peered up through them at her admirers, with her head tilted. Deirdre tried this trick, and was satisfied that it
added warmth to her manner. She played with her fan, covering her lips with it and batting her lashes, then slowly sliding it aside from her lips. It was really quite simple, once you got the hang of it.
When she descended with her aunt to the saloon for a glass of sherry before dinner, she was careful to take up a chair beside Bidwell.
“How have you managed to get in this long day, Bidwell?” She pitched her voice low, to lend it an intimate sound.
He turned and cast a surprised smile on her. “I have been desperately lonesome, ma’am. Where did you choose to hide yourself?”
This uninspired reply brought forth a throaty laugh that sent Belami’s head turning to observe her. Throwing herself at Bidwell to the top of her bent, the hussy!
“Here and there,” she said, plying the fan. “Mostly in the music room. Just me and one very much out-of-tune piano.”
“Lucky piano! Had I been there, I could have accompanied you. I sing out-of-tune quite naturally. We shall have plenty of time for duets. I fear we’re here for a few days, since the road hasn’t been cleared.”
“You’ll know where to find me next time,” she told him.
The innocent flirtation continued. Once Belami had established in his mind what was afoot, he didn’t pass another glance in that direction, but went to Lady Lenore to engage her in some more advanced carrying on.
“I see Charney has recovered sufficiently to come downstairs,” Lenore mentioned.
“I’m the one who deserves to be in bed. I must stand buff if her jewel isn’t recovered.”
“Poor Dickie,” she cooed. “Lucky we have Paris to look forward to. When will be convenient for you?”
“Tonight would be convenient for me,” he answered daringly.
She laughed and tapped his wrist with her fan. “Naughty boy! Chamfreys wouldn’t like that. Be patient. I can get away the third week of January. Is that date good for you?”
Panic rose in him. He didn’t want to become heavily enmeshed with Lenore, but to make an excuse would put her out of sorts, and cut off any help she might give him in solving the case. “The sooner, the better,” he said with a good semblance of eagerness.