A Commercial Enterprise

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A Commercial Enterprise Page 26

by Sandra Heath


  “No. At least, not really—”

  “Please tell me, for maybe I can help.”

  “It’s nothing like that, it’s simply that Gaspard is not himself at all tonight. In fact I think he is quite unwell.”

  Caroline stared. “Unwell? But when I discussed the banquet menu with him he seemed in excellent spirits.”

  “So he was, but that was before something very silly upset him.”

  “What?”

  The housekeeper looked a little embarrassed. “It was so foolish, and the girl meant no harm—”

  “Please explain, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”

  “Earlier tonight there was a flower woman in Mayfair Street and one of the footmen, who is stepping out with one of the parlor maids, bought a posy of violets for his sweetheart. She pinned them to her bodice and came into the kitchens. Gaspard took one look and became so upset and angry about it that he reduced the unfortunate girl to tears. Really, Miss Lexham, it was so unlike him that I fear he must be ill, especially as he then promptly retired to his bed with another headache.”

  “He has been working very hard, and today has been very close and humid. Perhaps that is all there was to it. He will be himself again by the morning, and he will probably be so kind to the poor maid in order to make up that he will reduce her to tears all over again. Now then, don’t you worry anymore tonight.”

  Mrs. Hollingsworth smiled. “Thank you. I feel foolish for worrying now. Well, I suppose we should all retire to our beds now, for it is very late indeed, and I rather fancy that for that party of young gentlemen, there will be headaches of another sort come the morning.”

  Caroline laughed. “There will indeed, for it was not only the quantity that they celebrated with, it was the mixture. Good night, Mrs. Hollingsworth, and don’t worry anymore about Gaspard.”

  “Good night, Miss Lexham.”

  Caroline watched the housekeeper hurry away in the direction of the butler’s pantry entrance, and her smile faded a little unhappily. She could not help wishing that the housekeeper’s heart was not so engaged by Gaspard Duvall. As she walked toward her own apartment, she hoped that her unease about the chef, caused simply and solely by what she had learned from Hal, was not well founded; in fact, she hoped that Hal was totally wrong about his past.

  She lay awake in her bed, the draperies still tied back and the window open just a little to allow a small draft of air from outside. Her hair was brushed loose and not enclosed in a night bonnet, and she lay there, gazing up at the bed’s immense canopy. She heard a nearby church clock sound half past two, and then three, and she heard the watch patrolling Mayfair Street, calling out that all was well. She was very tired, but sleep was elusive. A low, distant rumble of thunder heralded the approach at last of the promised storm, and a movement of air stirred the trees in the avenues and squares, creeping into her room and moving the curtains just a little.

  Her eyes began to close. The sound of breaking glass or china carried clearly to her ears from somewhere in the house, and her eyes flew open again immediately. Alert now, she listened carefully, but there was only silence. She considered trying to sleep again, but something about the noise she had heard made her get out of the bed, pulling her shawl around her shoulders.

  Someone was moving about in the house, and there should not have been anyone at this hour. Maybe it was a guest, perhaps one of the drunken revelers, in which case she would see if she could be of some assistance; or maybe it was someone who had no right to be there at all, someone like a thief....

  She slipped stealthily from her apartment, crossing the deserted, shadowy vestibule like a white ghost in her nightgown. Silently she entered the red saloon, but all was quiet and undisturbed, as was the library and the dining room. Not an ornament was out of place. She was about to go back to her apartment when her glance fell upon the fragments of porcelain on the floor beneath the Ionic colonnade at the rear of the dining room. Swiftly she bent to inspect them, recognizing them as once having been a comfit dish which had been kept upon the Sheraton sideboard next to the entrance to the butler’s pantry and the offices beyond.

  Puzzled, she straightened once more, glancing nervously around. Someone had knocked the dish to the floor and that was what had disturbed her; but who could it have been? And where was he or she now? She stood motionless, gazing carefully at the inky shadows, but there was no movement, no sign of anything.

  Then, very softly, came the sound of a door opening somewhere in the kitchens, and she whirled about with a gasp. There was definitely someone in there! Her heart began to beat more swiftly as with one hand she gathered the thick folds of her nightgown and with the other eased open the door of the butler’s pantry. Outside the storm was nearer, a clap of thunder breaking loudly overhead and reverberating eerily through the house.

  Raindrops spattered against the window as she passed through the silent kitchens, where in the daytime all was bustle and noise, and she gave a stifled gasp as a sudden jagged flash of lightning pierced the darkness. For a moment she thought of calling out to Mrs. Hollingsworth, whose rooms lay nearby, but something kept her silent.

  The seconds passed and she gradually became aware of voices, French voices raised in anger. Recognizing one as Gaspard’s, she slipped through the laundry rooms toward the quiet, rather isolated room the chef had elected to occupy. The nearer she came to his room, the more she realized that the other raised voice belonged to Boisville, the strangely insubordinate subordinate who thought nothing of stating his disagreement with his superior.

  She reached the small passage where the chef’s room lay. Candlelight shone from beneath the door. Abruptly she halted, her breath catching silently in her throat, for by that faint light she could distinctly see the figure of a man pressed against the wall, an eavesdropper whom she recognized very clearly indeed. It was Hal.

  He was so intent upon listening to what was being said that he was not aware of her. For a moment she could not move; she could only stare at him in dismay. He had not told her the truth that day in the garden, there was still some suspicion about the chef.

  At that moment the argument seemed to come to an end and there was the sound of a chair scraping against the stone floor. The candlelight swayed as one of the men inside picked up the candlestick, and in that split second she knew that Hal would have to retreat from his place, and when he did so he would see her. Even as she turned to flee, he caught a glimpse of a phantom-like figure in white, its honey-colored hair easy to recognize.

  With a smothered curse, he pursued her, moving with such speed that he had quitted the small passageway before the door opened and the chef and Boisville emerged. Caroline had reached the dining room before Hal caught her, and her breath was stopped with a jerk as he seized her by the hand and swung her roughly back into his arms, folding her in an embrace and pressing his lips urgently over hers. He held her body close to his, his fingers coiling in the soft, warm hair at the nape of her neck, and there was nothing she could do to struggle free, nothing she could do to even move, so strong was he.

  Helplessly she pushed her hands against his chest, but to no avail. She heard the two Frenchmen approach, obviously meaning to clear away the porcelain from the broken comfit dish. The candlelight flickered, became still as they halted in surprise upon seeing what was apparently a lovers’ tryst, and then flickered again, becoming more faint as they retreated.

  For a long moment Hal continued to hold her in that ardent, but hollow embrace, and then slowly he released her. Furiously she made to strike his face, but he caught her wrist.

  “Now is neither the time nor the place, Caro.”

  “Don’t you presume to call me that!” she breathed. “And how dare you lay hands upon me in this way!”

  “Don’t be irritatingly difficult,” he snapped, his tone low and urgent. “I could do without any more problems.” Glancing in the direction of the butler’s pantry, he took her wrist again, drawing her out of the dining room toward her own private apar
tment, thrusting her inside, and closing the door firmly behind them both.

  “Now you may say your piece, madam,” he said. “And I trust that it will be brief and to the point.”

  “Oh, it will!” she replied angrily. “And it will be in the form of a question. Why did you lie to me?”

  “Lie?”

  “About suspicion falling upon Gaspard.”

  “For God’s sake, will you lower your tone. We may be private here, but not that private.”

  “Very well,” she said more restrainedly. “Why did you fob me off in the garden?”

  “I didn’t fob you off.”

  “Then why are you creeping around at might, eavesdropping upon him and then laying rough hands upon me in order to silence me about your activities?”

  “You have the answer to the last in your own question,” he said coldly. “It was done in order to keep you quiet.”

  She flushed. “A word would have sufficed to achieve that, sir.”

  “The action I took seemed more certain of success.”

  Her body stiffened. “And what might that remark be taken to mean, Sir Henry?”

  “Merely that in order to be absolutely sure that you did not utter an unwise word at a very inopportune moment, I chose to prevent all chance by kissing you. That is all.” His hazel eyes rested on her. “Which brings me to wonder why you were abroad at such a time.”

  “I heard the comfit dish break and came to investigate.”

  He gave a short laugh. “The damned cat did it.”

  “The cat?”

  He nodded. “Marcia’s cat. It seems that Duvall is in the habit of letting the wretched creature back in when it has been put out for the night. He gives it a dish of milk and lets it remain in his room. Tonight it slipped through from the kitchens, jumped onto the sideboard, and knocked the dish over. Duvall and Boisville chased after it, saw what had happened, and went to get something to clear up the bits, and it was then that they fell to arguing.” Again he gave a short laugh. “Arguing about a damned cake.”

  “Cake?”

  “A pièce montée apparently.”

  “The gâteau Wellington!”

  “I believe so. They disagreed about when it should be served, who should help to carry it, where exactly it should be placed upon the table and so on. A blasted culinary discussion! If I’d known that, I could have remained in my bed in comfort.”

  “Which brings me back to my original question, Sir Henry. Why did you lie to me?”

  “I did not lie to you, Miss Lexham.”

  “You did, sir, for you told me that there was no longer any suspicion where my chef was concerned.”

  “I said that in the past he had had doubtful connections, but that reliable intelligence had been received that there was no longer a conspiracy here. I also said that I intended to remain here until after the banquet, which inevitably means, Miss Lexham, that I will continue to keep a weather eye open. Tonight was merely another wise precaution, one of many I take. I saw the light in Duvall’s window at past three in the morning and thought it worthy of investigation. The rest you know.”

  She fell silent, for his words had the ring of truth about them.

  “I trust that you are satisfied now, madam.”

  “With your explanation? Yes, Sir Henry.”

  “Do I detect a qualification in your voice?”

  “Yes, sir, you do.” She faced him, her anger still burning strongly. “How could I be otherwise satisfied with you, Sir Henry, when I know that you hold an opinion of me which is entirely wrong? I am totally innocent of the immodest behavior of which you accuse me, and of which you still silently accuse me with each cold glance and each contemptuous word. I am no more guilty of having encouraged my cousin to embrace me than I was of encouraging you—or will you now say that I welcomed your attentions tonight, indeed that I responded to them? You have tried and condemned me without a hearing, sir, and with the true arrogance of your sex, which believes itself to be above reproach and believes womankind to be weak and untrustworthy. I will be glad when you leave this house, Sir Henry Seymour, more glad than you will ever know, for at the moment I find your presence both unwelcome and insulting. Now, if you please, I wish you to leave this apartment. Good night, sir.”

  For a moment he looked at her, his expression impenetrable. “Good night, Caro.”

  “You do not have my permission to ever address me again by that name.”

  His inclined his head and withdrew, leaving her standing there alone in the center of the unlit room. Through the slightly open window she could hear the rain falling, and in the distance the thunderstorm, following the course of the Thames. She did not cry this time; she felt unable to weep anymore. But her heart wept with love for Hal Seymour, a love that would never die and would never be returned.

  Chapter 30

  The evening of the banquet approached with almost alarming rapidity, and the last-minute preparations made life at the hotel very hectic indeed. Now it became impossible for Caroline to deal only indirectly with Hal, for there were simply too many details to be finalized, but she carried these painful meetings off by being always strictly correct, observing every tiny rule of etiquette, and seeming to deliberately distance herself from him.

  But if that was the outward impression her conduct gave, inside the story was still sadly unchanged. Each time she saw him she wanted to reach out to him, she wanted to tell him how much she loved him, she wanted to feel his arms around her and his lips over hers; but all these things were forever denied her and so she hid the truth behind a facade of cool indifference.

  His manner toward her remained more or less the same as it had been since the night his sister had married. He was polite, but not warm, he afforded her all the necessary courtesies, but he did not smile at her—and never once did he call her Caro.

  In this strained atmosphere, they dealt successfully with all the details, their discussions covering every minute of the evening, from the moment the duke’s carriage and its escort of light dragoons arrived, to the moment they departed again in the small hours.

  The duke’s small procession would inevitably be followed into the courtyard by a considerable crowd. There would be servants carrying flambeaux, and the flanking buildings would be bedecked with colored lanterns. The house itself would be ablaze with lights, and the grand balcony would be swathed in patriotic red, white, and blue silk and made bright with more lanterns.

  From this vantage point young girls would scatter rose petals down upon the duke as he alighted at the steps below, ascending to the doorway on a carpet of flowers and leaves to be greeted by Caroline. They would then proceed through the vestibules between an avenue of orange trees, surrounded by walls decorated with military standards and union jacks, and all the while an orchestra would be playing “Rule Britannia.”

  It had been agreed with the duke that to satisfy the demands of the adoring crowd in the courtyard, he would make an appearance on the grand balcony. After this, he would descend once more to enter the dining room, once again to triumphant music from the orchestra.

  The dining room would be a vision of splendor, its walls draped with scarlet and gold velvet, adorned with military standards and laurel wreaths. There would be flowers everywhere, white carnations, scarlet roses, and blue hyacinths, and on the three long tables that replaced the single one of mahogany, there would be snowy-white cloths and countless tall wax tapers in silver-gilt stands.

  On a dais opposite the Ionic colonnade and the entrance to the butler’s pantry would be the table where the guests-of-honor would sit. Their backs would be to the windows, and the great curtains would be tightly closed, forming a perfect background to the magnificent canopy that would be above the duke’s seat. This canopy had been retrieved from the cellars, where it had lain almost forgotten for many years, having originally been made for an entertainment for the Prince of Wales given by Caroline’s late uncle. Made of gold-fringed crimson velvet, it was to be adorned with th
e badges of the duke’s favorite regiments, and would make a splendid setting for the hero of Waterloo and the Peninsular War.

  When all the guests were seated at their laurel-garlanded tables, the banquet would commence, proceeding through the elaborate menu, to end with the triumphant carrying in of the pièce montée, the huge gâteau Wellington which promised to be the highlight of the whole evening. It would be borne in by four men and placed before the duke, and there it would be revealed that it was no ordinary gâteau but a display of miniature illuminations.

  At the touch of a lighted spill carried by Gaspard himself, various little candles would cast living light over the confectionery cannon and the equestrian statue of the duke, thus creating the effect of those final moments of victory at Waterloo. This moment was bound to bring rapturous and appreciative applause from a gathering which would have enjoyed a most memorable feast and which had drunk toast after toast with the late Earl of Lexham’s diminishing supply of champagne, and it would bring to an end an occasion that should earn the efforts of the Lexham Hotel the acclaim its staff richly deserved.

  For Caroline, however, there was a constant and unsettling feeling of apprehension, born not only from the importance of the occasion and the eminence of the many guests, but also of her knowledge of Hal’s secret duty. She could not entirely shake off the fear that the conspirators had carried off a successful deception, that something dreadful was to take place at the banquet after all.

  She felt this when she saw Gaspard and knew that his dark mood had not entirely left him, and she felt it when Hal questioned her very closely about the pièce montée, having become very interested suddenly on learning that it was to be lighted. He did not say anything, but she knew that his inevitable suspicion was that it contained more than mere candles; it would not have been the first time that an enemy had chosen to annihilate an opponent in an explosion. These things made her nervous, and she knew that she would not be able to breathe easily again until she saw the duke’s carriage leaving through the gateway into Mayfair Street.

 

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