by Jane Feather
Constance nodded again. “Then there’s not much we can do until we see him. I wonder if Max knows him. He’s bound to be expensive if he’s a KC.”
“We’d come to that conclusion ourselves,” Prudence said gloomily. “He’s already said that his initial fee will be fifty guineas. But apart from that, how do we keep our own names out of this? Barclay can sue The Mayfair Lady, but someone’s going to want to know whose hand actually penned the so-called libel.”
Her sisters made no immediate response to that truth.
The heavy slam of the front door downstairs broke their silence. “Father,” said Chastity. “He’ll be so pleased to see you, Con.” Her tone was a trifle lackluster.
“I imagine he’s totally taken Barclay’s part in this,” Constance stated without question or surprise. She walked to the door. “I’ll run down and see him.” She reached the top of the stairs just as Lord Duncan began to ascend them.
“Constance, my dear,” he said, hurrying up towards her, a smile splitting his face. “Your sisters weren’t sure when you’d be here. Your wire said something about the boat being delayed by the weather.”
“Oh, it cleared up and we sailed on yesterday morning’s tide. We got back to London late last night, but I couldn’t wait another minute to see you all,” she said, opening her arms to him. She hugged him as he kissed her soundly. “Are you well?”
“Oh, yes . . . yes, indeed.” He stood back, holding her shoulders as he examined her. “Marriage suits you, my dear. You have quite a glow about you.”
She laughed. “I believe it does. Max will be coming round in an hour or so to pay his respects.”
“I look forward to seeing him. I’d welcome his opinion on a bad business.” He shook his head. “A very bad business.”
“Prue and Chas were saying something about—” Constance began, but Lord Duncan swept on.
“That disgraceful rag . . . Mayfair Lady . . . libeled Barclay, would you believe? The brass nerve of it.” Lord Duncan’s already ruddy complexion took on a deeper hue. “Absolutely outrageous. And now this wretched Pall Mall Gazette has taken it up.”
“Yes, we told Con all about it, Father,” Chastity said in soothing tones from behind her sister.
“It’s a disgrace. That an honest man can be pilloried by some scandalmongering underground broadsheet . . . Anonymous writers, don’t even have the courage to declare themselves honestly to stand by their lies. I don’t know what the civilized world is coming to.”
He shook his head again and made a visible effort to compose himself. “But we don’t need to spoil your homecoming, my dear. I’m sure you have much to tell your sisters, but when you’re ready to come down to the drawing room, we’ll open a bottle of the vintage Veuve Clicquot in celebration. There are a few bottles left, I believe. I shall tell Jenkins to put one on ice.” He patted his eldest daughter’s cheek, nodded benignly at her sisters, and returned to the hall.
“Do we have any of the vintage ‘widow’ left?” Constance inquired.
“No, but there are a couple of bottles of Taittinger that Jenkins put away. He’ll produce those instead,” Prudence said. She found their father’s refusal to believe, let alone accept, the general depletion of his wine cellars a particular source of anxiety among her many financial worries. She danced a constant ballet of the bottles with the able assistance of Jenkins, who knew the contents of the cellar down to the last label and exactly what substitutes Lord Duncan would accept.
Constance picked up her coffee cup again. “Let’s talk about something more cheerful. Give me an update on the magazine. Have we any more paying clients for the Go-Between?”
“Speaking of paying,” Chastity said, “you should have seen the way Prue squeezed fifty guineas out of La Winthrop, and then, would you believe, not to be outdone, La Lucan chipped in seventy. Prue was masterly.”
Constance laughed. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less. Have Hester and Lucan set a date yet?”
“Christmas Eve,” Prudence told her. “Have you decided on an afternoon for your At Homes?”
Constance shook her head with a grimace. “There’s no need just yet. Everyone’s going to be making bride visits. As soon as it’s known that I’m back in town, Society will be beating its curious and gossipy path to my door. You know what it’s like, they’ll be scrutinizing the furniture and the general decor of the house and asking me pointed little questions while they try to decide whether I’m content with my lot.” Her tone dripped sarcasm.
“Or in the process of giving your husband an heir,” added Prudence, regarding her sister with a lifted eyebrow.
“The only babies I’m going to be producing are in print,” Constance declared. “At least until The Mayfair Lady and the Go-Between are truly solvent.”
“Which won’t happen at all if we can’t beat this libel suit,” Prudence said, her expression once more grave. “I’m just praying that this Malvern isn’t going to be prejudiced against three women operating a scandalmongering, underground rag.” Her tone was a fair imitation of her father’s.
They were silent for a minute, then Constance said, “We’ll ask Max if he knows him. Maybe he could put in a good word for us. You look doubtful. Why?”
“Oh, I’m just wondering whether you want Max to read the piece in question,” Prudence said, with a hesitant little shrug. “You know him best, of course, but . . .”
Constance grimaced. “You have a point. But I can’t see any way of keeping it from him.”
“His wife as defendant in a libel suit isn’t going to advance his career any,” Prudence commented.
“Which is one of the major reasons why it can’t come out.”
Another silence fell, then Constance said with effort, “Let’s not think about it anymore, just for the moment. You still haven’t told me if we have any new Go-Between clients.”
“Two possibles.” Chastity followed her sister’s cue and went to the secretaire. She came back with two letters. “This one from a girl, at least she sounds more like a girl than a woman, who says she’s desperate for a husband as a means of escaping a tyrannical stepmother who’s determined to marry her off to someone old enough to be her grandfather. She wants to elope. I suspect she’s been reading too many romances.”
Constance took the letter and read the somewhat passionately incoherent screed, the writing liberally splattered with stains that one had to assume were tears.
“The poor child does seem to fancy herself between the pages of some melodramatic romance, doesn’t she?” Prudence remarked, watching her sister’s slightly derisive expression. “I doubt she’s even of age. In my opinion we should just write her a sensible response saying we only accept clients who are over twenty-one.”
“Except that’s not strictly true. We found Hester Winthrop a husband,” Constance pointed out.
“Yes, but that was to give Lucan a love interest other than Chas, and we knew it was a perfect match for both of them. We wouldn’t have promoted it if we’d had any doubts. I don’t want to meddle in the affairs of someone this young, about whom we know nothing. This so-called stepmother could be the most devoted and considerate woman, whose motives have been totally misunderstood by a spoilt gaby.”
“Yes, you have a point.” Constance folded the sheet and tapped it thoughtfully into the palm of her hand.
“Apart from anything else,” Prudence continued resolutely, “we don’t have the resources to offer a youth-counseling service. We’ll be wasting an entire afternoon, not to mention the train fares to Wimbledon, if we agree to see her.” The glance she shot at Chastity told Constance that her sisters had been around this maypole several times already. It was hardly surprising. Chastity’s soft heart and truly empathetic nature frequently clashed with her sister’s pragmatic nature and unsentimental opinions. Constance, as the eldest, was often required to cast the deciding vote.
“I’m with Prue,” she said. “Sorry, Chas, but we have to be practical.”
; Chastity merely nodded. Despite her gentle inclinations, she knew when to fight a battle and when to yield. In this instance, the damsel from Wimbledon would have to find her own salvation.
“So, that’s settled.” Constance set the letter on the table. Prudence looked relieved—she hated being at odds with either of her sisters. She offered Chastity a rueful smile that her youngest sister returned with a tiny shrug of resignation.
“What about the second letter?” asked Constance.
“Rather more promising, I think.” Chastity handed her the second letter. “Prue and I think we know who it’s from, although she’s using a pseudonym.” She pointed to the signature at the bottom of the neatly penned letter. “She can’t really be called Iphigenia.”
“Unlikely,” Constance agreed. “Wasn’t Iphigenia sacrificed by Agamemnon to get a fair wind to sail to Troy?” She read the letter. “Oh, I see. You think it’s written by Lady Northrop,” she said when she’d finished. “She’s always peppering her conversations with totally inapposite classical allusions.”
“Doesn’t it sound like her? Widowed, if not sacrificed, four years ago, in her prime . . . not yet ready to settle for a loveless future—”
“By which, of course, she means sexless,” Prudence interrupted Chastity. “And look how she describes herself. Wealthy, brunette, brown eyes, well-endowed figure, impeccable dress sense, attractive to men. Isn’t that Dottie Northrop to a tee? Apart from the dress sense,” she added with the authority of one who knew her own was beyond reproach. “That I’d quibble with.”
“She’s certainly not one to hide her charms,” Constance agreed. “And she’s certainly well endowed.”
“She’s also the most notorious flirt,” Chastity added.
“So, why does she think she needs help finding a suitable husband? She’s a veritable mantrap already.” Constance rose to refill her coffee cup from the tray on the sideboard.
“The men she attracts are not of the marrying kind,” Prudence pointed out.
“But whom do we know that she doesn’t that we could put in her way?”
“We’ll have to think about it. If we can come up with a few possibilities, we can get them together at an At Home, as we did with Millicent and Anonymous.”
“We could always suggest she moderate her necklines and be a little less flamboyant with the perfume and the diamonds,” Chastity suggested. “We could make it sound as if it were the sort of general advice we give all our clients.”
“We’ll leave that to you, Chas. Tactful advice is right up your street. One thing we do know: Dotty can afford the finder’s fee.” Prudence turned at a knock on the door. “Come in.”
Jenkins opened the door. “Mr. Ensor is with Lord Duncan, ladies. They would like you to join them in the drawing room for champagne.”
“Thank you. We’ll be down straightaway.” Constance examined her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, tucking a loose strand into her elaborately piled mass of rich russet hair.
“It’s not like you to check your appearance, Con,” Prudence said with a mischievous grin. “Marriage has certainly worked some changes.”
“There’s quite a wind blowing,” Constance declared with an air of mock dignity. “It was gusting as I left the motor.”
Laughing, they went downstairs. Lord Duncan’s raised voice reached them as they crossed the hall to the drawing room. They exchanged comprehending glances. His lordship was expounding with great fervor his indignation at the libel of his friend. Judging by the speed of the monologue, his son-in-law was making no attempt to respond.
“Oh, hell,” muttered Constance. “He’s bound to have shown Max the article and I haven’t even had a chance to prepare him.” She swallowed slightly, stiffened her shoulders, and opened the drawing room door. “You’re early, Max. You said two hours. Did you see the Prime Minister?” Her eyes darted to the table that stood between the two men. Both the Pall Mall Gazette and The Mayfair Lady lay there, their pages turned to the incriminating articles.
Max followed her gaze, then regarded her with a less than loverlike air. “I saw him,” he said shortly. He greeted his sisters-in-law with rather more warmth, although there was a certain hint of reserve that was not normally present in his dealings with them.
“I’ve just been telling Ensor about this disgrace,” Lord Duncan thundered, gesturing to the papers on the table. “If I ever discover who wrote that first piece of trash, I’ll take a horsewhip to him. Thrash him to within an inch of his life.”
“I can’t say I’d blame you, sir,” Max said aridly, casting another glance at his wife. Constance met his gaze.
“Well, enough of that for the moment. Ah, Jenkins, you’ve brought the champagne. Why the Taittinger? I specifically asked for the vintage Veuve Clicquot.” His lordship frowned fiercely at the bottle’s label as if it offended him.
“There is no more of the Clicquot, your lordship,” Jenkins said placidly. “Harpers are unable to lay in any more supplies of that vintage.”
Lord Duncan harrumphed. “Seems they’re always running short of supplies these days. I shall complain to Harper himself.”
“Yes, sir.” Jenkins eased off the cork and poured the straw-colored liquid into five crystal glasses. He handed them around, and if he was aware of the tension that connected the sisters like a taut rope, he gave no sign. He bowed and left the drawing room.
The next half hour was for the sisters excruciating, for their father a pleasantry, and for Max Ensor a period of tightly reined annoyance. At last, after the minute details of the Nile river trip had been discussed with Lord Duncan, Max set down his glass.
“Constance, we should not neglect to visit my sister,” he said. “She would feel slighted if we failed her on our first day home.”
“Of course,” Constance said readily. “Father, I hope you’ll dine with us soon.”
He received her kiss with a smile. “Yes, delightful, my dear. I look forward to seeing you in your new home. Perhaps you could invite Barclay.”
Constance’s smile was as flat as the Dead Sea. “Yes, of course. And maybe some of your bridge cronies. We could arrange a rubber after dinner.”
“Lovely, my dear.” He patted her shoulder and turned to his son-in-law. “So good to have you back in town, Ensor. I look forward to discussing the new Parliament with you.”
“It will be my pleasure, Lord Duncan,” Max said smoothly, allowing himself to be swept on the tide of his wife and her sisters out into the hall.
Once there, he said with a peremptory nod at the stairs, “That parlor of yours, I believe.”
“Now is as good a time as any,” Constance agreed, moving ahead to the stairs. “We need some information, Max.”
“I doubt that’s all you need,” he muttered, standing aside to allow Prudence and Chastity to precede him.
Chapter 4
Constance felt her husband’s hand on the small of her back as she followed her sisters up the stairs. It could have been a gently proprietorial gesture, but she was not fool enough to misinterpret the pressure of the touch. Max was not best pleased.
Max closed the parlor door behind them. He glanced around and then strode to the secretaire, where lay a copy of the broadsheet. A tense silence hung over the room while he reread the article. “I had the idiotic hope that this was some deranged figment of my imagination,” he muttered when he’d finished reading.
He rolled the paper tightly and stood flicking it against his thigh as he looked at Constance. “Of course you wrote this.”
She nodded. “Weeks ago, before we were married.”
His exasperation got the better of his composure. “For God’s sake, woman, are you completely out of your mind?”
Constance lost her apologetic demeanor. “Don’t use that tone with me, Max. And I won’t be called woman in that patronizing manner.”
Prudence and Chastity exchanged a glance, then sat side by side on the sofa and regarded the bristling couple with unabashed in
terest.
“What do you expect me to say?” Max demanded. “Couldn’t you have warned me you were going after Barclay? This is the most vitriolic attack on a respected—”
“Wait a minute—” Constance interrupted even as both her sisters jumped to their feet.
“There’s nothing respected or respectable about Barclay,” Prudence stated, her usually pale complexion flushed, her light green eyes alive with conviction. “Constance interviewed all three women mentioned in the article—”
“And I saw their children and the miserable conditions in which they were living,” Constance declared. “They weren’t lying, Max.”
“Can you imagine what it would be like to be raped by your employer, then thrown into the street pregnant without a character reference . . . no money, no home?” Chastity weighed in with her twopence worth and Max almost physically backed away from the sisters, who were facing him like lion tamers.
“I’m not excusing him,” he said. “But this is too much.” He waved the rolled-up broadsheet again. “It’s such a personal attack. A complete character assassination.”
“It’s his character we were attacking,” Constance stated aridly. “The man’s a philanderer, a rapist, a cheat, an embezzler—”
“Where’s the evidence for that?” Max asked, a forefinger jabbing the air in front of him.
Prudence grimaced. “Rumor is all we have.”
Max spun around to stare at her. “That’s going to be your defense? Rumor? I’d credited you with more sense, Prudence.” Constance stared at the carpet, hearing the inference in the emphasis. It was true she was not always as circumspect as her younger sister.
Prudence, for her part, flushed, but said stolidly, “We agree we’ll have to do better than that. Once we’ve found a lawyer to defend The Mayfair Lady.”
“We think we’ve found one,” Chastity said.
“Yes, Sir Gideon Malvern,” Prudence put in. “He’s seeing us next Thursday. We were wondering if you knew him, Max.”
Instead of answering her, Max demanded, “How are you going to keep your identities secret in a court of law?”