by Mayhem
"You must have had a great many interesting experiences in America, Daviot. How goes the book?"
Mr. Daviot raised his eyebrows. “Quite well,” he said tersely.
"I suppose you are a member of the Explorers’ Club? Or has the name been changed to the Travellers’ Club? There was some talk of it, I believe."
"I don't know. I wasn't aware of its existence."
"You must join, Peter,” said Lady Wiston at once. “Only think what fascinating people you are bound to meet at a club with such a name."
"I daresay, Aunt, and I confess I should like to, but I imagine one must know some of them before one can become a member."
Lord Snell nodded. “I am acquainted with several members, two or three of whom are quite likely in Town at present. If you wish, I shall introduce you and vouch for your being qualified. The chief prerequisite, I understand, is having travelled at least five hundred miles in a straight line from London."
Mr. Daviot gave him a curious, mistrustful look. “That I have done,” he said guardedly.
"Five hundred miles,” Mr. Bassett guffawed. “'Tis little enough, by my faith!"
"Nothing to you seafaring men,” his lordship agreed. “You must find life ashore tedious. Would you like me to put in a good word for you at the Admiralty?"
"Thank you, my lord,” the young lieutenant stammered. “I have recommendations from Lord Derwent and Lady Wiston, but another just might speed them up. It's deuced obliging of you."
"Not at all. The nation cannot afford to waste a good officer's time. The peace with France makes little difference, considering England's interests all over the world."
Lady Wiston beamed at him. “I did not realize you had such an excellent grasp of naval matters, Godfrey. Sir Bernard was used to say that the Army could go hang, for it is the Navy keeps England strong."
"Sacrilege, Aunt Artemis,” Mr. Daviot teased, “since Wellington's great victory at Waterloo."
"Not at all! The Duke could not have fought and won that battle if the Navy had failed to keep Buonaparte from invading our shores for so many years."
"Nor had they failed to let him escape from Elba!"
Her ladyship continued her lively defence of the vital importance of the Royal Navy. Miranda noticed that Lord Snell watched and listened with a slight frown. She hoped he did not disapprove of females holding opinions on serious subjects, or at least expressing them—and with such vigour. Though it might be considered forward, even indecorous, conduct in a young woman, surely a certain license must be granted at Lady Wiston's age.
No doubt his lordship simply disagreed with her ideas. Unlike Mr. Daviot, he was far too polite to argue with his aunt, though she was thoroughly enjoying the debate. She had a supporter in Mr. Bassett who seconded her with enthusiasm whenever called upon.
At last Mr. Daviot appealed to Miranda. “Come, Miss Carmichael, don't let me be outnumbered. Will you not uphold the supremacy of the Army? Only think of their dashing scarlet coats!"
"If a scarlet coat were infallible proof of superior excellence, sir,” she retorted, laughing, “you might buy one for yourself."
"And how am I to take that, ma'am?” he asked with a grin. “Are you saying a scarlet coat is not infallible, and if I donned one I should remain my imperfect self? Or do you mean that I am perfection's self and only want a scarlet coat to prove it?"
"You may take it as you please, Mr. Daviot, but do not expect me to uphold the Army in the Admiral's house."
"Bravo, ma'am!” cried Mr. Bassett.
"Alas, I am outgunned, I fear. The Admiral's shade cannot be denied. Aunt, I concede."
"Very good, dear. Have another veal cutlet to console you."
Lord Snell passed the dish of cutlets. “If you are not otherwise engaged tomorrow afternoon, Daviot,” he said, “shall we approach those Explorers’ Club members I spoke of?"
Miranda rather wondered at his persisting when his first offer had received so ungracious a response. His motive could only be to give his aunt pleasure, for he had no possible reason to conciliate her nephew.
Indeed, Mr. Daviot seemed surprised. The gaze he turned on his would-be benefactor was momentarily penetrating. Somehow it reminded Miranda that he had survived among the fierce Iroquois for several years.
Then he smiled and was his usual irreverent self. “You are too kind,” he said. “Yes, I am free tomorrow."
"Then name the hour, and I am at your disposal.” Their outing arranged, Lord Snell turned to Miranda. “That will leave me time to try out the new curricle I am disposed to purchase. Will you do me the honour, Miss Carmichael, of joining me for a turn in the Park?"
"M-me?"
"It will be job-horses, I fear, as I left my team in Derbyshire, but I hope that will not deter you. I am accounted a tolerable whip, ma'am, and will engage not to overturn you."
"Of course not, but.... “Overwhelmed by the honour, all on her side, Miranda turned a gaze of entreaty on Lady Wiston.
"You must certainly go, dear. You have been getting too little fresh air recently. We cannot allow the roses to fade from your cheeks."
Miranda blushed, the heat in her face intensifying as all three gentlemen looked at her. Lord Snell's expression was enigmatic, Mr. Daviot's ironical, Mr. Bassett's frankly admiring. She hastily lowered her eyes.
"Thank you, my lord, I shall look forward to it."
Was it possible his lordship did not consider a hired companion beneath him? Her father had been a gentleman, after all, though a happy-go-lucky and improvident one.
She called herself severely to task. A drive in Hyde Park was not a proposal of marriage. During the Season, when London was full of elegant, accomplished, and well-dowered young ladies, Lord Snell had scarcely noticed her existence, she reminded herself. No doubt he simply liked female company when taking the air, perhaps just to admire his handling of the ribbons. A touch of vanity was an endearing crack in the shell of his superiority.
It was excessively generous in him to offer his assistance to Mr. Daviot and Mr. Bassett, especially since Mr. Daviot had been anything but cordial. He ought to be ashamed of himself, but Miranda knew him too well to imagine him in the least abashed.
He would enjoy belonging to the Explorers’ Club, no doubt. Miranda only hoped it would not keep him too much from home. She ... Lady Wiston would miss him.
* * * *
"What the devil does the fellow mean by it?” Peter fumed, pushing away the port decanter as the dining-room door clicked shut behind Lord Snell. “He has something up his sleeve, I'm convinced of it."
"You won't catch me looking a gift horse in the mouth.” Bassett refilled his glass. “Another titled gentleman putting my name forward can't hurt. I'd say his lordship's devilish obliging."
"And I'd say the devil's in it somewhere all right. He barely knows you. How can he puff off your competence as an officer?"
Bassett laughed. “Promotion has less to do with competence than with one's friends. Come now, Daviot, how can you quarrel with his offer to introduce you to the Explorers’ Club?"
"It's not the offer I quarrel with, it's his motive in making it. Lord knows, I've not been conciliating to his high-and-mighty lordship, let alone toad-eating him."
"I hope you don't think I've toad-eaten him!"
"Gad no, old fellow, but at least you have treated him with a proper, dignified respect."
"In my position I can't afford not to,” Bassett said candidly, finishing his port. “Shall we join the ladies? It's my belief Lord Snell's generosity is in compliment to Lady Wiston."
Or to Miranda Carmichael? No, Peter's and Bassett's welfare was no concern of hers, whereas Snell might hope to please his aunt by attentions to her nephew and the naval guest in whom she took such an amiable interest.
And by attentions to her companion. A drive in the Park, forsooth! Peter returned to the two equally disturbing alternatives: either Aunt Artemis was right and Lord Snell strove to fix Miss Carmichael's affections, or
he was buttering her up for unguessable and probably blackguardly reasons.
Buttering them all up, come to that. Perhaps tomorrow Peter would find out why.
The first part of the next afternoon's outing went exactly as proposed. Lord Snell presented Peter to Thomas Legh, M.P., of Lyme Park in Cheshire, a young man who was writing a book about his travels in Egypt and Ethiopia; and to the Honourable Mountstuart Elphinstone, first British envoy to Kabul and author of a work on Afghanistan shortly to appear. Mr. Elphinstone, eager to return to India, talked fretfully of the iniquities of publishers and printers, but he added his approval to that of Mr. Legh.
Though Peter could not be elected to the Explorers’ Club until a quorum was assembled—unlikely at this season—by the agreement of the two he was granted a temporary membership. With a note from each of his sponsors, the club's premises, in North Audley Street, were at his disposal.
"Most convenient to Portchester Square,” said Lord Snell with satisfaction as they left Mr. Elphinstone to his misprint filled galley-proofs and strolled up the sunny street. “I daresay it will not take you more than five or ten minutes to walk thither. Shall we go that way now?"
"Yes, I'd like to take a look."
"You will find it a peaceful place to write, free of the disturbances of my aunt Wiston's house."
Was his purpose, then, to separate Peter from Miss Carmichael, the better to pursue his own suit?
"I'm quite happy writing at home,” Peter demurred, “and Miss Carmichael's assistance is invaluable to me. But I am grateful for your introductions,” he added reluctantly. “It will be agreeable to have somewhere to meet gentlemen of similar interests, especially once Bassett has his ship."
"Ah yes, the worthy Bassett. I called at the Admiralty this morning and was informed of the sloop Adder's being near ready to leave Deptford dock yard after refitting. I have some hopes of Mr. Bassett being appointed into her. A small, antiquated vessel, I believe, but he will not expect more for his first command."
"No doubt he'll be glad to put to sea in anything larger than a wherry,” Peter observed, wondering if his lordship regarded Bassett as another rival for Miss Carmichael's heart.
"Yes, I am sure he will be happy to be off.” Lord Snell hesitated, then continued, “He must find it embarrassing to be Lady Wiston's guest."
"Not at all. He accepts her hospitality in the friendly spirit in which it was offered."
"That is not quite what I meant. Look here, Daviot, I'm going to be frank with you."
"I only wish you would!"
"It can scarcely have escaped your notice that Lady Wiston has been behaving extremely oddly. Do you not think it has passed mere idiosyncrasy and entered upon ... lunacy?"
"Lunacy!” Peter stared at him with narrowed eyes.
Snell shrugged. “Call it senility, or what you will."
"I cannot consider anyone senile who could so ably defend the Navy."
"I cannot consider anyone sane who would stand on her head at the behest of a ragtag Oriental!"
Peter was in a quandary. He knew a good part of his aunt's eccentricity was deliberately assumed for her own purpose. Yet he had been sworn to secrecy and Godfrey Snell was the last person, besides Miranda Carmichael, to whom she would want her plot revealed. Not to mention that the plot itself could at a pinch be taken as further evidence of derangement.
He suspected Snell's motive in fearing for her sanity was not pure solicitude. Yet his only reason for distrust was the antagonism he had felt for the baron from the instant of making his acquaintance.
If he was too violent in defence of Aunt Artemis, Snell would not confide whatever he had in mind. Yet if he failed to defend her, his silence might be taken as agreement.
His silence had already lasted long enough to be taken as implied interest, at least. Snell went on.
"You must admit her conduct is strange enough to warrant concern. If nothing is done, her mind may degenerate until she commits some dreadful act we should regret not having foreseen and forestalled. I propose to call in a physician to observe her, to diagnose her condition and inform us as to whether further measures are advisable. Ah, here we are."
They stopped, having reached 29, North Audley Street, where a brass plate announced the Explorers’ Club. Lord Snell, a member of White's, eyed the narrow, unimpressive house with disdain.
"They are looking for new premises, I believe. I daresay they will change the name when they remove. Do you wish to go in now?"
"Yes, I think I will."
"I must walk on to Portchester Square to keep my appointment with Miss Carmichael."
"Let us finish our discussion first, if you don't mind standing for a moment. You mentioned a physician?” Peter said neutrally.
"Two physicians, as a matter of fact. I understand two opinions are required for committal."
"Committal!” He could not hide his outrage.
"Not to a common asylum!” Snell hastily assured him. “Naturally Lady Wiston would be privately cared for. You need not fear for your own situation, Daviot. When she is confined—purely for her own sake, as I need hardly say—I shall have control of her funds, at least with Bradshaw's concurrence, which he will scarce withhold from me."
So that was it. Lord Snell's hidden motive was nothing but plain, common-or-garden greed.
Oblivious of Peter's disgust, the baron continued, “Her fortune is very large. I shall make sure an income is settled upon you sufficient to live on in reasonable comfort. All I ask is that you support my petition to the court."
"I'll see you damned first!” Peter cried, prudence overwhelmed by fury. “If you imagine I'd sell my aunt into captivity, she is saner than you, my lord, and you may go to hell!"
Chapter 10
Miranda gazed at herself in the cheval glass. The walking dress of canary jaconet, with its single modest flounce of chestnut-brown mull, became her. She was tolerably pretty, she thought, trying to be objective, but besides being too tall she had not the sort of beauty which might tempt a peer to forget what was due to his rank.
She must not refine upon Lord Snell's kindness. That could only lead to his disgust and her disappointment.
Donning her chestnut lustring spencer, she tidied her hair. Her chipstraw bonnet, gloves, and reticule she carried downstairs to the drawing room and set in an inconspicuous corner. If his lordship had forgotten the promised outing, he must not suppose her waiting for him.
She picked up the new Examiner. Lady Wiston declared the radical paper sadly tamed since the end of the Hunt brothers’ imprisonment for libelling the Prince Regent, but Miranda found its views interesting. Not that she could concentrate while straining her ears for the sound of a curricle drawing up in front of the house, or Lord Snell's footsteps in the hall.
Lord Snell strongly disapproved of the Examiner, she recalled. Hurriedly she folded it and laid it aside. Then a flash of defiance took her by surprise. What did it matter if he caught her reading it?
If all he wanted was her company for an hour, her political opinions could not affect him. If his regard for her was deeper, but could not survive seeing her reading the Examiner, then better it should die. Miranda took up the paper again and tried hard to pay attention to an article on the Duke of Wellington.
She succeeded to the extent of noticing neither the arrival of the curricle nor the opening of the front door. She glanced up as the drawing-room door opened.
Lord Snell looked preoccupied, even annoyed, a frown engraving lines between his eyebrows. Knowing he had just been with Mr. Daviot, Miranda wondered what that gentleman had said or done to discompose the baron.
In her view Mr. Daviot had by no means shown adequate gratitude for the offer to aid his application to join the Explorers's Club. Sometimes he seemed positively determined to offend Lord Snell. It was odd in an otherwise friendly, easy-going gentleman who had happily fraternized with, among others, both Sagaranathu and Daylight Danny.
Whatever Mr. Daviot's misdeeds, his
lordship was sufficiently distracted to pay not the slightest heed to her newspaper. “Ah, there you are, ma'am. Are you ready?” he said impatiently.
"Yes, my lord.” Miranda quickly retrieved her bonnet, gloves and reticule. It was a pity she did not possess a parasol.
"Where is my aunt?"
"At her lesson, sir, above stairs."
"The Lascar always comes at this hour?” He stood aside to let her precede him out to the hall.
"Yes, except on Sundays."
"And she practises before changing for dinner every day?"
"Faithfully,” said Miranda, rather surprised at his interest.
Out in the street the new curricle awaited them, a smart vehicle painted black with the wheels picked out in crimson and a crimson leather seat. Hitched to the pole stood a team of four matched blacks, held by a groom from the coach-builder. Lord Snell handed Miranda up, took the reins, and joined her.
"Wait here,” he said curtly to the groom.
They set off towards Hyde Park. Lord Snell negotiated with ease the traffic of Oxford Street, busy despite the absence from Town of most of the Polite World. The blacks trotted through the Cumberland Gate. Turning southward, his lordship urged them to a canter.
Despite the fine day, there were few people about. Miranda rather wished the Ton was out in force to observe her bowling along at the side of her handsome escort. She saw a few strollers and nursemaids with children, half a dozen riders, a platoon of scarlet-coated infantrymen marching from somewhere to somewhere else. She smiled, recalling Mr. Daviot's quizzing her about the effect of smart uniforms on the feminine sex. Lord Snell seemed disinclined for conversation so she held her tongue.
Approaching the southern end of the park, they slowed to a trot again to negotiate the sharp turn. But then Lord Snell whipped up the team into a gallop. Miranda grabbed the side of the curricle with one hand, her bonnet with the other as they whirled around the bend by the Serpentine.
Reining in sharply, he swerved into the right turn to the Ring at a mere canter, then held the horses back to a trot to complete the circuit around the grove in the centre. Miranda breathed again.