Carola Dunn - Mayhem and Miranda

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by Mayhem


  "And I shall write a book about your adventures when I'm finished with mine!"

  As he spoke, Mr. Daviot did not so much as spare Miranda a glance. His lack of acknowledgement told her her part in his work was over. Their friendship was over.

  She wanted to cry, but instead she said brightly, “Don't forget, Mr. Bassett, you have already promised a letter from every port."

  For some reason this simple statement earned her a glare from Mr. Daviot. She could not decide whether his inexplicable anger or his indifference was the more apt to throw her into the dismals.

  * * * *

  Unable to consult Mr. Daviot, Miranda was the more determined to attempt to extract the truth from Lord Snell. At home, even supposing she succeeded in cornering him, the risk of being interrupted was too great, so she was relieved when a fine day permitted their drive in Hyde Park.

  To her dismay, after joining her in the curricle he told his groom to get up behind. Still, if they spoke quietly the sound of wheels and hooves on gravel would cover their words. She decided to go ahead anyway.

  The trouble was, every time she began to turn the conversation towards Lady Wiston, Lord Snell deftly returned it to commonplaces. They talked of the weather; the latest exhibition at Somerset House; the rumours that Waverley and Guy Mannering were written by the poet Walter Scott; Napoleon's being exiled to St. Helena and the restoration of the monarchy in France. When they left the park after a leisurely circuit and trotted along Oxford Street, his lordship was holding forth upon the folly of republicanism.

  At last, in desperation as they approached Portchester Square, Miranda broke in. “Sir, pray excuse me, but I must ask: What are your intentions towards Lady Wiston?"

  "Why, simply to see that she is properly cared for.” He flashed her a smile. “Your loyal concern does you credit, Miss Carmichael, but there is no need for you to trouble yourself. Lady Wiston's welfare is the responsibility of her family, and the duty will not be shirked, I assure you. Ah, here we are. You will forgive my not getting down, but I am looked for elsewhere."

  Handed down by the groom, Miranda stood on the pavement watching the curricle circle the garden and turn south again. For all her boldness, she was none the wiser.

  Despite the smile, the commendation of her loyalty, she felt she had been put firmly, if politely, in her place. She was not to trouble herself—Lady Wiston's future was none of Miranda's business. After such a set-down, she doubted she would ever have the courage to question him again.

  But if he thought so little of her, why had he taken her driving in his new curricle? He must hope to buy her off with a few crumbs of gallantry to add to his promise to ensure her welfare if anything happened to Lady Wiston.

  And that wretch Peter Daviot thought she had succumbed to his lordship's flattery!

  Yet if Lord Snell wished to lull her into compliance with his nefarious aims, surely he would not risk giving her a set-down. She was not to trouble herself—perhaps he simply wanted to relieve her from anxiety, to assure her that broader shoulders were ready to carry the burden.

  Which might mean he was genuinely attracted to her.

  Everything he had said was open to interpretation. Taking care of Lady Wiston could mean seeing to her comfort. Or it could mean subjecting her to dreadful tortures in the name of treatment for her presumed madness.

  Slowly Miranda mounted the steps and entered the house. One thing was certain, there was no point attempting to broach the subject again. If Lord Snell meant well by his aunt, her enquiries were sheer impertinence. If not, he was obviously not going to reveal his plans to her as he had to Mr. Daviot.

  According to Mr. Daviot—and she had called Mr. Daviot a liar. She knew very well he was not, however fantastical his imagination. She could not blame him for refusing to speak to her, but oh, how it hurt!

  * * * *

  "What a pity, it is beginning to rain,” said Lady Wiston, glancing out of the study window. “No drive in the park for you today, my dear."

  "I am not so spoilt as to expect it, ma'am! There, that letter is finished. Have you the list for me?"

  "Here it is. I have crossed off Miss Mellings, you will see. It was very honest of her to tell me she has taken another lover, but it simply will not do to continue to invite her. Actresses are lamentably exposed to temptation, I fear.” She sighed, but then brightened. “I have added the Tuttles. Such a delightful family, the children so well-behaved. Ah, I hear the door-knocker. That will be Mr. Sagaranathu."

  She went off to her lesson, leaving Miranda to address the cards of invitation for next week's at-home.

  Finishing the last, Miranda rang the bell. The butler stumped in. “Yes, miss?"

  "I need one of the footmen, Twitchell, to deliver these cards."

  "They're both out, miss,” he said apologetically. “Eustace went with Mrs. Lowenstein to market, and his lordship sent Alfred on some errand."

  "He did? That goes to show how well you have trained Albert already. I shall never forget their first meeting. Well, send me whichever returns first, if you please. I have one or two more letters to write for her ladyship."

  It was not long before Alfred came in. His livery now fit quite well and his speech and bearing were much improved. An impassive face was more than he could contrive, though. He grinned at Miranda.

  "Mr. Twitchell said you wanted me, miss? Sorry you ‘ad to wite ... wait. I weren't loafing, honest. His lordship ‘ad me running all over, Limmer's ‘Otel wiv a note for Mr. Redpath, and the Crown and Anchor for Mr. Fenimore, and Ibbetson's for the Rev. Jeffries. Blimey, miss, that place is full of parsons as a brewhouse is of barrels."

  "Fenimore, Redpath, and Jeffries?” Miranda asked in surprise. “Are you sure of those names?"

  "Dead sure, miss. I don't read ‘andwriting that good yet—leastways, yourn is clear as a bell, miss, but ‘is lordship's ain't—so I arst ‘im to read ‘em over to me and I memorized ‘em."

  She frowned. All the Admiral's nephews were in Town, three of them without making their presence known to his widow, though in contact with the fourth who was staying in her house. Miranda recalled Lord Snell requesting their directions. She had thought it odd at the time.

  "'As I done summat wrong, miss?” the footman asked anxiously.

  "No, Alfred, on the contrary. I am very glad you told me about his lordship's errands. In fact, I am going to ask you to inform me if he sends you again to those gentlemen. And please tell Eustace to do the same, but don't let anyone else know. Will you do that?"

  Alfred's eyes sparkled with excitement. “Cor, miss, course I will. You know who them gents is? The names sounded kind of like I might've ‘eard ‘em afore."

  "I believe they must be Sir Bernard's nephews. The names are the same."

  "That's it, miss! When ‘is lordship first come, they was talking about ‘em, all four, in the kitchen. But what I ‘eard is, ‘is lordship's too ‘igh and mighty to give ‘is cousins the time o’ day, and the rest can't stand the sight of each uvver. That's what Mr. Twitchell said."

  "Other,” Miranda corrected absently. “Did he, indeed!” Yet Lord Snell had said he corresponded regularly with his cousins.

  Servants’ gossip, she reminded herself. But as soon as Alfred had gone off with the at-home cards, she started to draw up another list.

  Elizabeth Fry would testify to Lady Wiston's sanity. So would the governors of the Foundling Hospital and St. Bartholomew's, and the doctors, and the directors and matrons of several other orphanages, all highly respectable people. The servants all adored her, but if they were questioned in court they might inadvertently let slip something to damage her case.

  Miranda herself, though, must surely be reckoned to know her employer as well as anybody. Her testimony ought to count for a great deal. So would Mr. Daviot's. His quarrel with Miranda would not be allowed to stand in the way of protecting his aunt.

  She knew she could count on him for that, and the knowledge was a great comfort.

&nb
sp; Taking down the memorandum book, she set about writing explanatory letters to everyone on her list. When the summons to court came, they would be ready to send out. Surely enough of Lady Wiston's friends and admirers would respond to counteract anything Lord Snell, his cousins, and his paltry, bribed doctors might say.

  * * * *

  The days past and nothing happened. At first Miranda felt the tension within her growing, but busy as ever, she had little time to brood. She began to think the whole business was a storm in a teacup. All the little things which seemed to confirm Mr. Daviot's story could be quite easily explained away.

  He continued to spend every day at his club and most evenings out with Mr. Bassett. After believing he was too angry with her to spend time in her company, Miranda started to wonder if he was now too ashamed of having slandered Lord Snell to face her.

  The day of Mr. Bassett's departure arrived. Torn between regret at leaving his new friends and excitement at his new command, he went off laden with preserves and fruitcakes and a fine ham from Lady Wiston's kitchen.

  An hour after he left, when Lady Wiston was at her lesson above stairs, Alfred came to find Miranda in the study.

  "It's ‘appened, miss,” he announced portentously, waving three sealed letters at her. “Fenimore, Jeffries, and Redpath, just like afore."

  "Let me see!” Taking them, she stared at the names on the front, the seals on the back—not stamped with his lordship's signet, she noted. She was wild to know what they said. She had to know! “Turn your back, Alfred,” she said, reaching for a pen-knife.

  "You wants to ‘eat it up a bit, miss,” Alfred advised as obediently he turned.

  Miranda lit a candle and held the knife blade in the flame for a few moments. Gingerly she slid it under the seal of the Reverend Edward Jeffries’ note, hoping a clergyman was less likely to suspect anything amiss. She unfolded the sheet.

  Crown & Anchor coffee room, half past noon, she read, written in Lord Snell's sprawling, arrogant hand, signed only with an S. That, the lack of signet impression, and the conciseness bespoke nefarious business. Feeling slightly sick, she quickly resealed the note.

  "Whassit say, miss?” Alfred begged.

  "Do you know the Crown and Anchor coffee room?” she asked as he swung round. “Would it be possible to overhear a conversation there without obviously eavesdropping?"

  "I ‘spec so, miss. Coffee rooms in the City mostly has boxes, like, leastways round the sides. Jus’ say the word and I'll give it a try."

  "I could not ask you to go. I must do it myself."

  "Not bloody likely, miss, ‘scuse the Billingsgate. ‘Is lordship sets ‘is glims on you ‘e'll know right orf there's summat havey-cavey. Now me, ‘e don't notice me face, only her ladyship's livery. All I gotta do's take orf me coat and wig and ‘e won't know me from a hole in the wall."

  Miranda had to agree, yet there were other considerations. If he was seen leaving the house without his livery, explanations would have to be made. She could not be sure he would understand or accurately report what, if anything, he heard.

  "No, I must do it myself,” she repeated firmly. “Where is the Crown and Anchor?"

  "Just south o’ the Strand, miss, by St. Clement's."

  Near the law courts, where Mr. Fenimore would feel at home—and where a petition for committal to a lunatic asylum would be heard.

  She gave him Lord Snell's notes. “Go and deliver these, Alfred, and then come straight home. You may be needed here."

  "Quick as lightning, miss."

  He dashed off, and Miranda hurried up to her chamber. She changed into an old gown of dark brown cambric, from pre-Lady Wiston days. Lord Snell had only seen her in pretty, coloured dresses. She put on her plainest bonnet, but its narrow brim left her face exposed. Mrs. Lowenstein wore poke bonnets. Miranda sped down to the housekeeper's room.

  In view of Lady Wiston's large acquaintance in the nether parts of London, neither Mrs. Lowenstein nor Twitchell considered Miranda's desire to be inconspicuous worthy of remark. Twitchell was only distressed at the lack of hackneys in the square at this season. Leaving a message for her ladyship that she would be late for luncheon, Miranda set off for Oxford Street, where the shops ensured an abundance of hackneys all year round.

  She reached the Crown and Anchor at twenty minutes past noon. Though not crowded, the coffee room was quite busy, with several tables occupied by barristers in old-fashioned wigs, engaged in vociferous argument. There were few women present but those looked like respectable travellers. The Crown and Anchor, while not one of the great coaching inns, ran a few stages into Kent and East Anglia.

  Miranda stood reading the bill of fare, chalked up on a slate. Covert glances about the room showed no sign of Lord Snell, though it was hard to be sure. As Alfred had said, the seats around the sides of the room were high-backed settles, forming a sort of box around each table. The advantage was, if she could obtain a seat at the table next to her quarry, she would be invisible to them.

  She stopped a scurrying waiter and enquired whether Mr. Fenimore was present. “He is staying here, I believe,” she explained.

  "Over there, madam.” Without looking at her, the waiter gestured and bustled on.

  Miranda saw two men sitting at a table against the wall. She did not dare study them closely lest they observe her interest, but they both looked to be between thirty and forty. One had a pale, indoor face suited to a lawyer. The other was a large, ruddy man in a green coat who must be Squire Redpath.

  Miraculously the next table was empty. She made her way to it and sat down with her back to her quarry.

  A moment later, Redpath and Fenimore were joined by the Reverend Edward Jeffries. Exchanging greetings, they sounded tense and edgy, and not at all as if they were on terms of intimate friendship. Miranda forced herself not to snatch a peek at the clergyman.

  What followed she missed as a different waiter came up to take her order. She asked for coffee and bread-and-butter. As he left, she heard Lord Snell's hushed, complacent voice. She had to strain her ears to make out the words, and bursts of laughter from a nearby table kept interrupting her eavesdropping.

  "...all settled. I have the order here in my pocket, signed and sealed."

  "Let me see."

  "Yes, let Fenimore check that everything is properly done. In my position, I cannot afford to...."

  Coffee and bread-and-butter arrived. Miranda paid for them on the spot in case she had to leave in haste.

  "...testimony of four anxious relatives and...."

  "...the money?"

  "Patience! It will be a few days. I have to make that fool Bradshaw understand the position, and.... In any case, the first thing is to...."

  "When...?"

  "This afternoon. No sense in delaying any longer, now the sailor is gone."

  "What about Daviot?"

  "...chance of trouble from him ... spends all his time at that club of his. He...."

  "But the...."

  "Everything is under control, I tell you, all arrangements.... As a matter of fact I have hired.... “Lord Snell's voice dropped so low, it was indistinguishable from the general buzz of conversation in the coffee room.

  Icy chills running up and down her spine, Miranda decided she had heard enough. Mr. Daviot had not misunderstood, had not exaggerated, had not even plumbed the depths of Lord Snell's villainy. In secrecy his lordship had pushed through his application for committal, with no opportunity for Lady Wiston's friends to defend her.

  She must be warned, at once! Miranda abandoned her untouched coffee and buttered bread. Keeping her face turned away from the four greedy, stony-hearted cousins, she hurried out.

  Chapter 14

  There was no shortage of hackneys in the Strand. The first one Miranda waved at stopped for her. Telling the jarvey to drive to Portchester Square as fast as his horse could trot, she sprang into the aged carriage.

  Agitation, not awareness of the dirty seat, made her perch on the edge, hanging onto t
he strap. She must think, but her mind returned again and again to what she had just overheard.

  The judge's order for committal was theirs, and someone—Mr. Redpath?—was impatient to lay his hands on his share of the loot. Lord Snell had reminded him of something to be done first, presumably the actual spiriting away of his victim. This afternoon.

  Whether because of the law's delay or deliberately, he had waited until Mr. Bassett was gone. The reason for his help in obtaining HMS Adder for the young officer was now obvious. Mr. Bassett would never have allowed him to carry off Lady Wiston.

  Nor would Peter Daviot. Hence the introduction to the Explorers’ Club.

  Ought Miranda to fetch Mr. Daviot before she went home? She did not know where the club was. The jarvey might know, but it was a small, obscure club, not like White's or Brooks's in St. James's Street, familiar to all and sundry. Though she longed for the comfort of his presence, she dared not waste time hunting for him. Better to go home, warn the household, then send for him.

  This afternoon. How soon? She had left before Lord Snell, but his curricle was much faster than this wretched hackney. No use trying to persuade a London jarvey to whip up his horse, not without a larger bribe than she carried in her purse. He was as likely to take offence and slow down.

  Sinking back on the seat, her hands clenched in her lap, Miranda fought back threatening tears.

  Portchester Square at last. The hackney stopped at Number 9 and Miranda jumped down. “The butler will pay you,” she cried to the driver and ran up the steps into the house. “Eustace, pay the jarvey and come back quickly. Where is her ladyship?"

  "In the dining room, miss.” The well-trained footman contrived not to look more than faintly startled by her urgency, but he permitted himself a question. “Whatever's the matter, miss?"

  "I shall tell you. Bring Twitchell and Alfred,” she threw over her shoulder, already half way to the dining-room door.

  "Yes, miss. At once, miss."

  Lady Wiston was placidly demolishing a slice of damson tart. “Oh there you are, dear,” she said as Miranda burst into the room. “Have you taken luncheon already? Do try a piece of this tart. Cook's pastry gets better every day, I vow."

 

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