Nancy would not think so highly of the villain if she knew what else he’d taken, but Hope just nodded, then suggested they go for a stroll in the nearby park. She understood that the Polite World went on the promenade in the late afternoons, so perhaps Sir Malcolm was among them. Or they could go shopping at the Bond Street stores Lady Mildred had recommended, and possibly catch a glimpse of him heading toward his club. Barring such a fortuitous meeting, Hope planned to ask whatever hackney drivers they employed if one of them knew Sir Malcolm’s direction. In her admittedly small experience, jarveys knew everyone’s coming and going.
No one knew of Sir Malcolm Fredenham’s. One driver thought he’d picked up a toff by that name, but he’d only driven the swell from the theater to the Coconut Tree, or vice versa. Or mayhaps it was the Daffy Club, and a nob named Windenham.
In her naiveté, Hope did not think that any of the shopkeepers could help her, for she was patronizing milliners and modistes. Not a male was in sight, although one young seamstress did giggle about the gentlemen getting the bills. Husbands, Miss Thurstfield trusted, and Sir Malcolm was certainly not among their number.
They did not encounter him in the park either. Truthfully, Hope was wishing to come upon an acquaintance of her parents that she might recognize from their visits to the Lake District. Any member of the ton would know the baronet, and where to find him. But the park was thin of company. Either the Polite World had gone to their country estates, forgoing the victory celebrations, or they were in another area of the vast park, for Hope saw no one she could call upon. Nancy was upset with the men they did encounter, leering coxcombs who tried to scrape up an introduction to her little lamb, and she fended them off with her frowns. Trumpet was the only one who enjoyed the outing, barking at the squirrels and the ducks and the children and the flower-sellers crying their wares. Trumpet barked a lot. Developing a headache, Hope was glad enough to heed Nancy’s advice to return to the hotel for a rest before dinner. Who knew? Perhaps she would recognize someone in the dining room.
The only one she recognized was Mr. Arthur, seated alone at a table right by the door. He was more fashionably turned out this evening, with a pristine white neckcloth tied in a complicated fold, and his wavy blond hair was smoothed back. Hope could feel her cheeks growing warm in memory of their last encounter as he stood when they passed his table. She nodded and kept walking after the waiter who was leading them to their table.
“Goodness,” Nancy whispered, “what a progressive establishment. The upper staff even gets to eat with the guests. Unless Mr. Arthur is assigned here to inspect the quality of the food and the service.”
“Do you know,” Hope told her once they were seated at a goodly distance from the disturbing manager, “I think Mr. Arthur must be something more than a member of the hotel’s personnel.”
“Well, he looks a treat, Hope dear, and he does seem genteel, but what else could he be, when he’s working out of the manager’s office and handling the hotel’s business, like assigning our rooms and safekeeping your jewelry? I hope you’re not getting any romantic notions, miss, for it won’t do. My hounds and heaven, no. Your father would have palpitations.”
“Oh, hush, Nancy. I am not imagining Mr. Arthur as any hero from a novel, nor do I have designs on his person. I just think he is more than he appears. That is, he appears more than he says he is. His manner of speech, even his dress this evening, and the…the air of confidence about him, give the lie to his position. I think he must be related to one of the owners, if he is not an actual partner in the hotel. Look at all the gentlemen stopping by his table to shake his hand.” And all their ladies were simpering, she couldn’t help but notice. “He has manners, too, for look at the fool trying to rise from his seat every time. No, don’t turn to look. People might notice us staring.”
“If you’d eat your dinner instead of watching Mr. Arthur, my dear, your interest might not be so obvious.”
“I am not interested in the man, except in a scientific sort of way, of course, to solve the riddle of his identity.”
Mrs. Storke shook her head. “Gammon. If I were twenty years younger I’d be dropping my handkerchief near that handsome fellow’s table, too. But whether he be an owner or an employee here, it still won’t fadge. In trade is as good as in service to your father, you know.”
“Goodness, Nancy, I am not considering Mr. Arthur in light of a suitor, I tell you. I merely find him curious, like…like a duck out of water. That’s it.”
“And that’s why you are looking daggers at the lady whose hand he just kissed? Eat your soup, Hope. It’s delicious.”
The rest of the meal was also, and extensive.
“My stars and salvation, if I ate like this every night, I’d be as fat as a flawn.” Since Nancy was already well padded, a few more of Monsieur DuPré’s specialities should have her bursting at the seams.
Hope ate more than her usual amount, too, trying the marvelously exotic dishes from the kitchen of a master chef. One was tastier than the other, so she kept eating. According to the waiter, Monsieur DuPré was second only to the great Careme, and quickly closing in on the Regent’s chef’s reputation.
Deservedly so, Hope and Nancy agreed.
After such a hearty meal, Miss Thurstfield and her companion decided to stroll through the hotel’s lobby, admiring the statuary and artwork tucked into every niche. They encountered the pleasant young woman who had the suite next to theirs and introduced themselves. Lady Leverett invited them to attend one of the open-air concerts that evening with her and her husband. Hope was uncertain, having been endlessly warned against trusting strangers in the metropolis, but there was Lady Leverett’s husband, smiling and patting Mr. Arthur on the back. Majordomos were notoriously excellent judges of character and class, Hope told herself, and hotel managers would be, too, so she accepted the invitation, happy to have a lady friend. Catching Hope’s glance, the lady laughed. “Oh, everyone is delighted to have Arthur back.”
Back? But the hotel had been open only a brief time: Hope could not ask further questions, in the flurry of fetching hats and shawls, and later she felt that prying into Mr. Arthur’s personal life would have been rude. And reinforcement to Nancy’s notion that she was top over tails for the handsome hotelier. She did ask after Sir Malcolm though, but Lord and Lady Leverett were visiting the City for the first time since their marriage four years ago and were not au courant with the latest on dits and arrivals. They promised to make inquiries for her, when they got around to paying duty calls or stopping by the gentlemen’s clubs. Judging from the searing looks that passed between the pair, neither event would take place anytime soon. Lady Leverett did offer to speak to an old schoolmate about getting Hope an invitation to that lady’s upcoming rout. “Everyone of note who is in London will be there, so you are bound to find your Sir Malcolm, if you can see him through the crush.”
But the rout was nearly a fortnight away. Hope got up early the following morning, determined to continue her search. Over her chocolate and buttered toast, she considered her options. In Bath she could have consulted the master of ceremonies. In Interlaken the local news sheet told of every visitor, from Wordsworth to the wagon-maker’s uncle. A person could get lost in London. And what if Sir Malcolm’s relations were situated out of the City proper, or he was not partaking of the social events? How did one go about hiring a Bow Street Runner, anyway? Mr. Arthur would know.
She spotted him leaning on his cane outside the dining parlor, talking to the head waiter, and asked for a moment of his time.
Deuce take it, Arthur thought. Making his slow way out of the dining room, he’d seen her descend the stairs. He’d collared the maître d’ about meals for the princess, who was already a day late, rather than have Miss Thurstfield watch him wend his ragged way back to the manager’s apartment. Now she wanted to chat. She was wearing sprigged muslin today, he noticed, with tiny rosebuds embroidered at the neckline and hem. She looked as fresh and as sweet as a spring garden,
dash it, a garden someone else was destined to pick. “Why don’t we sit here, Miss Thurstfield?” Arthur gestured toward a conveniently close-by grouping of chairs and sofas, rather than make the journey to Simmons’s rooms—or trust himself alone there with her. After seeing her seated, though, he decided to remain standing. The farther away from her, the more likely he was to behave like a gentleman. “Now, how may I be of assistance this morning, ma’am? Did you wish a piece of jewelry out of the safe?” For a price, Simmons had given Captain Hunter the combination to his personal lockbox, behind a muddy watercolor in the manager’s sitting room. “You could have sent one of the maids with a note, you know. I would have seen the item delivered instantly.”
“Oh, no, I have no plans to wear anything fancy this day.” Now that she was facing the man, Hope was not so sure how to proceed. He was looking caring and competent and complete to a shade in fawn pantaloons. How was she to admit that her almost-fiancé had scarpered off before the banns were read? Or that she hoped to use her jewels to entice another—almost any other—gentleman into making her an offer? He’d think she was desperate, at her last prayers, chasing after Sir Malcolm or an eligible parti. He might even think she was considering a not-so-eligible match! But she needed his help. Hope brushed one of Trumpet’s hairs off her skirt and blurted out, “I am looking for a man.”
5
That gentlemen refrain from wearing boots and spurs to bed.
In the army, the cardinal rule of survival was Never Volunteer. Now, however, at Miss Thurstfield’s declaration, Captain Hunter almost stepped front and center, shouting, “Me! Me! Me!” Even though the duty might kill him, he’d die a happy man. The small soldier was already standing at attention.
She couldn’t mean him, of course. Arthur could not keep from grinning, though, as he asked, “Any man in particular?”
Oh, why had she thought he’d help? Hope was mortified that this…this counter-jumper found humor in her situation. She stood to leave. “I am sorry I took your time, Mr. Arthur, with my silly problem. I know you are a busy man.”
He touched her sleeve for the briefest of seconds. “Don’t go, Miss Thurstfield. I am never too busy to assist you. That is, it’s hotel policy, don’t you know, to be of service for the guests. Now, what kind of man are you seeking? A driver? A footman? A coiffeur, perhaps? Although I must say it would be a shame to cut your lovely curls.”
Hope was more convinced than ever that Mr. Arthur was not what he seemed. No hotel hireling would flirt with one of the lady guests. He was flirting, wasn’t he? Drat the man for sending her wits begging again. She studied the intricate pattern of the carpet for a moment, striving for composure. “I am looking for a particular gentleman, Sir Malcolm Fredenham, from Lancaster. Are you perhaps familiar with him?”
“I cannot say that I have ever heard of the fellow, but I have been out of the country till recently.”
“Managing another hotel?”
“Managing.” To survive, more like. “But I can make inquiries with the doormen at the gentlemen’s clubs and such for you. If he is in London, he should not be too hard to locate.”
“That’s what I was hoping, but I could not call at those premises myself, of course. And I did not wish to hire an investigator, for that would make Sir Malcolm appear some kind of felon.”
“Is he?”
“Heavens, no. He is a most respectable gentleman, a baronet, in fact. He simply forgot to give me his direction in Town.”
“Sir Malcolm mightn’t be the fiancé who was to call, might he?”
“Oh, we are not officially affianced. We have an understanding, you see.”
Arthur did not see, not at all. How could any gudgeon let this goddess slip through his fingers? Any man fortunate enough to win her hand would be a fool not to put a gold band on it instantly. But that was assuming Sir Malcolm loved Miss Thurstfield, a notion that was easy to understand, but hard to swallow. Not that Arthur was in love with the chit himself, of course. He might wish to toss her over his shoulder and carry her away to his hunting box for a year to see if they would suit, but he was not such a nodcock as to fall in love with a woman after two days. He never had before, at any rate. For that matter, he’d never fallen in love, not even once, so he supposed he was no expert on the tender affliction. But if the Fredenham fellow did love her, Arthur reasoned, how did he “forget” to leave an address? That would be like forgetting one’s name, like cutting off one’s nose while shaving, like pretending to be an innkeeper. It sounded to the captain as if this benighted baronet was playing fast and loose with Miss Thurstfield’s affections.
If he found him he’d treat the dirty dish to some home-brewed, for trifling with a lady. Then again, if Arthur found the jackanapes, Miss Thurstfield would likely make the betrothal official. Or get married by special license right here in London. But if Sir Malcolm stayed missing, Miss Thurstfield would stay single. Hope sprang eternal. No, Hope sprang to her feet again.
“I am certain his letter must have gone amiss, is all. But I so wanted to share the glorious celebrations with him here in Town. Thank you in advance for making those inquiries. I knew I could count on you, and your discretion.”
“At your service, ma’am. Rest assured, I shall give your investigation the attention it deserves. Have you plans in the meantime?”
“I thought I might see a bit of the City, do some more shopping perhaps. I understand there is to be a military parade this afternoon to welcome some foreign dignitaries.”
Oh, Lud, and he was supposed to be there, too. Not to march, of course, but to escort the Ziftsweig delegation, if they ever showed, in full regalia. “I am certain it will be quite a spectacle. But I cannot feel comfortable allowing two women to wander about the streets by themselves. Permit me to assign an escort to you.” He held up a hand before she could protest. “And you need not fret about the expense. The man is already on the payroll, with nothing to do.” Browne had been complaining just this morning that unless Captain Hunter visited his tailor and his bootmaker soon, he may as well pension his batman off. The sergeant would be just the ticket to keep Miss Thurstfield safe, and away from the reviewing stand. And Mrs. Storke seemed just the cozy armful Brownie liked best.
Hope left him then, but not without a smile of appreciation. She’d been right to consult the masterful manager, for now she felt confident again, buoyed by his care and consideration for her well-being. And his return smile.
Arthur watched her go, admiring the graceful sway of her hips and the softly rounded posterior outlined by the thin muslin gown. Then he realized his mouth was open so he snapped it shut before he’d be caught drooling like a dog after a juicy bone. Zeus, he had too much to do to stand around like a mooncalf. He needed a new wardrobe, and a new curricle so he might invite her for a ride in the park or take her sight-seeing himself. Now he had to add not finding Sir Malcolm, which meant a call on his sister-in-law. Sylvia was one of the biggest gossips in Town; she’d know just where he shouldn’t look for the feckless fiancé. Dash it, Arthur asked himself, what had he been about, wallowing in self-pity when there was so much to accomplish if he was to have a chance with Miss Thurstfield?
She was not engaged, only nearly so. As the saying went, there was many a slip twixt cup and lip, and Arthur meant to be standing by to catch the spill. He did not know how he was going to explain away his pretense, but he’d worry about being Viscount Huntingdon when he looked the part. For now, he was intrigued with the notion of courting a lovely young lady without fear of his wealth and title appealing to her more than himself. Meantime, the first thing he had to do was find the man who’d saved his life, now that he deemed that life worth living. Arthur hurried back to his rooms to collect his hat and inform Browne of his new duties, forgetting all about his limp or that others might be watching. Miss Thurstfield did not seem to mind; why should he?
*
“What do you mean, you cannot help me? I did not climb up those blasted stairs just to give my regard
s to the War Office, by Jupiter.”
Arthur’s happy mood had not lasted long. First he’d called at Lieutenant Thomas Durbin’s family’s home, only to find the knocker off the door. A surly footman at the service entrance had been no help, even after accepting Captain Hunter’s coin. Then Arthur had gone to Whitehall, only to find that most of his acquaintances were off getting ready for the victory march. A smooth-cheeked soldier was left on duty, to his—and Arthur’s—regret.
“Do you know who I am, Private?” Arthur shouted in his best battlefield tones.
“Yes, sir, Captain Hunter, sir. My lord.” Everyone knew one of the most decorated officers of the last campaign. The private still could not get him Lieutenant Thomas Durbin’s current address. “It’s classified, sir.”
“Cut line, Private. Since when is a junior officer’s direction a matter of national security?”
“Since the lieutenant is being held for court-martial, sir. Orders are he’s to have no visitors.”
“What? What charges were brought against him? Dash it, man, I would know. The lieutenant saved my life.”
“The, ah, charges include dereliction of duty, disobeying orders, disrespect for his superior, and desertion.”
“Since his commanding officer was that fool Falcott, I am not surprised that disrespect for his superior is included, but the rest is hogwash. The lieutenant was one of the bravest, most valiant officers on the Peninsula, dash it. He ought to be leading today’s celebration. And if you do not tell me his whereabouts, Private, you’ll find yourself sweeping the streets after that same parade.”
The lieutenant was in the guardhouse, and it took Arthur three hours to get him out. The hardest part was finding the officers to sign his release, once Captain Hunter had told his story: It was General Falcott who’d engaged the French while peace was being negotiated. Without support from the rest of the British troops, Falcott’s infantry was cut down by the French. Sent by Wellington to find where the devil Falcott’s brigade was and why the deuce they were not in camp, Captain Hunter had found the remnants of the unit. Lieutenant Durbin had rallied his handful of men to make a stand, despite knowing how hopeless their situation. Arthur fought by the lieutenant’s side until the French withdrew, thinking reinforcements were arriving, and he could lead the intrepid troop back to the British lines.
Autumn Glory and Other Stories Page 9