by M. C. Beaton
“Was?” Felice’s black eyes looked intently at the butler.
“She was found dead in the Green Park near the reservoir without a mark on her,” said Rainbird.
“Miss Jane’s been asking all sorts of questions like, ‘What did she die of? She must have died of something.’ I told Miss Jane that the physician, Mr. Gillespie, could not find any explanation of her death.”
“I’m sure if anyone can give Miss Jane a bit of town bronze it will be yourself,” said Joseph, gazing with open admiration at the lady’s maid. Lizzie felt a sharp pain somewhere in the region of her heart.
“In any case, it’s unhealthy for little Miss Jane to be left alone to brood about such things,” said Rainbird, “with only a servant like myself to talk to.”
They all clucked and shook their heads in sympathy. It was indeed a sad state of affairs when the gentry had to rely on such as themselves for conversation.
Upstairs, Jane was content that she was to attend the rout. She had longed to ask her mother whether a certain Lord Tregarthan would be present, but did not dare, knowing her mother’s curiosity would be roused and also that Euphemia would tease her to death.
The idea of a party was lovely. Jane naively thought it would be a jolly affair with, perhaps, some dancing, never having met anyone who had been to a London rout. The social columns had been no help, for they only described who had been at various routs without pointing out the lack of refreshments or amusements.
Euphemia’s gown was to come from Madame Duchasse, one of London’s leading dressmakers. Jane knew her own gown was to made be out of one of Euphemia’s old silks. She did not find this state of things unfair although she often chided herself over her own jealousy. It was surely natural that the elder and fairer should claim all the attention.
Jane adored the butler, Rainbird, since she saw a side of him that he hid from the rest of her family. She was vastly amused at the way the butler cleverly manipulated her mother into opening the purse strings a little wider. It had not taken the astute Rainbird long to find out that it was Mrs. Hart who was head of the household and not the silent Captain Hart.
So Jane dreamt sensibly of meeting some pleasant gentleman who might find her interesting enough to chat to, and put Lord Tregarthan firmly to the back of her mind.
The rout was such a squeeze, such a crush, that it was doubtful if poor Jane, who had been placed in a corner of the back parlour and told to stay there, would have met Lord Tregarthan but for two factors.
Before the rout, the normally abstemious Rainbird had drunk long and deep, and Euphemia had been rude to him.
Rainbird, finding he had money in his pocket for the first time in many months, slipped out to The Running Footman, that pub frequented by upper servants, and there met Blenkinsop, Lord Charteris’s butler from next door.
Blenkinsop was complaining about the load of coal he had found in the cellar. He had ordered the best quality before they had left for the country, he said, and now, by some strange miracle, the same quantity was there but it was of the cheapest imaginable.
Rainbird set out to divert Blenkinsop’s mind from the coal by gossipping about his new employers and did not notice that he himself was drinking often and quickly as he talked. A quantity of gin-and-hot on an empty stomach—for Rainbird had not had time to eat that day—put him high in his altitudes, and, when he returned to Clarges Street, he felt like quite a different person: much grander, taller, and stronger and almost like the owner of the house instead of its butler. But, unfortunately for him, Euphemia was crossing the hall as he entered.
“Where have you been?” she snapped. “Mama has been ringing and ringing and Jane has not had her tea taken
up.”
“I will see to Miss Jane’s tea immediately,” said Rainbird, forgetting his place and letting a flash of dislike for this small-minded beauty show in his expressive grey eyes.
“Miss Jane! Miss Jane!” jeered Euphemia with a toss of her curls. “There is too much running about after my little sister. It is I who am making the come-out. This rout is in my honour. Jane is to sit in the back parlour and not draw attention to herself. I shall be watching you very carefully,” said Euphemia, looking the butler up and down. She turned on her heel and marched up the stairs. Rainbird watched her go. It was amazing, he reflected, how an ugly character destroyed even the greatest beauty.
Rainbird had received many slights, snubs, and put-downs in his career. What servant has not? But the excess of gin he had drunk had made him prickly and sensitive, and he was consumed by an unusual desire to get even with Miss Euphemia.
The first guests were nearly due to arrive when Mrs. Hart sent word down to the kitchens that she meant to break with tradition and serve wine to the gentlemen and negus to the ladies. The normally stingy Mrs. Hart was suffering from her first attack of “stage fright” and was convinced that were her guests well-lubricated they might be more charitable. The servants ran hither and thither to wine merchants ordering last-minute deliveries.
Euphemia, dazzlingly beautiful in a pink sprigged silk gown and with a pink gauze turban atop her curls, sipped delicately at a glass of negus from the bowl that Rainbird had just prepared and set over a spirit lamp in the front parlour. Negus was a mixture of hot sweetened wine and water. She made a face and said, “La! It tastes very watery. Do not continue to line your pocket at mama’s expense, Rainbird. Take this away and strengthen it.”
“I will arrange it to your satisfaction,” said Rainbird, taking the huge silver bowl off the spirit lamp and heading for the door. Only Jane saw the wicked smile beginning to curl his mobile mouth.
“I’ll negus ’er,” he muttered, setting the bowl on the kitchen table. He poured the contents off into a large jug and then proceeded to fill the bowl with sugar, wine, brandy, gin, and arrack. Satisfied at last, he held a glass out to the cook. “Here, Angus,” he said. “Tell me what you think of that.”
“Ladies’ muck,” said the cook, tossing it off in one gulp. Then he gasped and spluttered and clutched onto the kitchen table for support. “I’ feg,” he said hoarsely. “I feel as if ah’ve been kicked in the bread basket.”
“Excellent,” said Rainbird primly. He straightened his waistcoat, picked up the bowl, and carried it upstairs, arriving in the parlour just as the first carriages were drawing up outside.
As well as the downstairs drawing room, which was formed of front and back parlours, Mr. and Mrs. Hart’s bedroom upstairs and the dining room next door had been cleared of furniture for the rout.
All the world had heard that Mr. Brummell was to be present and so society started to arrive in droves.
Jane sat in her corner, smoothing down the silk of her gown, and looking about her with wide eyes. She did not feel like herself at all. No one, not even Jane herself, had realized before that evening that she had a very pretty bosom. The rich burgundy silk of the gown, daringly cut by Felice’s wickedly clever fingers, flattered her skin, making it look warm gold in the candlelight. Her thick hair had been brushed and pomaded until it shone, revealing little fiery lights in its blackish-brown tresses.
Euphemia had stood rather shyly beside her mother and father to receive the guests, but one glass of Rainbird’s concoction had done wonders for her, and now, to Jane’s surprise, for she had expected Euphemia to be more modest in her behaviour in London, her sister was laughing and flirting in a decidedly fast way.
In fact even Mrs. Hart was laughing in a loud, rather vulgar manner. All the guests were sampling the negus. Rainbird’s new brew was extremely popular.
There was a sudden silence and then a craning of heads as Mr. Brummell made his entrance. The crowd surged into the front parlour and Jane was left to herself. The double doors that normally separated front and back parlours were open.
Jane supposed that many of the guests were famous. They certainly looked as if they expected to be recognised and admired. She fought down a feeling of disappointment as her wide eyes scrutinised the g
entlemen. They were as studied in their manners and attitudes as the ladies. They had very loud drawling voices and wore dark evening dress with white silk stockings, cambric shirt fronts, and elaborate and intricate cravats and carried little flat chapeau-bras under their arms. As they talked, they filled out their conversation with many little bows, opening and shutting of snuff boxes, and flicking of lace handkerchiefs.
There was another little pause in the conversation, and then the babble of voices rose again. Another notable had obviously arrived. The newcomer was Beau Tregarthan with Mr. Nevill at his heels.
“What a crush!” exclaimed the beau to Rainbird as he handed over his stick in the hall. “And where among all these ladies am I to find the beautiful Miss Hart?” Euphemia and Mrs. Hart were now mingling with their guests and Mr. Hart was standing moodily by the window, looking out into the street.
Rainbird looked up into Lord Tregarthan’s handsome face. Such a prize should not be handed over to the cruel and insolent Euphemia. “Miss Hart is sitting quietly in the back parlour, my lord,” said Rainbird. “If you will follow me … my lord … Mr. Nevill, instead of announcing you, I can lead you from the hall through a door that leads directly to the back parlour.”
“Lead on,” said Lord Tregarthan cheerfully. The rout seemed to be an unusually noisy one. It was odd, all the same, that such a renowned beauty as Miss Hart should choose to sit quietly apart from the company.
Rainbird bowed before Jane and said, “Lord Tregarthan and Mr. Nevill are desirous of making your acquaintance, Miss Hart.”
Confronted by the man of her dreams, Jane jumped up like a jack-in-the-box, blushed painfully, and sank into a deep curtsy. “I-I am n-not Miss Hart,” she stammered. “I am Miss Hart’s younger sister, Jane.”
Lord Tregarthan looked down at the diminutive figure, liking the clear candour of her eyes, the innocence of her face combined with the startling sophistication of her gown. “Pray be seated, Miss Jane.” He drew up a chair beside her and turned to Mr. Nevill. “Peter, be so good as to find us a glass of whatever it is they are drinking.” Mr. Nevill left and Lord Tregarthan turned his attention back to Jane.
“They are all very merry,” he said. “It is unusual to serve anything to drink at a rout.”
“I did not know that,” said Jane. “It is not at all what I expected. I thought there might be dancing and cards and things like that.”
“No, no,” he said seriously. “A rout is a form of suffering. One comes to see and be seen, to be crushed, to have one’s feet stepped on, but certainly not to enjoy oneself. Ah, thank you, Peter.” He took two glasses of negus from Mr. Nevill, handed one to Jane, and kept the other one himself.
“Lord Dudley is over there, Peter,” he said, “talking to himself as usual. It is a pity that no one ever listens to him.”
“Perhaps I will supply him with an audience,” said Mr. Nevill, moving away and correctly interpreting that his friend, for some odd reason, wished to be alone with this strangely dull-looking younger sister.
Jane sipped her negus and choked. Lord Tregarthan tried his and then gently removed Jane’s glass from her hand and put it on the edge of a marble stand that held a candelabra.
“Too strong for one of your tender years,” he said. “It tastes more like a lethal form of punch than negus. It is supposed to be negus, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “My sister told Mr. Rainbird—that’s our butler—to take it away and strengthen it.”
“He did—most effectively.”
He saw Jane’s face fall in disappointment and looked up. Mrs. Hart had come rushing up with Euphemia in tow. Lord Tregarthan rose to his feet and bowed. Mrs. Hart introduced herself and Euphemia. Lord Tregarthan bowed again. His first impression of Euphemia was that of one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen; his second, that she was slightly drunk; and his third, that she had a most unpleasant expression in her lovely eyes.
“You must not waste time with our little Jane,” said Mrs. Hart. “There are so many people desirous of making your acquaintance.”
Lord Tregarthan raised his quizzing glass and looked at Mrs. Hart with one large magnified blue eye. Then he let it fall. “I am tolerably content with my present company,” he said gently. “You must not neglect your other guests.”
Mrs. Hart flushed and turned away. Already many of the guests had surged to the upper rooms. There was a loud crash of glass from the dining room followed by a cheer. She hurried off. Euphemia stood her ground.
“It’s your bedtime, Jane,” she said sharply.
“How could anyone sleep in all this hub-bub?” asked the beau. “Please, I pray you, Miss Hart, do not trouble yourself over your sister. She will do very well with me.” He sat down again, swinging his chair round so he was facing Jane and with his well-tailored back to Euphemia. There was nothing left for Euphemia to do but to follow her mother, but her beautiful eyes flashed a warning to Jane of reprisals to come.
“Oh, I do wish, you know, that you had not elected to stay with me,” said Jane, much distressed. “It does not become you, sir, to use such as I to humiliate my mother and sister.”
He raised thin brows. “I did not humiliate them, although they seemed to me to want to humiliate you. Are you not considered marriageable?”
“No, my lord,” said Jane firmly. “This is not my come-out.”
“Odd. One would have supposed your mama would have wished to save herself a deal of money by presenting you both at the same time.”
Jane looked at her hands. They were trembling slightly so she bunched them in her lap. “I am not a beauty,” said Jane in a low voice, “nor shall I ever be fashionable.”
He looked at her consideringly. “Your eyes are fine and the warmth of your colouring is most unusual and attractive. In order to be fashionable, it is necessary to cultivate some sort of eccentricity. What would do for you? Perhaps you could walk backwards to Brighton? Smoke cheroots? Now, there is Lord Alvanley over there. He always has apricot tart on his sideboard, morning, noon, and night. The man with the sharp nose over there is Lord Petersham. He has the finest snuff cellar in Europe. It was also he who told his valet to put six bottles of sherry beside the bed and call him the day after tomorrow.”
“I notice they are all gentlemen of whom you speak,” said Jane, fascinated. “What of the ladies?”
“Ah, there you have me!” he cried. “Not one of the fair sex has ever really tried to cultivate eccentricity.”
Jane laughed. “How can we discuss such frippery things? One would not think we were at war.”
There was a stillness behind the blue eyes and then they were merry again. “What think you of my waistcoat?” he asked. “I found this material in Rome. If you look closely, you will notice a fine stripe running through the silk.”
Jane battled with a feeling of disappointment. This dashing hero of her dreams was interested only in tailoring and gossip. In truth, Jane persuaded herself she was fighting with her disappointment when in fact she was secretly nurturing it. Deep down inside her a warning voice was telling her that this lord was far above her and that she might be on a threshold of love, a love more deep and mature than she might be able to bear.
“It was you,” she said in a low voice, “that beat Jack Death?”
“That was quite some time ago. Yes, it was I.”
“I was there,” said Jane.
“At a prize fight?”
“I was only ten years of age. I dressed so that people might take me for a boy, but I fell out of a tree and the blacksmith recognised me and sent me home.”
“Just as well,” said the beau, much amused. “Lots of blood.”
“Why did you fight?” asked Jane. Her hands were tightly clasped and her eyes beseeching. If only he would once more be the dream hero of her imaginings.
“Well, I had a great deal of money on my Fancy, to be sure, and when the fellow took sick, what else could I do but fight myself? What a terrible mess I made of my hands. I bath
ed them in Olympian Dew for weeks afterwards to try to restore them to their former whiteness.”
“Oh,” said Jane dully. So he had fought merely for money and his only subsequent worry had been the whiteness of his hands. But what else would he fight for? jeered a little voice in her brain. The love of a fair maiden? His king?
“Why is this house unlucky?” she realised he was asking.
“It is because the Duke of Pelham hanged himself here,” said Jane, “and Miss Clara Vere-Baxton, daughter of the tenants a year after that, was found dead in the Green Park. I am very interested in Miss Clara, you know. You see, no one could find out how she died. There was no mark on her body.”
“Of course, it is up to us to find out how she died,” said Lord Tregarthan, taking a pinch of snuff.
“Us?” said Jane weakly.
“Why not?”
It was then Jane caught the jealous glances thrown in her direction by a group of ladies in the front parlour. Lord Tregarthan was a Catch. She might have persuaded herself that he had fallen from his pedestal, but it was wonderful to be envied for the first time in her life. Besides, he had liked her eyes and the colour of her skin. Jane sat up straighter and unfurled her fan. “How shall we go about it?” she asked.
“I shall take you driving tomorrow and we shall discuss the matter. Dear me! How very noisy and rough this rout is becoming.” Lord Tregarthan cocked his handsome head as more sounds of loud cheering came from above followed by screams and bangs and thumps. He rose to his feet. “Your servant, Miss Jane.”
Jane rose, curtsied, and then watched him leave. He stopped to chat to various people, his fair head and broad shoulders towering above the other guests. Then he was gone. He had not said what time he would call for her or whether he meant to ask Mrs. Hart’s permission. Jane hoped feverishly he would not forget. Fallen Idol he might be, but it would be so pleasant to watch the look on Euphemia’s face as she, Jane, drove out with the most handsome man in London.
Lord Tregarthan had actually gone in search of Mrs. Hart to request her permission to take Jane driving. He found that lady in her dining room on the upper floor in a high state of agitation. Several boozy bucks were trying to lower one of their number from the window to the street by his cravat because he had boasted he used so much material that, unwound, it would stretch from the window to the ground.