Tilda laughed. “You of all people must know that I am an incurable humbugger, Alastair. I had to have some excuse to escape my watchdogs! Even so, I’m sure they thought it odd of you to be so obliging as to escort me home.”
“Timothy was not pleased.”
“Pooh!” Tilda disposed of the worthy Timothy with an airy wave of her hand. The Duchess, had she suspected Tilda’s plans for the evening, would have had recourse to Letty’s smelling salts. “Can it be that you turn reluctant, Alastair? I would not have thought you so cowardly!”
“Not I.” Alastair sounded amused. “It merely occurs to me that Dominic would not approve of this expedition.”
Tilda experienced a brief pang. “Dominic is no longer here to tell me what I may and may not do. Do you regret your invitation, Alastair? Do not tell me that you refuse to take me to this hotel!”
“It would be very bad of me, would it not? I escort you with the greatest pleasure on earth, ma’am, and only thought that your friends would consider this adventure decidedly irregular.”
“Of course they would,” Tilda agreed cordially. “It is precisely why you accompany me.”
“Wilmington would be incensed.”
“Wilmington can go to the devil!” Tilda snapped. “I must tell you, Alastair, that I am mighty tired of being told how to go on.”
“I must point out that I am not constraining you.” Lord Bechard sounded bored.
“No,” Tilda agreed. “You have no great fondness for me. You do not deceive me, Alastair. You aid my rebellion for a whim, nothing more. I wonder what prompts you to be so obliging.”
“The delightful thought of Dominic’s wrath could he but know of this,” Lord Bechard replied. “It is a source of great regret to me that he cannot.”
“What a contemptible creature you are.” Tilda wished she could clearly see his face. “It is abominable to speak so of one who was your friend.”
“You would not understand,” Alastair remarked in weary tones. “I warned Dominic ‘twas folly to marry you. Now, unless I am mistaken, we have arrived at our destination.” He opened the carriage door.
“This is not the hotel, surely?” Tilda gazed at the sordid street before her and wondered if she’d made a grave mistake.
Lord Bechard’s pale features were sinister in that light. “No,” he said, “this is The Cat and the Fiddle. There has been a change of plans.”
Chapter Nine
The Duchess was distracted. Tilda had failed to return to the house the previous evening, a matter that Agatha intended to keep from her numerous servants, and Agatha didn’t know what to make of this inexplicable behavior. She’d been startled to learn that her houseguest had departed Almack’s in the company of Lord Bechard, but had thought Tilda safe enough, for even Alastair was surely not so paper-skulled as to try and do her harm. Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson had some very influential friends.
Agatha compressed her lips. Tilda was ripe for folly, as had been obvious; if Alastair involved her in a scandal, the Duchess would personally see that he suffered most unpleasantly for it. She supposed it was fortunate that Micah had departed for the Hall blissfully unaware of this latest development. Agatha was in no mood for a set-to with her godson. It seemed quite enough that she must worry about Tilda’s latest peccadillo, but it was not: her grandnephew had called at a ridiculously early hour to inform her that he sought permission to pay his addresses to Madeleine de Villiers. Agatha thought little of a courtship conducted in so cold-blooded a manner, and had sent the Marquess on his way with a few well-chosen comments concerning starched-up young gentlemen. If Lionel was to be successful in his courtship of the volatile Miss de Villiers, he could do worse than study the tactics employed by Micah. It was not to be expected that Lionel would accept this advice with equanimity, and he had left the house in a temper, with, Agatha trusted, a good deal to think about.
She snorted and inspected her second caller of the day. “You were right to come to me,” she said. “This is a diverting tale.”
Motley inclined her head. “I could think of no one else who might be able, and willing, to help.”
The Duchess frowned. “Hush now. I must think.”
Motley was only too willing to obey. Each moment that Clemence spent in Letty Jellicoe’s house was fraught with peril, not only for the actress but for her conspirators. “You’re no more a lady’s maid than I am,” Agatha announced abruptly. “What, then? A governess?” Motley nodded, her face wooden. Odd as it might seem, this deception might simply be a ploy of anxious parents. “Are you certain we have not met before?” the Duchess persevered. “You are damnably familiar, but I cannot recall the occasion.” She abruptly abandoned the inquisition. “Never mind.”
Motley stifled a sigh of relief, for though she had taken care to appear as nondescript as possible, pulling her hair into a severe coil and choosing a gown that made her appear sallow, she feared Agatha’s sharp eyes. She regretted having disturbed the Duchess at so unconventional an hour, but it was the only time her own absence would not be remarked. She had found her hostess still abed, scowling over a delightful adventure tale that certainly didn’t merit such a disapproving expression. To the consternation of various of her servants, Agatha had ordered Motley promptly escorted to her bedchamber.
This room was filed with graceful furniture of an earlier era, a welcome contrast to Letty Jellicoe’s overcrowded rooms. Here was the simple elegance that denoted the best of taste. Motley regarded the Duchess, who was clad in a muslin
peignoir,
with an exquisite lace cap atop her head, and reclining among countless pillows on a beautiful canopied bed. Silk curtains were drawn to expose the counterpane and floor-length valance.
“I think I’ve hit upon a solution,” Agatha announced with a wicked grin. “It’s not perfect, but it should serve for a time. Alastair Bechard is a curst rum touch, but I had not thought that even he would go to such lengths, be he ever so desirous of mounting a mistress. I am quite out of charity with him! He deserves to be paid in his own coin.” The Duchess spared a brief thought for the missing Tilda, and her face set in grim lines. “There’s wild blood in the Bechards. They must do all to excess.” The sharp eyes raked Motley’s face. “You can vouch for the chit?”
“I can, and do,” Motley replied promptly. “I have known her since she was a schoolgirl. Clemence is lamentably hot-at-hand, but there is no vice in her. I believe she has learned a harsh lesson from this present imbroglio.”
“I should hope so!” Agatha’s fingers drummed the counterpane. “An actress! Definitely not the thing. But the girl shows spirit, and I like that.”
Motley was determined to be fair to Clemence. “I believe she engaged in her current profession in all innocence, with a schoolgirl’s idea of what an actress’s life must be. She is not to be blamed that she has learned otherwise.”
The Duchess nodded. “Which shows the mistake we make in coddling our young. Even the veriest straw damsel must know better.” She sighed heavily. “Very well! I shall trust you aren’t trying to foist a prime article of virtue off on me, and do what I can for the chit.”
“Madam!” Motley was scandalized. Agatha hooted with laughter.
“You’ll get used to my tongue, young woman!” Motley blinked, not accustomed to hearing herself referred to as young. “I deplore Madeleine’s involvement in this thing. Alastair will be cross as a cat if he learns of her responsibility for the disappearance, and there is no telling what abominable notion that odious man may take into his head.”
“I am afraid that damage may have already been done.” Motley met the Duchess’s sharp glance. “No, Maddy has not confided in me, but I know her rather well, and I believe she regards Lord Bechard with apprehension. It seems more than the expected reaction of a well-brought-up young woman to a gentleman of his sort.”
Agatha, who’d always been fond of a rogue, reflected that Madeleine was not so well brought up that she took offense at the flattery of her godson. “That’s put the cat among the pigeons, then. Hell and the devil confound the man! We must act without further ado. The girl will come to me, ostensibly as my maid. It won’t be thought wonderful, since I dismissed the last one.” The Duchess cackled. “A more mealy-mouthed creature I never hope to see—she had spasms regular as clockwork. But the chit will have to be circumspect, for servants will talk. Well? Will it do?”
“Admirably,” Motley replied with relief. She knew the Duchess would treat Clemence well, and spare her the more onerous and distasteful aspects of the profession. “I only hope that her presence here may not become known.”
“Wouldn’t matter if it did,” Agatha remarked. “I’m known to be philanthropic; it’s like me to save a young woman from ruin. I don’t propose to keep her on as a lifelong dependent—I daresay it wouldn’t suit either of us—but she’ll do well enough here until I can think of something else for her.”
“And Lord Bechard?” Motley offered cautiously.
“We’ll consider him when we must.” The Duchess fervently hoped that Micah would have returned by then. “You go on home and prepare the girl. I’ll fetch her this afternoon.”
“Maddy’s aunt will require some explanation. What will you tell her?”
“You may leave that safely to me.” Agatha hadn’t the vaguest idea how she would deal with Letty Jellicoe.
“You’ve done right to put the matter in my hands.” The dark eyes narrowed. “I’m sure we’ve met before. I wish you’d tell me where.” She paid no heed to Motley’s disclaimer, and observed with interest her betraying flush. “I daresay it will come to me.”
Having dispensed with the matter of Clemence, Agatha was free to devote her thoughts again to Tilda. It was obvious that some action must be taken to recover her guest. If Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson were involved in something so unexceptionable as a long-overdue affaire, she wouldn’t be happy at being dragged home, but that chance had to be taken. The Duchess preferred that Tilda refrain from such
amours
until after she was safely wed. “And on your way out,” Agatha added decisively, “send James the footman to me.” James was a discreet and invaluable young man.
* * * *
“I have nourished a serpent in my bosom!” Letty wailed, having recourse to her vinaigrette. Her blond curls were wildly askew. Maddy assumed an expression of innocence and wondered, with sinking heart, what catastrophe had befallen her.
“It is not bad enough,” Letty said, fortifying herself with a liberal dollop of Battley’s Sedative, a draught that was heavily spiced with opium but milder than Black Drop, “that you must fritter away your chances. Not one offer have you received! That alone utterly sinks my spirits,” Letty glowered at her niece. “You have made a sad botch of it. You are wild to a fault, my girl! For it is not at all the thing to waltz three times with a gentleman, and particularly not with Wilmington! You will give Chesterfield a disgust of you, and then where will you be? It is no small triumph to have Wilmington dancing attendance on you, but you can be sure he has no thought of marriage.”
Maddy uttered a feeble protest. “People,” interrupted Letty, with awful wrath, “have begun to whisper that you’re fast! Sally Jersey remarked to me that you seemed to actually encourage the Earl.” She moaned with remembered mortification. “It was only with the greatest difficulty that I persuaded her that your shocking behaviour was due to ignorance.” Lady Jersey’s outspoken comments still had the power to sting. “You are prodigiously like your father, but I did not expect that a de Villiers, even a mere dab of a girl, would be so cork-brained. Madeleine, you have put me to the blush!”
Maddy thought it an excellent time to apprise her aunt of Chesterfield’s announced intention, for this diversionary tactic would surely send Letty into transports of joy, but Alathea peeped into the room.
“Do I interrupt?” she inquired in the dulcet tones that Maddy had learned to distrust.
“I am overset,” Letty proclaimed mournfully, “by your cousin’s ingratitude. What is it, my child?”
Alathea entered the room, carefully closing the door behind her. “Kenelm,” she announced, “has had a confrontation with Lord Bechard.”
“Kenelm and Alastair Bechard?” Letty’s voice rose to a shriek. “What is this tale?”
“Kenelm insulted Lord Bechard,” Alathea explained with obvious satisfaction. “Deliberately. Fortunately, he is not seriously hurt.”
“I think,” said Letty faintly, “that I am going to have a spasm! I must go to my son. Take me to Kenelm at once!”
“No, Mama,” Alathea protested. “He has requested that he be left alone. The wound is only superficial. I believe that the main injury is to his pride.”
“But how?” Letty asked weakly. “And why? Kenelm and Alastair Bechard! I cannot credit it.”
Maddy already considered her cousin a spiteful cat; Alathea proceeded to justify that opinion. “I cannot say for certain,” she said, with a malicious glance at Maddy, “but I believe it to have been a quarrel over an actress. You must ask Maddy for details, for she knows the girl. Kenelm has been dancing attendance on her for the longest time. I’m sure it’s not to be wondered at, for she’s set her cap at him.”
Letty closed her eyes, and reached blindly for her handkerchief. “This is a crushing blow,” she moaned. “My son and an actress. Infamous! Things could not be in a worse case.” Her eyes snapped open to fix with horror on her niece. “Maddy
is
acquainted with this creature?”
“Not only is Maddy acquainted with her,” Alathea commented vindictively, “but it is my belief that she has introduced her into this house. Clemence is not a common name.”
“Clemence?” Though not sharp-witted, Letty was no dullard. “Of course! I thought the girl looked familiar.” She grasped her head. “There is nothing else for it: I shall have to put a period to my existence.”
“Pray spare us a Cheltenham tragedy,” the Duchess said, and closed the door sharply upon the goggle-eyed servant who had escorted her to the room. “We shall never succeed in wrapping the matter in clean linen if you are determined to inform your entire household of it.” Maddy gazed upon the newcomer with mingled horror and relief, but Letty turned ashen. “I collect you have learned the identity of Madeleine’s young friend.” The keen old eyes studied Alathea. “I thought you might. It’s a pity, but there’s no harm come of it. Between us, we’ve rescued the chit from a nasty scrape.”