A Stranger in Mayfair
Read A Stranger in Mayfair Online
Authors: Charles Finch
To Emily, with love
Contents
Prologue
“Clara, who is that gentleman? He looks familiar.”
The question startled Clara Woodward, a slender, light-haired girl, out of her deep reverie. They had been sitting silently for ten minutes, and she had used most of the time to ponder the limitless wonders of her friend Harold Webb: his gentle good looks, his kind smile, his intelligent eyes, the dashing cut of his clothes.
It was hopeless. He was in London, and here she was in the entrance hall of a hotel in Paris. While to another girl this might have seemed wonderful (it was quite a grand, ancient hotel, the Crillon, situated handsomely on the Place de la Concorde, and the hall itself was opulent, gilded and hung with old tapestries), to Clara it seemed a tragedy. With an inward sigh she turned her attention to her Aunt Bess.
“Which one do you mean?”
“There, the rather tall and thin one, with the brown hair.”
Clara turned her gaze across the hotel’s lobby. “And the short beard? That’s Charles Lenox, I believe.” In fact she knew it perfectly well. Two or three people had pointed him out to her, and she had once met him at a party in Belgravia. “I know he just recently married Lady—”
“Lady Jane Grey, yes, yes, I remember him now. They do let
anybody
into this hotel! It’s shocking, most shocking.”
“What’s wrong with him, Aunt?”
“From everything I hear he’s a fearfully low sort—consorts with common criminals. I know he calls himself a detective—Of all things!”
“I think she’s very beautiful. I saw her in the restaurant.”
“Lady Jane Grey?” Doubt clouded the older woman’s brow. “I always heard she was of good stock, of course. Your late uncle once rode to hounds with her father, the Earl of Houghton, about ten years ago I think—yes, in 1854 or ’5, I feel quite sure. I never heard a single good thing of Charles Lenox, though, you may be certain of that. For one thing, his closest friend is Thomas McConnell.”
Clara looked blank. “Is that so bad?”
“My dear! He married far above himself, and he drinks like a fish. What do you say to a man who has a drunk for a near friend?”
“There was ever so much fuss when Mr. Lenox stopped that man at the Mint from stealing all that money—do you remember? The murdered journalists?”
“He probably murdered them himself,” said Bess in a complacent tone. Whether it wanted to or not, she was determined to watch the world slide into iniquity.
The amateur detective—for such he was, and would own it much more proudly than someone like Bess, who thought it a betrayal of his birth, would prefer—paced across the marble floor of the hall. It was otherwise empty, too early in the afternoon for people to be at their tea. Clara thought gloomily of all the hotel’s other residents, out buying lovely dresses and drinking lovely wine and seeing lovely gardens.
In truth, she knew far more of London and its society than her aunt ever could, and now she pulled out her trump card. She rather liked the look of Lenox, and adored the style and beauty of his new wife. “Wasn’t he just elected to Parliament, Aunt?” she said sweetly.
Bess dismissed this with a scowl. “Oh, anyone is in Parliament these days, Clara, it’s a disgrace. No, what matters is that for all his adult life he has been a detective. It’s the lowest thing I ever heard, I swear.”
Clara was only half listening, however, because her own mention of Parliament had recalled Harold to her again. Parliament was his ambition, and whatever he wanted she did, too, passionately.
It was hopeless, she repeated to herself. Utterly hopeless.
And for the silliest reason! It wasn’t because he didn’t reciprocate her affection. He did, which made her heart flutter to contemplate. Unfortunately, he hadn’t any money, and though it didn’t matter a whit to her, her parents, who controlled her own marriage portion, had forbidden the match. Thus she was in Paris, out of London, her home city, and with her tedious, countrified aunt, who lived primarily in Kent and spent only a month of the year in town. “It will be nice for her and nice for you,” her parents had said. They weren’t cruel people—but oh, how cruelly they were behaving!
“I remember now,” said her aunt. “George Barnard was the Master of the Mint, and he was trying to steal from it. But surely it was Scotland Yard who solved that mystery, wasn’t it? Yes, I remember very definitely that it was Scotland Yard.”
“But everyone in London knows that it was really Charlie Lenox,” said Clara. “He never takes the credit. And he goes to the best places, I promise you.”
“What the world’s coming to!” said Bess, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Of course it’s only because he’s taking advantage of poor Lady Jane—charmed her, I’m sure, with his slick ways, and now she’s burdened with him for good. Oh, dear, the thought of it!” Bess fanned herself fretfully.
“They’re lifelong friends, I believe. They lived in houses side by side for years before he proposed. I think it’s wonderfully romantic.”
“Clara Woodward, you’re determined to vex me, aren’t you? Why won’t girls listen to
sense
these days. A detective, no matter what society he sees or how many Parliaments he’s in, is the least savory, vilest, most evil-minded—”
But here she broke off, because the unsavory, vile, evil-minded man himself was walking toward them from across the hall.
It was a wide room, dotted with tables and sofas, with gold leaf everywhere and vast trees dimming the noise—or at any rate Bess prayed they dimmed the noise. The man’s face was friendly enough. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her.
“How do you do? I’m afraid that I must presume on very slight acquaintance to reintroduce myself to your niece. I’m Charles Lenox.”
“How do you do, Mr. Lenox. My name is Bess Telford. You’ve met my niece?”
“Once, yes, but only very briefly, as I recall, and I’m ashamed to say I don’t remember her name. Your name, ma’am?” he said, turning to Clara.
“This is Clara Woodward,” said Bess, simpering a little. The Earls of Houghton, after all. And now she seemed to recall something about an older brother, too. Was it Edward Lenox? Edmund Lenox? A leading man in Parliament.
“As I say, I must apologize for presuming upon our very brief first meeting, but I was wondering whether either of you had seen my wife here. I was five minutes late to meet her, and now it’s been fifteen minutes. The clerks didn’t spy her, but I thought you might have.”
“Oh! How worrisome! I haven’t seen her, I’m sorry to say, and in this city what might happen to an honest Englishwoman is anybody’s—”
“I haven’t seen her either,” said Clara to save her aunt’s solecism. For her efforts she earned a reproving look from her relation. “Did you see the Robinsons before you left London?”
This was their mutual acquaintance. “I did, yes, they—”
Determined not to be superseded by her niece, however, Bess said, “Remind me, Mr. Lenox, about the affair at the Mint—wasn’t it you who sent that wicked man Barnard away to prison, and saved all of our money?”
Lenox turned red, and Clara felt she could have sunk into the ground. “Ah—I remember—I recall the incident to which I believe you’re referring, ma’am, but it was not I, it was Scotland Yard, that apprehended the criminal.”
“And that September Society—”
Thankfully for Lenox, at that moment Lady Jane Grey burst into the lobby, trailed by a small French girl in a dressmaker’s uniform, some sort of apprentice, carrying a parcel under her arm.
“Charles!” cried out Lady Jane. “There you are! Whatever punctuality I ever could claim has been stolen from me by this city. I’m so sorry. But do introduce me, please, to your friends.”
She was a lovely woman, though not immediately striking. She was plainly dressed, in a simple blue gown with a gray ribbon at the waist, and her dark curls looked natural, not affected. What Clara noticed, however, was the tremendous poise and wisdom of her eyes—and the faint lattice of wrinkles around them. She must have been thirty-five or thirty-six. Lenox himself was forty or just past.