Deadly Engagement: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) (7 page)

“Get the cash from someone else,” replied the one in the eight-inch toupee.

“
Cash
?” Simon Tremarton’s voice broke on the word.

“Old Reubens will be on to you in less than that,” was the nasal response with a snap of two fingers, “if he even suspects you can’t repay what you owe him. I’d lend you the blunt myself but I live on credit as it is; much Father knows about it! What about your sister?”

“Cindy?” There was a pathetic catch to Simon Tremarton’s voice. “She don’t give a tester about me. Never has.”

“She must have jewels you can pawn.”

“Paste.”

“All of them?”

“
All of them
.”

The gentleman facing Alec grimaced. “Damn! I thought—”

“—she was swimming in lard? She was once. Has a taste for Basset. Plays deep. Anything Delvin gave her she had copied then sold off to pay her debts. Dressmakers’ bills mostly. Cindy loves to look the lady.
Whore
.”

“Listen, Simon. You’re going to have to swallow your pride and go back to her. See if she won’t speak to Delvin for you. He must be able to pull strings, as many as he pleases the position he’s in.”

Simon shook his powdered head slowly. “How can you ask it of me after what he did to Belsay?”

“But he took your money. He promised—”

“Which brings us full circle.” Simon sighed. “Don’t worry. Everything is so upside down for me now. I don’t want to think about Reubens or Cindy or anything. If the worst comes I’ll try for a posting to Constantinople.”

“Simon?”

It was Alec. He had coughed twice more but to no avail, so he backed up the stairs and came down again, as if he had not been privy to the conversation. He hid his surprise at seeing Simon in Curzon Street and said conversationally, “I thought you’d had enough punishment at the
Salle d’escrime
in Paris with Henri. I warn you: Poisson is a hard taskmaster.” He nodded to the outrageously dressed gentleman beside Simon who acknowledged him with a short bow.

Simon Tremarton stuttered to say something. His face was white as cold marble but his ears were as red as the heels of his companion’s pointed shoes. “Hal—Halsey? Alec! Wh-What a-a surprise! I’m just back from seeing mother. My sister—Cynthia—Perhaps you know her? Lady Gervais? She was with me.” He saw Alec glance at his friend. “Oh! Ah! Alec Halsey, James, Lord Farnham. Alec works—well is a diplomat—”

“The word work is fine, Simon,” said Alec extending his hand to Lord Farnham. “Brother of Freddie’s?”

“No. Second cousin, thank God,” Lord Farnham drawled. “No offense if he’s a friend.”

“I don’t know him well. He’s more an acquaintance,” Alec replied, ignoring the sarcasm and the fact Lord Farnham was looking him up and down through his quizzing-glass as if trying to place his name and face in his mental social register. If he intended to disconcert the object of his social scrutiny he failed dismally. Alec stared blankly back at him.

“Halsey? Halsey.
Egad
! Not
Delvin’s
brother?” Lord Farnham let drop the quizzing-glass on its silken cord. “You and Delvin don’t look much alike.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re the black sheep,” Lord Farnham continued, mental social register turning another cog. “Raised by an uncle or somebody. An annoying old badger who plays at being a rabble-rousing eccentric MP. Wants to abolish slavery and give the Irish Home Rule; that sort of ridiculous nonsense. Father is forever boring on at dinner parties that your uncle should be strung up at Tyburn for treason.”

Alec grinned. “Yes, that’s the one.”

Lord Farnham screwed up his mouth in distaste. “Egad! No wonder Delvin don’t mention you.”

“James—” Simon Tremarton whispered in acute embarrassment, not a glance in Alec’s direction.

“A pity,” Alec replied evenly, “it would give him something to talk about other than himself.”

Lord Farnham peered closely at Alec then and burst into laughter, as if he suddenly got the joke. He nudged Simon sharply. “Simon says you’re too boringly honest to be of much interest, but I own to liking you, Halsey. You’ve got back and you’re prettier then your brother. No wonder Delvin don’t talk about you.” He put up his quizzing-glass and turned a magnified eye on Simon Tremarton. “I’ve a mind to make him a member of the Ganymede Club before you, Simon,” he teased his cringing and red-faced friend. “Unlike you, Halsey can well afford the subscription and his father was an Earl.”

“James!
Don’t
,” Simon whispered fiercely.

Lord Farnham shrugged and sighed. “No, you’re right, Simon. It wouldn’t do to corrupt the innocent. Pity.” He smiled crookedly at Alec and inclined his powdered head. “No offense, Halsey.” And with that sidled passed Alec to the top of the stairs where he called out to Simon, “I shall time your
tête-à-tête
!” and disappeared from view.

Alone in the narrow stairwell Simon Tremarton forced a laugh, although he couldn’t bring himself to look at Alec. “Of course you can’t believe everything James says. He likes to upset people. He—he—Of all the damnedest coincidences finding you here!”

“It’s all right, Simon. I don’t give a fig for Farnham’s opinion.”

“You must be wondering what a government flunky is doing in company with the likes of Farnham and his noble ilk.”

“That’s none of my business, is it?”

“Trust you to be patronizing!” Tremarton sneered.

Alec bowed slightly and continued down the stairs. When he reached street level Simon came thudding after him and closed the street door on the traffic noise.

“Alec! Wait! I’m an ass! I know you’re not the sort of fellow to pass judgment on another. Look. I’m—I’m in a bit of a fix. The duel Delvin fought with Jack Belsay, your brother says it’s all Belsay’s fault. Newssheets say the same. But that’s nonsense. Delvin’s lying!”

“Is that so? You’re the third person in as many days to say so,” Alec replied evenly. “Why did Delvin and Belsay cross swords?”

“I—I don’t know that!” Simon Tremarton blustered, deflated that his dramatic pronouncement had fallen flat. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. Alec Halsey was renowned in Foreign Department circles for playing his cards close to his chest. “Alec, listen: What I do know is that Belsay wasn’t the least interested in a chit from the schoolroom.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I—I know things—
certain particulars
—about Belsay that proves your brother is lying.”

Alec put up his black brows. If Simon was trying to put him on edge he was succeeding, but for the wrong reasons. “Such as?”

“I can’t tell you here!”

“You know where I live,” was Alec’s flat response as he opened the door and stepped out on the street. He turned his back on the traffic of carriages and sedan chairs and faced Simon. “Whatever it is you do know, Simon, be assured: Delvin must also know it or he wouldn’t be so confident in getting away with the lie.”

Simon Tremarton’s eyes widened, as if this thought had never occurred to him and, startled, he stumbled backwards, turned and fled up the narrow stairs. Alec walked home, pondering the connection between three men of very different temperament: the mild-mannered, diffident Viscount Belsay; the Earl of Delvin who paraded society as the consummate rakish nobleman; and Simon Tremarton, a self-made functionary of poor family. He was still thinking about these three when he entered No. 1 St. James’s Place and discovered his valet being interrogated by the Duchess of Romney-St. Neots.

Wantage sent Tam to the drawing room with a flick of his finger, giving him no indication of who wished to see him. The butler disliked upheaval in his household and he disapproved of the freckled-face youth. He knew he was a runaway from St. Neots. That much he had ferreted out from the housekeeper, who had it from an upstairs footman, who had overheard a little of the conversation between the master’s uncle and the boy, that first night when he was discovered by the porter on the doorstep. The lad was too familiar, with the master and with the household servants; those above and below him. He needed putting in his place; to have the fear of knowing his station in life put back into him. The master’s previous valet had come with excellent references and had once been a valet for the Marquess of Dartmouth. There had been an air about him that bespoke the perfect gentleman’s gentleman. Wantage had disliked him intensely but had respected his position. He had no such respect for Tam, whom he considered an interloper and lacking the necessary social skills and character to hold the exulted position of valet to the master of the house.

Sending the boy to the Duchess unawares would give him the jolt he needed, Wantage thought with relish. With a grin he shut the drawing room door and tiptoed around to the servant door to put an ear to the panel.

The Duchess of Romney-St. Neots was the last person Tam expected to see in his new master’s house. Her small stout figure in hooped petticoats of Chinoiserie silk was comfortably seated on a chaise longue, a knitted shawl about her bare shoulders and small feet in their damask covered shoes with high heels and diamond buckles up upon the upholstery. She was reading the morning newssheet and sipping bittersweet chocolate from a fine porcelain dish. Tam’s heart gave an odd leap and he forgot to bow. He wanted to run but his instinct told him to hold fast. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize him? After all, he had only been a lowly under-footman and was hardly ever in the presence of members of her family, least of all her tiny exalted personage. That and the fact he had only been in her employ for six months meant she was unlikely to remember his face, least of all his name.

She heard the door close over but finished reading the paragraph. “Well, John, I have a few questions…” She looked up and was startled. “Where’s John? Come closer.”

Tam shuffled forward and made her his best bow. “I am Mr. Halsey’s valet, your-your Grace.”

“Rot! You’re much too young. Did John send you with some lame excuse?”

“No, your Grace.”

She peered at him intently and then sat bolt upright. Her eyes went very round and Tam knew all at once that he was not as anonymous as he supposed. He had not reckoned on the Duchess’s extraordinary memory for names and faces.

“What did you do with my granddaughter’s horse?” she demanded. “Do you realize what trouble you’ve caused my household? What are you doing here? Do you suppose you can just run away from one house and go to another and no one will be the wiser? Well, boy, what do you have to say for yourself? Don’t gape at me! I’m not senile. I know exactly who you are! At least, I thought I did. What name do you go by here? Speak up! Speak up!”

“It’s Thomas Fisher, your Grace. It’s always been Thomas Fisher. That’s my name. Most call me Tam. I didn’t steal Miss Emily’s horse. I didn’t! Phoenix is Mr. Halsey’s mount. Beggin’ your pardon, your Grace, but that’s the truth. Ask Mr. Halsey. He’ll tell you so himself.”

“As Mr. Halsey isn’t at home I can hardly do that, can I?” she snapped. “Do you know what happens to boys who steal? They’re strung up! Neave sent the local militia after you, you stupid, stupid, boy. They are still out looking for you.”

“But I didn’t steal the horse!” Tam declared, his lower lip trembling. “Phoenix is in his stable. Honest! Please, please, you’ve got to tell them—”

The Duchess drew herself up. “I don’t have to do anything of the sort. You are rude and I won’t be shouted at by a horse thief! What are you doing here?”

“I’m Mr. Halsey’s valet. I am. Honest. John was dismissed, your Grace. Ask Mr. Wantage. He knows. He’ll tell you all about it.”

“I don’t want to talk to the butler, or any other servant in this house except Mr. Halsey’s valet. Go and fetch him this instant!”

Tam was at a loss as to what to do. He moved from foot to foot. He dug his hands in his pockets only to instantly withdraw them again. He turned about and then turned back to face the Duchess, arms limp and the palms of his hands sweaty. All the while the Duchess stared at him, her hands clasped in her lap.

“Your Grace, I am Mr. Halsey’s valet. These clothes I’m wearing. They’re his—”

“Stole those too, did you?”

“No, your Grace! He, Mr. Halsey loaned them to me while his tailor makes me up a proper suit of clothes. He wouldn’t have sent for his tailor if I wasn’t to be his valet, would he, your Grace?”

The Duchess pretended to be unmoved and her sharp eyes did not waver from Tam’s red face. “You’ll have to do better than that,” she said haughtily. “You ran off with a horse from my stables and now you say you are a valet? Incredible! Just because you’re out of livery and have a decent cloth on your back means nothing. I still maintain you’re a thief.”

Tam’s green eyes filled with tears and then he had a flash of inspiration. “Your Grace! When I arrived at St. Neots House I gave Mr. Neave a reference from Mrs. Hendy of Delvin Hall. He must have showed it to you and—”

“Don’t be an oaf, boy!” she said with haughty contempt, putting up her chin and turning it away from him. “As if I bother myself with references given to my butler. Pshaw!”

The ruse worked. In a great rush of tearful words Tam told her everything she wanted to know: From the moment he set eyes on Mr. Halsey in the hall of St. Neots House, of following him to London to The Rose tavern, on through to overhearing Mr. Halsey give his address to a chairman and being found on the doorstep of his house. He omitted nothing. In his desperation to convince the Duchess he was no liar he told her without a second thought about the Turkish Bath and his conversation with the night watchman; about Mr. Halsey’s drunken state when escorted home by the watch; how Mr. Halsey continued to drink until Plantagenet Halsey had the servants force the door of the bedchamber, and there they had found him almost dead. The boy even went into unnecessary detail about the extent of Mr. Halsey’s illness with no thought for the Duchess’s sensibilities. In his desperation to convince her of his honesty he failed to notice when she screwed up her face at the mention of the chamber pot, or how from time to time a small smile played on her mouth at the naïve sincerity in his pleading voice.

He was about to give her further details to prove his identity, offering to fetch the letter of introduction, when the door opened and in walked the master of the house, preceded by Cromwell and Marziran who trotted up to the Duchess to receive a pat.