No respectable woman ever walked down St. James’s Street unescorted, nor would Arabella have dreamt of doing so without a goodly supply of calling cards listing the address of her new social club. But the cards were not yet printed, and the club was not yet ready. So, whilst the gentlemen chased after her, doffing their hats, applying their quizzing glasses to their eyes, and jostling one another as they tried to catch up with and speak to her, Arabella smiled at them without slacking her pace. For she knew that greatness must always maintain a certain distance from the herd, or risk losing its luster through over-familiarity. And with head held high, she turned from St. James’s Street onto St. James’s Place, where the welcoming façade of the future Cyprian Society seemed to wink a welcome as she mounted the steps.
Few, if any, historical periods have produced such classic, elegant interiors as those of the English Regency, with its polished woods; clear, pale colors; graceful furniture; and large, sunny windows. The Cyprian Society was to be the epitome of Regency refinement, because Arabella would rather not have had a club at all than possess one which failed in its attempt to gratify the most sophisticated expectations. To this purpose, she had retained the services of John Soane, the great architect who had designed the Bank of England and so wonderfully remodeled Lustings. But Arabella’s own house was modest in comparison to this project, which was expected to generate more income. Besides, Mr. Soane had professed himself forever in her debt, and was donating his services free of charge. She would still have to pay for everything else, though.
Soane had been watching out for her, and the moment Arabella entered, the great man darted out like a trapdoor spider, bundling her into the small glass booth he was using as an office.
“I have had a most remarkable inspiration, Miss Beaumont!” he cried. “What would you say if I told you that your public rooms might be accessed from the next street over, through the rear of the club?”
Arabella was shocked.
“From the rear entrance? From
Little
St. James’s Place, d’you mean? Oh, surely, Mr. Soane, that would never do! The public rooms must have a grand and sumptuous entrance, to satisfy the most exacting tastes!”
“Naturally! That is why I propose to make the rear entrance look like another front entrance, with columns, marble steps . . . the lot!”
“Just like the other?”
“No,” he replied, rubbing his hands with glee. “
As
fine, certainly, but altogether different! The Cyprian Society shall have
two
front entrances, and
no
rear portal! Deliveries can be made via the side doors!”
She was not at once convinced of the necessity for this, but Arabella had complete faith in her architect.
“I am listening, Mr. Soane.”
He took up a blueprint and unrolled it upon the table, using his pencil like a magic wand to guide her eye along the enchanted paths of his imagination.
“Once the public enters through here, they will walk along this corridor, which runs the length of the structure, to the public rooms, completely bypassing the private club quarters. We can construct the passage so as to absorb all sound; members who are reading or napping on the other side of the wall will not be disturbed in the least.”
“Oh!” breathed Arabella. “This is absolute perfection!”
He smiled at her as he rolled up the blueprint. “All in a day’s work, madam. And the very least I could do, after the kindness you have shewn to me.”
Arabella nodded her acknowledgment of his thanks. During the previous autumn, she had sailed to Italy and achieved the near-impossible feat of discovering and then recovering a group of bronze and marble artifacts, which had been “stolen” after she and Mr. Soane had already paid for them. The marbles were currently the pride of his collection: a frieze of ducks; a pair of lizards; and the statue of a young girl, absorbed in the act of pinning her gown.
“I thought this might interest you, as well,” said Soane, unrolling another chart. Arabella saw an elevation of the hotel, depicting what looked like giant ant tunnels excavated beneath it.
“Yes,” he cried, scarcely able to contain his enthusiasm, “it
is
a series of tunnels, leading off in a variety of directions! Your new club was once the site of an ancient monastery! But I have not yet given orders for the tunnels’ exploration, pending your approval: If you wish, I could simply have the entrance closed off, which would save you money. Or, we could see where the tunnels lead, install sign posts and a directory, and I could design you a secret ingress panel. Because one never knows when one is going to need a sudden escape route.”
Arabella approved the panel, but the exuberance which she should ordinarily have felt was checked by the realization that without the money from Constance, she would not be able to pay for it.
Chapter 3
F
ollowing her street encounter with Arabella, Lady Ribbonhat had spent a restless night. It had never before occurred to her that she might
not
be destined for a comfortable after-existence: The dowager duchess had never been denied admission to anything in her life, and she found the prospect of damnation extremely unpalatable.
She had been good enough, hadn’t she? It wasn’t as though she had killed anyone! Admittedly, Lady Ribbonhat did feel a certain kinship with the Roman empress Livia, who became a goddess after murdering most of her family, but that was not the reason for the affinity. The dowager admired Livia’s inflexible will; her determination to succeed, whatever the odds. Added to this was the fact that Livia had gone to heaven despite her nefarious doings, through the intercession of her grandson, the emperor Claudius.
Lady Ribbonhat’s son was not an emperor and, so far as she knew, he had no particular celestial connections. Still, she saw no reason why Henry should not relieve her mind on one or two points, and after eyeing him morosely for a time across the breakfast table, she asked him outright whether he thought her cruel.
“With reference to what?” asked the duke, somewhat absently, for he was attempting to challenge himself by trying to read a letter and eat toast at the same time, and the unexpected addition of a question that required an answer was on the verge of overtaxing him.
“Oh!” cried his mother. “Then I suppose you
do
think me cruel, sometimes?”
Her tone warned him that he had better stop his other two activities and attend to this new one, so Henry put down the letter and swallowed his toast. Yet he was still uncertain how to respond, for all he had retained of his mother’s question was the word “sometimes.”
“When?” he asked cautiously.
“The time you brought home that mongrel, for instance, and I had the coachman dispose of it without telling you.”
“A mongrel?”
“Well . . . an Alsatian.”
“How old was I?”
“Twenty-six.”
“I don’t recall ever bringing home a dog, Mama.”
“Not a dog, dear . . . a bitch. I told you at the time that she’d run off with the postman.”
“Oh . . .” said the duke. “So,
that’s
what happened to little Jeanette! You know, I never quite believed your story, Mama; our postman was nigh on eighty at the time, and he continued to deliver the post, the same as usual. But, hang it all, I was deuced fond of that girl!”
“I was fully aware of your feelings, Henry; that’s why I had the creature removed. We cannot have Miss No-bodies from No-where aspiring to the peerage. If we admitted everyone, there would be no room left for us! You can hardly call it cruel; the girl wasn’t worthy of you.”
Glen
deen
, who was chewing his toast again, made no immediate response.
“Henry? It
wasn’t
cruel. Was it?”
“I suppose not,” he said, swallowing. “Cruelty would imply that you took pleasure in it, and acted on purpose to hurt me. No, I think you are merely self-centered to the extent that you are unwilling to acknowledge the effects of your actions upon those around you.”
“Oh,” said his mother, somewhat mollified. “Well, that’s not a sin, is it?”
Henry had resumed reading his letter.
“What?”
“Self-centeredness is not a sin?”
“Um,” he said, picking his teeth. “I rather think it is, Mama. Remember the time you came into the schoolroom when I was supposed to be studying Euclidean algorithms, and caught me reading
The Governess, or The Little Female Academy,
instead? Do you recall what you did?”
“Oh, Henry, of course not! That was thirty-four years ago!”
“Was it?” he asked mildly.
Their eyes briefly met in a moment of naked comprehension.
“Anyway,” he said briskly, “you had my library torched. All my books whatsoever: the illustrated French fairy tales, the studies of insects, the books full of puzzles and brain teasers . . . everything.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Lady Ribbonhat, dabbing her lips with a napkin and dropping her eyes to the tabletop. But at the word “torched,” two hot red spots had appeared on her sallow cheeks.
“No?” he pursued. “You don’t remember the big bonfire you had made beneath my nursery window, and how the gardeners had to scramble to keep it from consuming the house when the wind changed?”
Lady Ribbonhat said nothing, and the duke returned his attention to his letter and his toast, to which he had now added a third complication: coffee.
After a few moments, she said, “That was a terrible thing, Henry, and I am sorry it happened to you.”
“Hmm? Oh, don’t give it another thought, Mama; I only mention it because you asked.” After a moment, he added, “I never had much use for books anyhow, and was only reading
The Governess, or The Little Female Academy
because I thought the title suggestive. I was disappointed. But, hang it all, I’m no expert in these matters; why not ask that new rector chap? Whatshisname? Appaloosa? Percheron?”
“I can’t trust Reverend Clydesdale! He has indiscreet eyes!” she said, and sighed. “You know, Henry, things have come to a pretty pass when a member of the peerage is not even permitted the solace of religion!”
But Henry’s mind had turned to other matters. Rising from the table with a carefully cultivated air of distraction, he bent to kiss his mother on the cheek and quitted the house. Glen
deen
was famous for his complacency. He held a rank of considerable distinction in His Majesty’s Navy because of it, and it would scarcely have done to have a row with his mother. People would blame him, as the man.
And so they should! Men are the sensible sex. They excel at problem solving, are magnanimous to a fault, and scorn to nitpick. At least, most of the time they are and do. Well, perhaps we had better amend that to “some of the time.” Because when a man is focused upon a certain subject, all his common sense flies out through the window. Or, more accurately, out through his flies.
“That one, also,” said Belinda, indicating a particularly pretty branch of apple blossom.
The gardener severed it for her with his long-handled secateurs.
“There be some pretty lilac bloomin’ by the footbridge, miss. Mayhap ’ee might like some a thay’m, as weel?”
“No, thank you, Searle. These are all I want. They’re for the little wall vases in the landau, you know, and my sister holds that lilac cloys in confined spaces.”
Belinda was leaving for Scotland today, and the sisters, soothed by the scent of apple blossom, were to travel together as far as St. Albans. There they would stay the night at Ye Olde Fighting Cocks, an inn of which they were fond, that looked like nothing so much as a cake that has collapsed on one side. This trip would be a way of prolonging their time together, because Scotland was so far away, and the date of Bunny’s return as yet indefinite.
On the morrow, Arabella would see her sister safely off in a post chaise, an expedient that was not only desirable, but necessary. Thieves would often lurk in the inn yards, offering to carry one’s luggage from doorway to carriage. Then they would steal it, generally after their unsuspecting victim had paid them.
A lady traveling alone, especially a tender innocent like Belinda, would be an easy mark. Once she was settled in the post chaise, though, she would be safe enough, for the driver would look after her. Besides, at Coventry, she would be joined by Peter Gentry, a gentleman of her acquaintance who was also going to Redwelts, and in whose company and care she would make the rest of her journey.
But Belinda was loathe to leave. Her sister had been anxious and angry by turns ever since receiving the bad news from Costanze, and Bunny was heartsick at the thought of Arabella, rattling round the house all alone in a foul temper. Just now she was calm enough, though. Belinda found her sitting at the long, mahogany dining table that often doubled as a crafts center during the daylight hours, bending over a thin copper sheet with great concentration, and employing an engraving tool.
“How does the calling card progress?” Belinda asked.
The plate was shewn to her.
“Oh!” she cried, clasping her hands in ecstasy. “How beautiful! It is the most exquisite design since . . . since . . .”
She was unable to think of a suitable comparison. This may have been because there really was nothing in all the world to compare with Arabella’s engraving. But it is equally possible that Belinda was exaggerating her approval in order to flatter her sister into a better humor. We shall probably never know.
“I am glad you like it, Bunny,” said Arabella, “because this illustration is going to serve as the crest for our new club. Birds of paradise
5
shall be carved in wood and plaster over the interior doorways, woven into the public room carpets, painted and glazed upon the club china service, and wrought in iron at the center of the window grilles. I am having stained-glass bird of paradise motifs inset in the upstairs windows, bird of paradise–embroidered napkins stocked in the linen cupboards, and bird of paradise bookends placed in the club library. The fireplace andirons shall be topped with them, as well!”
“But . . .” said Belinda.
“Yes?”
“Crests are created by the College of Arms, you know, and only people with titles may apply for them. You have thought this up yourself!”
“It is not my fault that Father failed to complete the application process,” said Arabella huffily. “Besides,” she added, “this isn’t for
me,
or for
us;
it is for the club. And once that becomes famous, it won’t matter whether the emblem is registered or not.” She smiled and gazed upon her handiwork. “Centuries hence, this clever device—two birds of paradise, perched aspectant on an azure field with tails braced and bent sinister—will be more instantly recognizable than the royal coat of arms, for
all
its harps and lions!”
“Will it have a motto?” asked Belinda.
“Of course it will have a motto! I have taken one from Epicurus, the wisest person to have lived so far:
‘Effugiat dolorem. Voluptatem!’ ”
Belinda was never very good at Latin, having been educated by a governess who had seen no reason to teach it to her. Still, she had managed to pick up a smattering, from books and from Arabella.
“ ‘Take pleasure in sadness . . . thou strumpet thou?’ ” she ventured.
“What? No! It means, ‘Avoid pain. Pursue pleasure.’ Where do you get ‘strumpet’ from?”
“Voluptatem.
I supposed it to mean ‘voluptuary’.”
“Well,” said her sister. “That’s not bad reasoning, actually. But you should have guessed from the ending that it was a verb, rather than a noun.”
. . . And Arabella’s good humor was restored. Just like that.
Wait! cries the skeptical reader, how can this be? The funding problems are long-term ones, with potentially serious consequences! Shewing off her knowledge and having the last word will not compensate our heroine for
that,
surely!
No, reader; you are right enough there. But Arabella recognized that gratification in the short term is better than none at all. And she was an expert on the subject.
“How are you proposing to
pay
for all these window grilles and napkins and bookends and fire irons?” Belinda ventured. “Have you spoken with Costanze? Perhaps you should arrange to stay with her for a while, and see who—”
“I have anticipated you, Bunny,” said Arabella. “But Constance will not answer my notes, except to say that she is ‘furrius,’ and does not wish to hear from me ‘evir, evir agian.’ Of course, she will forget all about it in a week or two, but in the meantime, I must find some other means of divining the blackmailer’s identity.”
“What other means can there be?”
“I . . . do not know.”
“That settles it,” said Belinda. “There can be no question of my leaving you when you have such need of my help! Have Trotter remove my trunks from the landau whilst I write to Sir Birdwood-Fizzer, tendering my regrets.”
Belinda had been engaged by the earl to replicate Redwelts, Scottish family seat of the Birdwood-Fizzers since 1574, in miniature. And though she could not afford to decline the absurdly generous fee he was offering, Belinda had never been really keen on the idea. As for Arabella, she could not imagine solving a case without Bunny’s assistance and, in her heart of hearts, did not know how she would bear her sister’s absence. So, with both of them dead-set against the journey, there was only one possible course to take.
“Of
course
you will go!” cried Arabella, throwing her arm round Belinda’s shoulders and walking her into the morning room. “All is in readiness, and we have much need of the money. Besides, I am looking forward to our night at the Cocks. Press on, Bunny dearest! Never doubt that that which you have engaged to do is well worth the doing!”
They took their seats at the breakfast table, and Arabella picked up the post beside her plate. “Oh dear,” she said, automatically placing all the “requests for payments due” to one side. “Here’s one from Frank Dysart!”
“That is odd,” said Belinda, unfolding her napkin. “Frank is not in the habit of writing letters to us.”
“I have a dreadful sense of foreboding,” said Arabella, handing it over. “Read it to me quickly, Bunny; I do hope it is not bad news!”
It was, and it wasn’t.
Dear Miss Beaumont. I hope you will pardon the liberty of my writing to you, but it seems I’ve no one else to turn to.
“There!” cried Arabella. “What did I tell you?”
“Would you like me to stop?” Belinda asked.
“Yes, I should! And I should like even more for that letter to never have reached me! But as it has, I suppose we may as well know the worst. Pray, continue.”