Mad About the Boy? (2 page)

However, no matter how fraught the poor chap's feelings were, they still had to go to the ball. A hum of animated conversation met them as they as they rounded the curve of the stone staircase. The house was thronged with people in evening dress. Isabelle was in the middle of the hall, talking politely to the new arrivals.

She looked up and smiled as she saw them. Haldean heard Stanton's quick intake of breath. It wasn't surprising. Isabelle was lovely anyway but now, dressed for the ball, she was simply beautiful. She rid herself adroitly of a stout woman in satin with pearls and feathers and zigzagged through the crush to the foot of the stairs.

‘So there you are,' she said in an undertone. ‘I've been waiting ages. Why on earth everyone doesn't go into the ballroom instead of hanging around in the hall, I don't know. Jack, will you dance with Squeak Robiceux?'

‘The terrible twin? Delighted, old thing,' said Haldean, taking her arm. The three of them stepped round the edge of the crowd and walked towards the ballroom. ‘Shall I take on Bubble Robiceux as well? There's a reduction for quantity.'

Isabelle shook her head. ‘Bubble hasn't got a problem. She's as thick as thieves with Tim Preston and that's why Squeak's a bit high and dry.'

‘I'll gladly dance with Squeak,' put in Stanton. ‘She must feel a bit lost without Bubble.'

‘She does,' said Isabelle. ‘Thanks, Arthur. That's nice of you. Step in if you see her stranded, won't you, Jack?'

Haldean grinned. ‘Trust old Uncle Jack. As always, I shall be a willing lamb to the slaughter. I shall hold her hand, glide her round the dance floor and, if necessary, whisk her into the conservatory and whisper sweet somethings into her shell-like ears. All part of the service. Moderate charges and families waited upon daily.'

‘There's no need to go overdoing it,' said Isabelle. ‘I could imagine you being worryingly magnetic if you really turned on the charm. You might look like South American Joe, but keep it under wraps, will you? I want her entertained, not heartbroken.'

‘I shall aim for modified rapture.' He nodded to Lawson, the footman, splendid in full livery, who announced them at the top of his stentorian voice, and went into the ballroom, smiling as he caught the eye of Aunt Alice who stood with Uncle Philip, greeting the guests.

Haldean whistled involuntarily. Aunt Alice had really been to town. The last ball at Hesperus had been at Christmas and, despite its size, the room had been snug with Christmas colours of green and red. Now, on this night in high summer, all the french windows stood open and the smells of the garden mixed with the heady scent of the cascades of white roses spilling down the walls. Under the diamond brilliance of the huge chandelier the silver ribbons looped round the walls glistened like threads of frost, reflected in the glassy shine of the deeply polished floor. The orchestra was tuning up and there was a buzz of excitement from the people thronging the room. He smiled at his cousin. ‘This looks tip-top.'

Isabelle looked round the waiting crowd and gave a happy little wriggle of anticipation. ‘We're going to have a wonderful time.'

And they were, thought Haldean. Later on he'd slip up to the balcony to see what it looked like from up there. He grinned. That had been a real childhood treat. He, Isabelle and her brother Greg had been allowed to sit on the balcony and eat ice-cream and watch the dancers below before being packed off to bed. Those had been magical nights, the rich, mingling colours of the women's dresses contrasting with the black and white of the men. It was the smells that whisked him back, a heady mixture of perfumes, warm people and the oil-and-chalk smell of the ballroom. At the far end of the room was the conservatory. Now that had been an unobtainable Mecca when he was a kid. There was a whole room packed with elaborate pastries, rafts of tiny sandwiches, lemonade and gold-topped green bottles in glittering ice. He wished Greg was here to share it all, but Greg was far away from Sussex, sweltering in the tropic heat of Malaya. He had gone out two months ago, working as the assistant manager in a rubber firm, and it was anyone's guess when he'd be home again. Just for a moment Haldean felt a twinge of sadness but shook it off. Hello, things were about to get going.

Uncle Philip stepped up on to the orchestra stand. ‘I'm not much of a hand at speeches . . .' he said. That was true enough, but his obvious sincerity as he thanked everyone for their company and good wishes was more moving than a polished performance would have been. His broad smile at the enthusiastic applause which greeted his words spoke for itself.

The clapping died down and there was an expectant rustle as the leader of the orchestra announced the first dance.

Stanton coughed. ‘Er . . . I say, Isabelle, are you engaged for this dance?' His face lit up. ‘You aren't? I don't suppose you would? Would you?'

Isabelle favoured Stanton with a smile. ‘Of course I will.'

Stanton caught his breath once more and took her arm.

That, thought Haldean, was downright cruel. Dance with poor old Arthur, yes, but was there really any need to gaze at him with that ‘If You Were the Only Boy in the World' expression? It was a downright shame Greg wasn't here. He'd tell her. But Greg wasn't here. Which meant, thought Haldean glumly, that he'd have to step into the breach. Why on earth couldn't she let him down gently instead of pouring petrol on the flames? As soon as Smith-Fennimore walked into the room Arthur would be dropped with a thud. He really was going to have to tackle Isabelle about it. Arthur couldn't take it. The poor devil had been getting downright twitchy recently. His nerves hadn't skinned over enough for this sort of treatment. Damn it, Belle, stop it, he mentally pleaded as he saw her hand caress his friend's arm. And Arthur should have more sense.

With his good mood well and truly dented, Haldean turned away to go in search of a drink.

What he found was his old friend Tim Preston, marching down the side of the ballroom with a scowl on his normally good-tempered face. ‘That
bloody
man,' he said.

‘Who?' asked Haldean.

‘Need you ask?' said Preston. ‘Lyvenden, of course. My esteemed employer. God knows why your uncle invited him. If he knew half of what I know, he wouldn't have him in the house.'

‘To be honest, Tim, I did wonder about it myself. I can't say I took to him at lunch.'

That was an understatement. Even though Uncle Philip could get along with just about anyone on earth – chiefly by assuming everyone was exactly like himself – Haldean had been surprised by his uncle's new acquaintance. Victor, Lord Lyvenden, was a tubby little arms and munitions manufacturer from Birmingham who had promised a firework display. Lord Lyvenden had arrived in state, complete with his wife, Lady Harriet, his wife's companion, Mrs Strachan, his servants and workmen. That he'd also brought his secretary, Tim Preston, who knew both Haldean and Stanton and was a close friend of Malcolm Smith-Fennimore's, was unexpected but welcome.

Haldean had caught the pained expression on Preston's face as Lyvenden held forth to his unenthralled audience over lunch about how he'd helped the war effort and how, undaunted by the fact that there no longer was any war to help, he'd had the Foresight, Enterprise and Initiative to develop the fireworks part of his business, principally, according to him, to aid The Operatives Of The Leading Manufactories Of Our Sadly Depressed Industrial Heartland. The capital letters were clearly audible when Lord Lyvenden spoke. Haldean had to fight the urge to shout ‘Hear, hear!'

‘I suppose he does some sort of good by providing jobs,' Haldean said to Preston doubtfully. ‘Homes fit for heroes, and all that.'

Preston leaned forward. ‘Don't believe a word of it, old man. The only person Old Tubby wants to help is himself. He's as mean as sin and I don't believe he's as successful as he likes to make out, either. There's a lot of cheap arms kicking about nowadays, as you'd expect, and the bottom's dropped out of the market. His peerage cost him a cool fifty thousand and you have to sell a lot of Roman candles to make up that sort of money. I think he's struggling. That's why he was so anxious to get on the board of Malcolm's bank.?'

‘Malcolm's bank?'

‘Yes. That was partly my fault. Lyvenden knew I knew Malcolm and made it his business to scrape an acquaintance. Before you could say “knife”, he was on the board. I warned Malcolm what he was like, but he pulled a long face and talked business at me. I suppose Malcolm knows what he's doing, but I wouldn't trust Lyvenden as far as I could throw him, I tell you,' said Preston, drawing Haldean away from the swirling dancers, ‘if I don't get another job soon, I'll go crackers. Every damn time he sees me he has me running up to his blasted room for something. Lady Harriet's forgotten her bag, so guess who has to go and fetch it?'

‘You?' suggested Haldean with a grin.

‘Abso-ruddy-lutely,' replied Preston with feeling. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure they couldn't be overheard, ‘I've been up and down like the proverbial bride's nightie. He's awful to work for. I wrote three perfectly good letters for him this afternoon, all of which ended up in the waste-paper basket.'

‘You can't blame him for wanting to get it right,' put in Haldean.

Preston snorted. ‘Can't I though! You don't know what he's like. As if that wasn't enough, I picked up the wrong papers and he went bonkers. He's neurotic about those papers. God knows what he got so worked up about. It was all in some sort of code and I couldn't understand a word of it.'

Haldean looked doubtful. ‘It was in code, you say? To be fair, it might really be important. Doesn't he have government contracts and what-have-you for his munitions works? After all, fireworks are only a sideline. The munitions stuff would have to be confidential.'

Preston gave another snort. ‘Confidential! Let me tell you, Jack,' he said, steering him towards the door, ‘if I had any confidential documents, Old Tubby is the last person I'd trust them with.' He cast another quick glance over his shoulder. ‘D'you know what I found the other day, mixed up with some quotes for cardboard sheeting? A love letter.'

‘A love letter? From Lady Harriet, you mean?'

Preston gave him a withering look. ‘No one gets love letters from their wife, Jack. Talk sense. No, this was from his latest armful, so to speak, Mrs Strachan, Lady Harriet's so-called companion.' Preston paused. ‘He pays her very well,' he added meaningfully.

Haldean was stunned.'You don't mean the Mrs Strachan who's here, do you?' Preston nodded gleefully ‘My God, Tim, he must be mad. If it got out he'd brought a . . .' He hesitated. ‘I'd better call her his mistress, I suppose, to a house party, he'd be ruined.'

‘I know.' Preston's grin was infectious. ‘It's not really done to arrive with a ready-made harem, is it? Especially one of the Queen of Hearts, so to speak. Finding someone on the spot's different.'

Haldean laughed. ‘Don't be coarse. Hesperus has never been somewhere to play musical bedrooms, but that's above the odds anywhere. What the blazes is Lyvenden thinking of?'

‘God only knows. And look at her. She's no scorcher, is she?'

Haldean glanced across the room to where Mrs Strachan was languidly sipping a glass of champagne. She was wearing a frilly apricot and white dress with ostrich feathers and looked like a dissolving wedding cake. ‘I hope to God my uncle never finds out. He'd blow a fuse.'

Preston smoothed back his sandy hair with a grin. ‘Shocking, isn't it? She did start off as Lady H's companion, that's kosher enough. Old Tubby can't keep his hands off the domestics – or anything else in a skirt, for that matter. I tell you, Jack, he's not a nice man.'

‘Poor Lady Harriet.'

Preston sniffed. ‘Save your sympathy. If I were married to her, I'd want some time off myself. She's a complete iceberg, a shocking snob and hates his guts as well. She's the daughter of old Ballavinch, who went half dotty with horses and drink, and he married her off to the highest bidder. The title's pukka, though, and that's what Lyvenden was after. He wanted a posh wife who'd get him into society.'

‘Watch it!' warned Haldean, catching sight of the red-faced Lord Lyvenden walking ponderously towards them. Preston swore and shot off down the room, leaving Haldean with the irate peer.

‘Was that Preston?' puffed Lord Lyvenden. ‘Eh, boy?'

‘It was, sir,' said Haldean smoothly. ‘I must apologize for holding him up.'

‘Hmm. When I ask for something to be done, I expect it to
be
done.' Lord Lyvenden frowned at him. ‘It's Hutchinson, isn't it?'

‘Haldean, Lord Lyvenden. Jack Haldean.'

‘Ah yes,' said Lord Lyvenden with satisfaction. ‘Rivers was telling me about you. You do murders, don't you?'

‘Not exactly,' replied Haldean, keeping his face straight with some difficulty. ‘I write about them, though. I write detective stories.'

‘Thought as much. I don't read 'em myself. I've far too much to do.' A crack of a firework sounded from outside and Lord Lyvenden frowned. ‘Did you hear that? It's a good job I'm here otherwise it would all be a complete shambles. I've checked every item in that display myself. Every item, sir,' he added, as if Haldean had been arguing about it. ‘You'd think the men would be capable of setting up a firework display but they're not. They'd never get it right if I left them to it. Constant care, that's my motto. Constant care and vigilance. Thank heaven you don't have any responsibilities, boy.' He nodded and strode away, the worries of the world heavy on his shoulders.

Haldean turned to find Isabelle at his shoulder.

‘Go and dance with Squeak Robiceux,' she hissed. ‘
Now!
'

‘I want a drink.'