The Bride Hunt (24 page)

She couldn’t see the bus stop, so she opened the door and peered into the street. At the sound of the bell, the ironmonger came rushing out from the back, afraid he’d lost his customer. Chastity saw the horse-drawn omnibus round the far corner of the street, and the man climbed aboard.

“Here’s the iron, madam,” the ironmonger said behind her. “Just the thing.”

“Oh, yes.” Chastity turned. “Actually, I think I’ll send the laundry maid instead. Since she’ll be using it, she might as well choose what she’d like. Expect to see her this afternoon.” With a smile from beneath her veil, she whisked out of the shop, leaving the disconsolate ironmonger holding the flatiron.

The bus passed her as she waited to cross the street, and once it had lumbered around the corner, she darted across to Mrs. Beedle’s shop.

“Why, is that you, Miss Chas?” Mrs. Beedle looked up from the counter, where she was refilling a large glass jar with peppermint humbugs. “You just missed a man asking after you. Second time he’s been.”

Chastity propped her umbrella against the door and put up her veil. “Did he say who he was? What did he want?”

Mrs. Beedle knitted her brow. “Wouldn’t really say who he was, just that he was interested in talking to someone from
The Mayfair Lady,
and did I know where to find you. He said something about having some good news for you.” She shook her head and resumed her task. “Didn’t like the look of him . . . something didn’t smell right.”

“So, you didn’t tell him anything?”

The woman looked up. “Now, Miss Chas, you know better than that. I told him I don’t know nothing. I just receive the letters that come in the post.”

“But he must have asked who picked them up?” Chastity was still anxious, even though she knew that by pressing she could offend Mrs. Beedle.

“Aye, he did. And I told him a boy comes every Sunday. Don’t know his name, don’t know nothing about him. None of my business. That’s what I said, both times.” She screwed the lid firmly back on the jar and wiped her hands on her apron. “You look as if you could do with a nice cup of tea, Miss Chas. Come on in the back.” She lifted a hinged piece of countertop so her visitor could get behind.

“Thank you,” Chastity said, dropping the top in place before following her hostess through a curtain into the cheerful kitchen beyond. “I didn’t mean to imply anything, Mrs. Beedle, it’s just that we’re very anxious at the moment.”

“Aye, m’dear, I’m sure you must be.” She poured boiling water into the teapot. “We’ll let that mash for a minute or two.” She opened a cake tin and placed bath buns on a flowered plate that she set on the table, where Chastity had taken a seat. “Have one of those, Miss Chas. Made fresh this morning.”

Chastity took one with unfeigned enthusiasm. “We think they hired detectives,” she said. “They’re snooping everywhere and our barrister says they’ll be very determined to discover who we are, so they’ll just keep coming back.”

“Well, they won’t hear nothing different from me,” Mrs. Beedle declared, pouring tea. “Drink that down now. It’ll keep out the damp.” She set the cup of strong brew in front of Chastity. “Strange weather we’re having. Yesterday it was almost like spring. And now look at it.”

Chastity agreed, sipped her tea, nibbled her bun. “Is there any post for
The Mayfair Lady
today?”

“Just a couple.” Mrs. Beedle reached up to a shelf and took down two envelopes. She handed them to her visitor, who after a cursory glance tucked them into her handbag.

“Now, don’t you be worrying about these detective folk, Miss Chas. They’ll not discover nothing from me, and no one else knows about you. Apart from our Jenkins, of course.” Mrs. Beedle always referred to her brother by his working title.

“And Mrs. Hudson,” Chastity said. “But you’re right, Mrs. Beedle. We know our secret’s as safe as the grave with all of you. And we’re so grateful to you.”

“Nonsense, m’dear. We’d have done the same for your sainted mother, God rest her soul.”

Chastity smiled, and drank her tea. The shop bell rang and Mrs. Beedle hastened through the curtain to greet her customer. Idly, Chastity listened to the conversation as she took another bath bun. A pleasant male voice with the hint of an accent that she thought was Scottish greeted Mrs. Beedle by name.

“Good morning, Dr. Farrell,” the shopkeeper replied with a genuine note of welcome in her voice. “And what a wet one it is.”

“Indeed it is, Mrs. Beedle. I’ll take a pound of humbugs, and another of licorice sticks, if you please.”

“Right you are, Doctor,” Mrs. Beedle said. Chastity heard her opening jars, shaking sweets into the scales. Who would buy a pound of humbugs and a pound of licorice? Curious, she set down her teacup and walked softly to the curtain. She twitched aside a corner and peered behind. A tall man was leaning against the counter. His shoulders were as broad as a wrestler’s, she thought. He had a rather rugged countenance, with the skewed nose that indicated it had once been broken. Oddly, rather than marring his face it seemed to enhance it, Chastity thought with a somewhat detached interest in her own observations. He was hatless and his wet hair clung to his scalp in a springy mass of black curls. He wore a mackintosh that had clearly seen better days, but he had the most delightful smile.

He turned from the counter as Mrs. Beedle weighed the sweets, and strolled to the magazine rack. He was a very big man, Chastity noted. Not fat at all, but all brawn. He made her feel quite small and delicate. As she watched, he picked up a copy of
The Mayfair Lady
and flicked through its pages. Something made him stop to read more closely.

“All ready, Dr. Farrell. That’ll be sixpence for the humbugs and fourpence for the licorice.”

“Oh, and I’ll take this too, Mrs. Beedle.” He laid the copy of
The Mayfair Lady
on the counter and counted out change from his pocket.

Chastity waited until he had left, setting the bell ringing vigorously, his vital step seeming to exude energy. She returned quickly to the kitchen table.

Mrs. Beedle bustled back behind the curtain. “Such a nice man, that Dr. Farrell. Hasn’t been in the neighborhood long.”

“Does he have a surgery around here?” Chastity inquired casually, setting down her teacup and preparing to take her leave.

“Just off St. Mary Abbot’s,” Mrs. Beedle said. “Bit of a rough part of town for a gentleman like Dr. Farrell to be practicing, if you ask me.” She began to clear the table as she talked. “But our Dr. Farrell can take of himself, I reckon. Told me once he used to wrestle for the university. Oh, and box too.” She shook her head, clucking admiringly as she put the cups in the sink.

Now why would such a man be interested in reading
The Mayfair Lady? Chastity took her leave, pondering the question.

She walked to Kensington High Street and hailed a hackney, unwilling to face the damp crowds and steamed-up windows of the omnibus. She hadn’t needed reassurance that Mrs. Beedle would keep their secret if she could, but the persistence of the earl’s solicitors didn’t bode well. They were clever; there was no knowing what devious tricks they would use to trap the unwary. Mrs. Beedle was a good, honest woman, but she would be no match for the conniving of an unscrupulous and sophisticated detective agency.

Chastity reached home just as a rain-soaked gust of wind blew across the square, almost turning her umbrella inside out. “Miserable day,” she said to Jenkins as she entered the hall. “Is Prue back yet?”

“Not as yet, Miss Chas.” He took the umbrella from her.

Chastity unpinned her hat, shaking out the veil. “Mrs. Beedle sends her best regards, Jenkins.” She took off her mackintosh, handing it to the butler. “I’ll be in the parlor when Prue gets home.”

Jenkins bowed and went to dispose of the rain-drenched garments. He heard Prudence let herself into the house a few minutes later and with stately gait retraced his steps to the hall.

Prudence greeted him rather distractedly. The documents in her handbag seemed to have acquired some kind of physical weight on her journey home. All the familiarity of the hall in which she stood gently dripping seemed to waver, to take on some strange patina. Because, of course, this hall no longer legally belonged to the Duncan family unless her father could discharge his debt.
Or prove that debt fraudulent.

“You look a little pale, Miss Prue. Is everything all right?”

Jenkins’s disturbed tone brought her out of her reverie. “Yes,” she said. “Quite all right. Just wet.” She managed an effortful smile as she relinquished her outer garments. “Any messages?”

“A telephone call from Sir Gideon, Miss Prue.”

Prudence was aware of a surge of adrenaline, a rush of pure physical excitement that, however momentarily, chased all else from her mind. “What was the message?” she managed to ask, busily unpinning her hat.

“He said that since the weather was so miserable, you shouldn’t go to his chambers this afternoon. He’ll send his chauffeur to fetch you at six o’clock.”

“How considerate of him,” Prudence murmured. “Thank you, Jenkins. Could you send a message to Con. Ask her to come around at her earliest convenience?” She hurried upstairs to the parlor. Chastity had just sat down to begin answering letters to the Aunt Mabel column of
The Mayfair Lady
when Prudence entered the parlor. She turned in her chair at the secretaire.

“Anything? I have.” Her expression was anxious.

Prudence nodded. “You first,” she said.

Chastity described the events of the morning. “I’m just worried they’ll dig something up, however closed-mouthed everyone is. Maybe we
should
cease publication. Go to ground.”

“Like the hunted fox.” Prudence bent to warm her chilled hands at the fire, then straightened, a gleam in her eye that gave Chastity some heart.

“What did you discover?”

Prudence opened her handbag. Silently, she handed the documents to her sister. Chastity would need no elaboration to grasp the implications. She read in silence, laying the sheets on the secretaire as she read them. Then she looked up. “Con needs to see these.”

“I asked Jenkins to send for her.”

Chastity shook her head in disbelief. “Barclay basically owns our house.”

Prudence opened her hands in a wordless gesture of agreement.

“There’s more at stake than
The Mayfair Lady
, then.”

Prudence nodded. “A stake through the heart comes to mind.”

“Well, we’d better wait for Con before we talk about murder,” Chastity said. “Mrs. Beedle was holding a couple of letters. Shall we look at them while we’re waiting?” She reached for her handbag and took out the envelopes. “I’m almost afraid to open them.”

She slit them with an onyx paper knife. “This one seems quite straightforward. It’s a request for an introduction to people who have a passion for poetry. Not exactly a matchmaking request, the writer wants to set up a poetry circle.” She looked up and shrugged. “What do you think? Shall we come up with a list?”

“I don’t see why not,” her sister said. “We do put people in contact with like-minded souls. It seems harmless enough.”

Chastity nodded and tossed the letter onto the desk. She turned her attention to the other one. Silently she handed it to Prudence.

To whom it may concern:

An interested party has some information of considerable benefit to the owners and editors of
The Mayfair Lady
regarding the present libel suit. Evidence has come to light that will be of service to them in their defense. A private meeting is requested at a location of the editors’ own choosing. The information we have is of the greatest importance and must be delivered in a timely fashion. Please respond to the above address without delay. And please believe us to be the most sincere admirers and supporters of
The Mayfair Lady
.

Prudence looked up. “It’s a trap.”

“But what if it isn’t?”

“It has to be.” She nibbled a fingernail. “It’s anonymous.”

“As are we,” Chastity pointed out. “If it’s a friend of Barclay’s, or maybe an ex-friend, he might not want to be known. Supposing he has evidence of Barclay’s fraud, maybe he was a victim, like Father. Can we afford to discount it?”

Prudence tore off the piece of nail she had loosened with her teeth and threw into the fire. “I don’t know, Chas.”

“You could show it to Gideon.”

Prudence nodded. “I’m seeing him this evening. I’ll show it to him then.” She folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope.

“Oh, there’s Con,” Chastity said at the sound of their sister’s unmistakable footstep on the stairs.

Constance entered the parlor, took one look at her sisters, and said, “We need to go out for luncheon.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Prudence said. “But read these first. I have to change my shoes, they’re soaked.” She gestured to the documents on the secretaire. “Oh, and the letter. Give it to her, Chas.”

Chastity handed it over. “Where are we going for luncheon?”

“Swan and Edgar’s?” Constance suggested, her eye already scanning the papers in her hands.

“Perfect,” Prudence approved on her way to the door. “They do a nice luncheon and I want to buy a paisley scarf to go with my sage evening dress.”

Constance looked up for an instant. “Are you seeing the barrister tonight, then?”

“As it happens. But if you finish reading you’ll see that a business meeting is somewhat urgent,” her sister declared. “I’ll tell Jenkins we won’t be in for luncheon.”

“Business?” Constance murmured with a raised eyebrow as the door closed behind Prudence.

“I doubt Prue has either the time for or the interest in anything else right now,” Chastity declared with unusual acerbity. “If you’d read what’s in your hand, you’d realize that.”

Constance’s eyebrows reached her scalp but she said nothing. Her baby sister would have a reason for snapping. When she’d finished reading she understood.

“Barclay has a lien,” she said in an incredulous whisper.

Chastity nodded.

Chapter 16

P
rudence stepped into the motor when it arrived punctually at six o’clock that evening and gratefully accepted the mackintosh lap rug that the chauffeur provided. She was just as grateful for the leather curtains that he had rolled down over the open sides. When they reached the house on Pall Mall Place, the front door opened the minute they attained the top step, under the shelter of the chauffeur’s umbrella.

“Oh, you were exactly right about the time, Milton,” a childish treble declared. “You’ve been gone exactly three quarters of an hour.”

“Unless there are unexpected delays, I am in general correct about such things, Miss Sarah,” the driver said with an indulgent smile.

“Good evening, Miss Duncan,” Sarah Malvern said.

Prudence smiled down at the rather untidy schoolgirl and took the small hand extended in greeting. “Good evening, Sarah.” She had time for a closer examination of the girl than had been afforded by their previous unexpected meeting. Sarah’s countenance was more freckled than Prudence had noticed, and she was rather skinny, dressed this evening in a conventional school tunic of blue serge with a white blouse, somewhat ink-stained on the sleeves. Two thick ropes of fair hair hung down her back, a straight fringe brushing her forehead.

“Won’t you come in?” Sarah said, pulling the door wide. “I’m to entertain you while Daddy’s finishing the truffled eggs. If you’d like to come in here, you could take off your coat and scarf.” She led and Prudence followed into a small bedchamber leading off the hall. A dresser, a mirror, a jug and ewer of hot water, a towel, brush, and comb all lay ready for any guest in need.

“There’s a water closet through that door,” the girl said matter-of-factly, gesturing to a door at the rear of the room. “I found some camellias in the garden.” She perched on the end of the single bed. “I thought you might like them.”

Prudence noted the little vase of heavy-headed red camellias still speckled with raindrops. “They’re very pretty,” she said. “Thank you,” she added, taking off her coat.

“Oh, it was no trouble,” the child said with a sunny smile. “And I put out hot water in case you were dusty. What an elegant dress.”

Prudence didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that this was true. It was one of the Parisian creations that Constance had brought back from her honeymoon for her sisters, and it perfectly suited her coloring and her figure, making the most of her less-than-imposing bosom. She had decided on this occasion to dress as if she’d received an invitation for dinner, since—to put it euphemistically—experience had taught her that the barrister was sometimes a little forgetful about declaring his intentions.

Truffled eggs, though?

“It came from Paris,” she said, and unpinned her scarf. She had chosen to wear her hair in a thick, braided chignon, tied with a velvet ribbon at her neck. It was a style that softened her rather angular features and made the most of the deep copper of her hair.

“If you’re ready, we’ll go into the drawing room,” the girl said. “I’m glad you didn’t get wet on the drive.”

“Milton was very solicitous,” Prudence said, following her diminutive hostess across the black-and-white marble-paved floor and into a long, narrow drawing room that stretched the length of the house. It was a pleasant room of soft shades of cream and gold, welcoming sofas, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Unlike the library, the only other room she had seen, it didn’t strike her as having anything masculine about it at all. Did it date from Sarah’s mother’s day, a reflection of her taste? Or some other woman’s? Had there been another woman in Gideon’s life since his wife?

Prudence was realizing how little she still knew about this man who had become her lover. There was the little matter of his failed marriage, for instance. That was a history she needed eventually to unravel.

An open exercise book lay on a sofa table, with pen and inkwell beside it. “I have the most pesky algebra problem,” Sarah Malvern declared. “Daddy said you might be able to help me with it.”

Oh, did he, indeed?
Prudence merely smiled. “I wonder what gave him that idea. Let me have a look.”

The girl gave her the exercise book, then flitted across to a sideboard. “May I pour you a glass of sherry?”

“Yes, thank you.” Prudence sat down on the sofa with the exercise book. It took her a few seconds to figure out the answer to the problem. She took the glass of sherry Sarah had carried carefully across the Aubusson carpet. “Do you want me to help you figure this out or just do it for you?”

“That would be cheating,” Sarah said, taking the exercise book from her guest.

“Well, yes, I suppose it would.” Prudence couldn’t help smiling as she sipped her sherry. The girl was clearly struggling with her conscience. “But then again,” she said, “if I showed you how to do it and you followed along, you would learn for the next time, so it would be a lesson rather than a cheat.”

Sarah considered this, her head on one side, a frown on her freckled face, then she grinned. “I don’t think even Daddy would argue with that. And he argues with most things. He says it’s a good mental exercise.”

“What’s he doing with truffled eggs?” Prudence inquired casually as she took up the pen.

“Making them,” Sarah replied matter-of-factly. “They’re one of his specialities. You’re having quails stuffed with grapes too. They’re tricky to cook because they have so many bones and Daddy has to take them all out when the birds are raw. It always makes him swear.” She glanced up at Prudence as she sat on the sofa beside her. There was a rather mischievous, if speculative, gleam in her gray eyes. “He doesn’t cook them very often,” she said. “Only for special occasions.”

Prudence ignored the significant tone and the speculative gleam and took back the exercise book. She felt on much firmer ground with algebra. “All right, here is how we do this.” She began to explain the solution to the problem, Sarah leaning close to her, listening intently.

“Now see if you can do it.” Prudence handed her the pen at the end of her explanation.

“Oh, it’s easy now,” Sarah said confidently. “Two to the power of three . . .” She worked quickly and neatly, impressing Prudence considerably. It was a far from simple problem for one so young. But then, she was the daughter of Sir Gideon Malvern, the youngest-ever KC. And she attended North London Collegiate. Gideon had talked of a governess too. A Mary Winston. Why wasn’t she present? Why wasn’t
she
helping the child with her homework?

Schoolgirls didn’t do their evening homework alone in a formal drawing room—or, not in Prudence’s experience.

The house was almost unnaturally quiet and there didn’t seem to be any evidence of servants, except the chauffeur. There’d been a housekeeper when she’d come before. This was a puzzle beyond Prudence’s unraveling, and as her astonishment at this surreal situation faded, annoyance took its place. Gideon was doing his surprise trick again, designed as always to throw her off balance. She looked up at the sound of the door opening.

“Prudence, forgive me for not greeting you the minute you arrived,” Gideon said, entering the drawing room. “There’s a particular moment with the eggs when one can’t lose concentration. I hope Sarah has been entertaining you.”

He wore impeccable evening dress, except that around his waist was a large and none-too-clean apron. Prudence stared at it.

“You forgot to take off your apron, Daddy,” Sarah informed him.

“Oh, how remiss. I forgot I was wearing it.” He untied the apron and threw it over a brocade chair by the door. He regarded his guest with smiling appreciation that went a long way to dissipating her flash of annoyance.

“My compliments,” he murmured. “That gown has the unmistakable mark of Paris upon it.”

Prudence, at her sisters’ insistence, was also wearing the three strings of matchless pearls wound around her neck. They had originally belonged to their great-grandmother and the sisters trotted them out on suitable occasions. Constance had worn them for her wedding. Prudence had been a little reluctant to wear them this evening for what had, after all, been billed as a working occasion; but when she had seen how well they complemented the gown, she’d yielded without too much of an argument.

Prudence took off her glasses in the reflex that was always prompted by a moment of uncertainty. Sarah’s presence seemed paradoxically to add to the intimacy of the moment while making it difficult to respond naturally.

Gideon smiled and resisted with difficulty the urge to lean over and kiss the tip of her nose. The soft glow of the gas lamps set deep fires ablaze in the copper mass on her nape and his fingers itched to loosen it. But his expression gave none of this away. He said calmly, in his low, pleasant voice, “I see Sarah gave you sherry.” He went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass. “Did you manage the problem, Sarah?”

“Miss Duncan showed me how to do it, and then I did it myself,” the child said with scrupulous honesty.

Gideon nodded. “May I see?” He took the exercise book and ran his eye over his daughter’s work. “Nicely done,” he commented, handing the book back to her. “Mary came in five minutes ago. She’s waiting for you to join her for supper.”

“Mary went to a suffragist meeting,” Sarah said. “Do you believe in votes for women, Miss Duncan?”

“Most certainly I do,” Prudence said.

“Do you belong to the Women’s Social and Political Union? Mary does.” Sarah’s interest was clearly genuine.

“I don’t, but my elder sister does. She often speaks at meetings.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “Is her name Miss Duncan too? I wonder if Mary’s ever heard her.”

“My sister uses her married name now . . . Mrs. Ensor.”

“Oh, I’ll ask Mary if she knows her.” Sarah stood up, clutching her exercise book. “I don’t suppose you cooked extra quail for us, did you, Daddy?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Boning four quail is as many as I can tolerate,” Gideon said. “But Mrs. Keith has roast pork and applesauce for you.”

Sarah gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, well, I suppose that will have to do.”

“The pork has crackling, I am reliably informed.”

The girl’s laugh was light and merry, and full of warmth. “We’ll make do,” she said. She gave Prudence her hand. “Good night, Miss Duncan. Thank you for helping me with the algebra.”

“My pleasure, Sarah. Good night.” Prudence sipped her sherry as Gideon kissed his daughter good night. Sarah responded to the kiss with a fierce hug. The bond between them was obviously so strong, so easy and affectionate it reminded Prudence of the bond she and her sisters had had with their mother. She watched the softness of Gideon’s expression, the warm curve of his mouth. This was the side of the man that produced the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the easy way he had with endearments, the tenderness of the lover.

Sarah left with bouncing step and Prudence settled back against the corner of the sofa. “She’s a delightful girl.”

“Her proud papa certainly thinks so,” Gideon said with a laugh, coming over with the sherry decanter. He leaned across her to refill her glass, and she inhaled the unmistakable, exotic, and earthy scent of truffles, mingled with a faint cologne that after a bare hesitation she decided was onion. Her host had been chopping raw onions.

“I seem to be getting the unmistakable impression that you cook,” she declared.

“That would not be an inaccurate impression,” he responded with a grin that was more than a little complacent.

“Just another one of your surprises?” She sipped her sherry, watching him with raised eyebrows.

“It’s a hobby, almost a passion, really,” he replied, sounding serious now. “I’m hoping you’ll approve of the results shortly.”

“An unusual hobby,” Prudence commented. She could think of nothing else to say.

“It frees my mind,” he returned, still seriously. “A man needs a break from dusty law books.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I suppose he does. But I thought we were going to work this evening . . . I have something really exciting to show you.” She reached for her handbag.

Gideon whipped the bag out from under her stretching hand. “Not now, Prudence. Later.”

“It’s evidence of Barclay’s fraud,” she declared.

“Good,” he said, placing her bag out of reach on top of the mantel. “After dinner we will discuss it.”

But Prudence was not to be put off. “We’ll need to check into the records of a company calling itself Barclay Earl and Associates . . . whether it legally exists. Do you know how to do that?” She leaned forward eagerly.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “I do. We will discuss it later.”

Prudence stared at him in frustration. “They’ve got detectives asking all over town about us. And they sent a letter to the publication . . . oh, let me show you.” She jumped up and went to the mantel, only to find her way barred.

“After dinner,” he said, placing a finger decisively over her lips. “I have just spent the better part of four hours creating a masterpiece for your delectation and I refuse to have it spoiled. There’s a time and a place for everything, and right now is the time and place for truffled eggs.”