Authors: Jane Feather
“It’s not your fault,” Prudence said, removing her glasses and wiping at a smudge with her handkerchief. “Chas and I stand behind what you wrote. We know he reneged on gambling debts and we know some of his financial dealings have been suspect.” She replaced her glasses.
“But we had no evidence,” Constance said. “I got carried away by the excitement of exposing his philandering and I thought I could throw in the dishonesty and no one would question it because the rest was incontrovertible.”
“Well, he questioned it,” Prudence said flatly. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a jab of her forefinger. “Obviously he thinks that if he can sue us successfully for libel on this, then he’ll be vindicated on the other accusations as well. And then he can go after the
Pall Mall Gazette
. After a court triumph, no one will dare to whisper about his sexual peccadilloes.”
Constance tossed the document back onto the secretaire with an air of disgust. “Any ideas?”
“Well, we’ve got the ball rolling,” Prudence said, and explained about Sir Gideon Malvern. “Amelia Franklin came around this morning with a message that he’ll see us next Thursday at four o’clock,” she finished. “Obviously, I didn’t want to give him this address, at least not at this stage, so I gave him Amelia and Henry’s as a contact.”
Constance nodded. “I’m sure they didn’t mind.”
“No, quite the opposite. Amelia’s always offering to help with
The Mayfair Lady.
”
Constance nodded again. “Then there’s not much we can do until we see him. I wonder if Max knows him. He’s bound to be expensive if he’s a KC.”
“We’d come to that conclusion ourselves,” Prudence said gloomily. “He’s already said that his initial fee will be fifty guineas. But apart from that, how do we keep our own names out of this? Barclay can sue
The Mayfair Lady,
but someone’s going to want to know whose hand actually penned the so-called libel.”
Her sisters made no immediate response to that truth.
The heavy slam of the front door downstairs broke their silence. “Father,” said Chastity. “He’ll be so pleased to see you, Con.” Her tone was a trifle lackluster.
“I imagine he’s totally taken Barclay’s part in this,” Constance stated without question or surprise. She walked to the door. “I’ll run down and see him.” She reached the top of the stairs just as Lord Duncan began to ascend them.
“Constance, my dear,” he said, hurrying up towards her, a smile splitting his face. “Your sisters weren’t sure when you’d be here. Your wire said something about the boat being delayed by the weather.”
“Oh, it cleared up and we sailed on yesterday morning’s tide. We got back to London late last night, but I couldn’t wait another minute to see you all,” she said, opening her arms to him. She hugged him as he kissed her soundly. “Are you well?”
“Oh, yes . . . yes, indeed.” He stood back, holding her shoulders as he examined her. “Marriage suits you, my dear. You have quite a glow about you.”
She laughed. “I believe it does. Max will be coming round in an hour or so to pay his respects.”
“I look forward to seeing him. I’d welcome his opinion on a bad business.” He shook his head. “A very bad business.”
“Prue and Chas were saying something about—” Constance began, but Lord Duncan swept on.
“That disgraceful rag . . .
Mayfair Lady
. . . libeled Barclay, would you believe? The brass nerve of it.” Lord Duncan’s already ruddy complexion took on a deeper hue. “Absolutely outrageous. And now this wretched
Pall Mall Gazette
has taken it up.”
“Yes, we told Con all about it, Father,” Chastity said in soothing tones from behind her sister.
“It’s a disgrace. That an honest man can be pilloried by some scandalmongering underground broadsheet . . . Anonymous writers, don’t even have the courage to declare themselves honestly to stand by their lies. I don’t know what the civilized world is coming to.”
He shook his head again and made a visible effort to compose himself. “But we don’t need to spoil your homecoming, my dear. I’m sure you have much to tell your sisters, but when you’re ready to come down to the drawing room, we’ll open a bottle of the vintage Veuve Clicquot in celebration. There are a few bottles left, I believe. I shall tell Jenkins to put one on ice.” He patted his eldest daughter’s cheek, nodded benignly at her sisters, and returned to the hall.
“
Do
we have any of the vintage ‘widow’ left?” Constance inquired.
“No, but there are a couple of bottles of Taittinger that Jenkins put away. He’ll produce those instead,” Prudence said. She found their father’s refusal to believe, let alone accept, the general depletion of his wine cellars a particular source of anxiety among her many financial worries. She danced a constant ballet of the bottles with the able assistance of Jenkins, who knew the contents of the cellar down to the last label and exactly what substitutes Lord Duncan would accept.
Constance picked up her coffee cup again. “Let’s talk about something more cheerful. Give me an update on the magazine. Have we any more paying clients for the Go-Between?”
“Speaking of paying,” Chastity said, “you should have seen the way Prue squeezed fifty guineas out of
La Winthrop,
and then, would you believe, not to be outdone,
La Lucan
chipped in seventy. Prue was masterly.”
Constance laughed. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less. Have Hester and Lucan set a date yet?”
“Christmas Eve,” Prudence told her. “Have you decided on an afternoon for your At Homes?”
Constance shook her head with a grimace. “There’s no need just yet. Everyone’s going to be making bride visits. As soon as it’s known that I’m back in town, Society will be beating its curious and gossipy path to my door. You know what it’s like, they’ll be scrutinizing the furniture and the general decor of the house and asking me pointed little questions while they try to decide whether I’m content with my lot.” Her tone dripped sarcasm.
“Or in the process of giving your husband an heir,” added Prudence, regarding her sister with a lifted eyebrow.
“The only babies I’m going to be producing are in print,” Constance declared. “At least until
The Mayfair Lady
and the Go-Between are truly solvent.”
“Which won’t happen at all if we can’t beat this libel suit,” Prudence said, her expression once more grave. “I’m just praying that this Malvern isn’t going to be prejudiced against three women operating a
scandalmongering, underground rag.
” Her tone was a fair imitation of her father’s.
They were silent for a minute, then Constance said, “We’ll ask Max if he knows him. Maybe he could put in a good word for us. You look doubtful. Why?”
“Oh, I’m just wondering whether you want Max to read the piece in question,” Prudence said, with a hesitant little shrug. “You know him best, of course, but . . .”
Constance grimaced. “You have a point. But I can’t see any way of keeping it from him.”
“His wife as defendant in a libel suit isn’t going to advance his career any,” Prudence commented.
“Which is one of the major reasons why it
can’t
come out.”
Another silence fell, then Constance said with effort, “Let’s not think about it anymore, just for the moment. You still haven’t told me if we have any new Go-Between clients.”
“Two possibles.” Chastity followed her sister’s cue and went to the secretaire. She came back with two letters. “This one from a girl, at least she sounds more like a girl than a woman, who says she’s desperate for a husband as a means of escaping a tyrannical stepmother who’s determined to marry her off to someone old enough to be her grandfather. She wants to elope. I suspect she’s been reading too many romances.”
Constance took the letter and read the somewhat passionately incoherent screed, the writing liberally splattered with stains that one had to assume were tears.
“The poor child does seem to fancy herself between the pages of some melodramatic romance, doesn’t she?” Prudence remarked, watching her sister’s slightly derisive expression. “I doubt she’s even of age. In my opinion we should just write her a sensible response saying we only accept clients who are over twenty-one.”
“Except that’s not strictly true. We found Hester Winthrop a husband,” Constance pointed out.
“Yes, but that was to give Lucan a love interest other than Chas, and we knew it was a perfect match for both of them. We wouldn’t have promoted it if we’d had any doubts. I don’t want to meddle in the affairs of someone this young, about whom we know nothing. This so-called stepmother could be the most devoted and considerate woman, whose motives have been totally misunderstood by a spoilt gaby.”
“Yes, you have a point.” Constance folded the sheet and tapped it thoughtfully into the palm of her hand.
“Apart from anything else,” Prudence continued resolutely, “we don’t have the resources to offer a youth-counseling service. We’ll be wasting an entire afternoon, not to mention the train fares to Wimbledon, if we agree to see her.” The glance she shot at Chastity told Constance that her sisters had been around this maypole several times already. It was hardly surprising. Chastity’s soft heart and truly empathetic nature frequently clashed with her sister’s pragmatic nature and unsentimental opinions. Constance, as the eldest, was often required to cast the deciding vote.
“I’m with Prue,” she said. “Sorry, Chas, but we have to be practical.”
Chastity merely nodded. Despite her gentle inclinations, she knew when to fight a battle and when to yield. In this instance, the damsel from Wimbledon would have to find her own salvation.
“So, that’s settled.” Constance set the letter on the table. Prudence looked relieved—she hated being at odds with either of her sisters. She offered Chastity a rueful smile that her youngest sister returned with a tiny shrug of resignation.
“What about the second letter?” asked Constance.
“Rather more promising, I think.” Chastity handed her the second letter. “Prue and I think we know who it’s from, although she’s using a pseudonym.” She pointed to the signature at the bottom of the neatly penned letter. “She can’t really be called Iphigenia.”
“Unlikely,” Constance agreed. “Wasn’t Iphigenia sacrificed by Agamemnon to get a fair wind to sail to Troy?” She read the letter. “Oh, I see. You think it’s written by Lady Northrop,” she said when she’d finished. “She’s always peppering her conversations with totally inapposite classical allusions.”
“Doesn’t it sound like her? Widowed, if not sacrificed, four years ago, in her prime . . . not yet ready to settle for a loveless future—”
“By which, of course, she means sexless,” Prudence interrupted Chastity. “And look how she describes herself. Wealthy, brunette, brown eyes, well-endowed figure, impeccable dress sense, attractive to men. Isn’t that Dottie Northrop to a tee? Apart from the dress sense,” she added with the authority of one who knew her own was beyond reproach. “That I’d quibble with.”
“She’s certainly not one to hide her charms,” Constance agreed. “And she’s certainly well endowed.”
“She’s also the most notorious flirt,” Chastity added.
“So, why does she think she needs help finding a suitable husband? She’s a veritable mantrap already.” Constance rose to refill her coffee cup from the tray on the sideboard.
“The men she attracts are not of the marrying kind,” Prudence pointed out.
“But whom do
we
know that she doesn’t that we could put in her way?”
“We’ll have to think about it. If we can come up with a few possibilities, we can get them together at an At Home, as we did with Millicent and Anonymous.”
“We could always suggest she moderate her necklines and be a little less flamboyant with the perfume and the diamonds,” Chastity suggested. “We could make it sound as if it were the sort of general advice we give all our clients.”
“We’ll leave that to you, Chas. Tactful advice is right up your street. One thing we do know: Dotty can afford the finder’s fee.” Prudence turned at a knock on the door. “Come in.”
Jenkins opened the door. “Mr. Ensor is with Lord Duncan, ladies. They would like you to join them in the drawing room for champagne.”
“Thank you. We’ll be down straightaway.” Constance examined her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, tucking a loose strand into her elaborately piled mass of rich russet hair.
“It’s not like you to check your appearance, Con,” Prudence said with a mischievous grin. “Marriage has certainly worked some changes.”
“There’s quite a wind blowing,” Constance declared with an air of mock dignity. “It was gusting as I left the motor.”
Laughing, they went downstairs. Lord Duncan’s raised voice reached them as they crossed the hall to the drawing room. They exchanged comprehending glances. His lordship was expounding with great fervor his indignation at the libel of his friend. Judging by the speed of the monologue, his son-in-law was making no attempt to respond.
“Oh, hell,” muttered Constance. “He’s bound to have shown Max the article and I haven’t even had a chance to prepare him.” She swallowed slightly, stiffened her shoulders, and opened the drawing room door. “You’re early, Max. You said two hours. Did you see the Prime Minister?” Her eyes darted to the table that stood between the two men. Both the
Pall Mall Gazette
and
The Mayfair Lady
lay there, their pages turned to the incriminating articles.
Max followed her gaze, then regarded her with a less than loverlike air. “I saw him,” he said shortly. He greeted his sisters-in-law with rather more warmth, although there was a certain hint of reserve that was not normally present in his dealings with them.
“I’ve just been telling Ensor about this disgrace,” Lord Duncan thundered, gesturing to the papers on the table. “If I ever discover who wrote that first piece of trash, I’ll take a horsewhip to him. Thrash him to within an inch of his life.”
“I can’t say I’d blame you, sir,” Max said aridly, casting another glance at his wife. Constance met his gaze.
“Well, enough of that for the moment. Ah, Jenkins, you’ve brought the champagne. Why the Taittinger? I specifically asked for the vintage Veuve Clicquot.” His lordship frowned fiercely at the bottle’s label as if it offended him.