Carola Dunn (14 page)

 “Who better? You are a capital goer, are you not?”

 “I should say so,” said Lord Wendover with enthusiasm. “Best seat of anyone I know.”

 “There you are, then. You drive to an inch, too, or so I have often heard you claim. It is a pity your shooting is less than accurate, but perhaps Alan will not mind.”

 “Dash it, Bea, there’s nothing wrong with my aim, and I won’t have you giving Dinsmuir the impression that there is!”

 Bea clasped her hands in rapture. “Then you will teach him! You are the kindest cousin in the world, I vow.”

 “Dash it, Bea, I never said... Besides, my aunt and uncle won’t like me inviting a stranger to stay.”

 “But he is not a stranger!” Bea said with wide-eyed innocence. “He is a fellow-student, a friend.”

 “Dash it, Bea, I’ve never even spoken to the fellow!”

 “But Papa and Mama do not know that. They have no reason to suppose you have not been friends forever. Papa will raise no objection. He never has, since you came to live with us, though some of the boys you brought home from Eton were perfectly horrid!”

 “But not one of ‘em was a ramshackle, half-bred commoner,” said Tom unwisely.

 “Here, I say!” Lord Wendover expostulated. “Fellow she loves, remember.”

 Her emotions in tatters, Bea burst into tears, seized Tom’s favourite cue from his hands, and took a wild swipe at him. Missing as he dodged, aghast, she snapped it in half on the table’s edge and tossed the pieces among the balls. She swung round to march out, but Tom caught her arm.

 “Dash it, Bea,” he said shamefacedly, “I wasn’t thinking. No harm in the fellow, I daresay. If he comes to stay while your parents are away, we can rub off any rough edges between us... Not saying there are any, mind!”

 Bea flung her arms around his neck and wept into his cravat, to his acute discomfort. If this was what thwarted love did to his usually cheerful cousin, the sooner she married the fellow the better.

 With his promise to speak to his uncle at once, Bea retired exhausted to her chamber. As she opened the door, something flickered in the corner of her eye. A moment later she was flying through the air.

 “I thought you might like to see my pageant,” said the Jinnee’s voice in her ear.

 “I would! It is to be tonight already?”

 “The previously engaged singer has a sore throat.”

 “But what if someone recognizes me?”

 “I cannot render you invisible, but I can deflect the glances of those about you, so that they never really notice you. Besides, all eyes will be on my fabulous spectacle!”

 With that, Bea found herself standing next to Alan, at one end of a palatial, flamboyantly decorated room, brilliantly lit and very hot. In front of them, filling the near half of the chamber and facing the far end, were ranks of chairs occupied by chattering ladies and gentlemen in evening dress. Bea slipped her arm through Alan’s, and he stared down at her in astonishment.

 “I was just wishing you were here!” he said softly.

 “Did you forget you have a Jinnee to grant your wishes?”

 She smiled up at him. After a swift glance around, he bent his head to give her a brief kiss. At that moment, a triple knock came from the front of the room.

 The Jinnee stood there, in his smoky robe and full trousers. Again he knocked thrice on the floor with a gold staff topped with a sinuous gold dragon. “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, pray silence for the Sultan!”

 Trumpets sounded. From one side entered a stout gentleman clad in a bejewelled tunic of gold and silver brocade over a floor length crimson robe embroidered with gold thread. On his head he wore a curious headdress, so encrusted with gems that it flashed with every movement. Beneath this, the Prince Regent’s plump face beamed at his stunned audience.

 Alan groaned. “I never dreamt he meant to involve the Prince himself in the play-acting!” he whispered.

 “His Royal Highness appears to be enjoying himself,” Bea returned. “I have heard he often sings or plays the violoncello for his guests.”

 A storm of applause burst out as the spectators recovered their wits. With stately tread, Prinny advanced to a magnificent throne Bea had not observed amidst the general splendour. Seating himself, he held up his hands for silence, then clapped once, sharply.

 Trumpets rang out again. The doors behind Alan and Bea opened, and in came a procession reminiscent of that which had caused such chaos in Oxford. They paraded down the aisle between the seats.

 Bea was no expert, but to her eyes the forty maidens and forty Africans appeared to be dressed in an eclectic mixture of Arabian, Indian and Chinese costumes, all richly embroidered. Half bore in their hands musical instruments: flutes and flageolets, lutes, harps and psalteries, tambourines, drums and cymbals. The rest carried objects on their heads, all different shapes and sizes, swathed in brilliant-hued cloths.

 Reaching the open space between the audience and the Prince on his throne, the musicians divided to stand in a semicircle to either side. They began to play, soft, solemn music with curious harmonies.

 Between them, the rest came up one by one, knelt before the throne, placed their wrapped burdens on the floor, and salaamed. Then the music stopped. There was a breathless hush.

 The Jinnee, now standing beside the throne, thumped with his rod. Once more the invisible trumpeters sounded a fanfare. The kneeling maidens and men whisked the cloths from their gifts, revealing the rarest of Chinese treasures. Porcelain bowls, vases, and statuettes; carvings in jade, onyx, and ivory; painted scrolls and fans: everything was exquisite, rare and precious.

 Gasping, the spectators leaned forward for a better view, Prinny too. Nothing could be better calculated to appeal to that acquisitive connoisseur.

 Before the astonished whispers grew to a clamour, the Jinnee knocked again. The musicians started up a slow, sensuous tune, and the gift-bearers in the centre began to dance. Between the gifts they glided, weaving an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colour. The tempo gradually increased, and the pattern grew more and more complex. Soon the dancers were skipping around the fragile works of art.

 In an agony of apprehension, Bea held her breath. She felt Alan’s frozen tension at her side, and she knew that if she could tear her eyes from the dancers, she would see the entire audience immobile with disbelief.

 Just when she must breathe or burst, the Jinnee’s staff knocked once...twice...thrice. In the instant silence, all the candles went out.

 Bea clutched Alan’s arm. A woman screamed.

 The Jinnee’s voice rang through the room: “Behold, the Dragon.”

 A gleam of light appeared, high up in one corner, a silvery gleam. Scales glittered, as the monster circled the room with slow beats of great silver wings.

 “It’s the dragon from the banqueting room!” Alan breathed in Bea’s ear. “Come to life...”

 Spiraling inward, the dragon approached the huge chandelier hung from the centre of the dome. The smaller gold dragons beneath the lustre began to stir, then took wing. The carved dragons on the mantelpiece joined them, and even the
trompe l’oeil
  dragons painted on the walls. All gleamed by their own light, a curious sight as they darted about the upper part of the room.

 Scarlet flame flickered from the mouth of the great silver dragon. One fiery breath lit every candle in the centre chandelier, while the smaller beasts ignited all the rest. As if banished by the flood of light, the silver giant vanished. Its brethren froze back in their accustomed places.

 Bea blinked. Not only the dragon had vanished—dancers, musicians, and Jinnee were gone. The gifts now stood on an elegant but ordinary table before the throne—which was an ordinary (if ornate) armchair. Prinny stood behind the table, wearing the blue pelisse of the Light Dragoons, the Prince of Wales’ Regiment. He looked distinctly self-satisfied.

 At that moment, the room faded before Bea’s eyes. She found herself flying through the air beneath the stars, which blurred into streaks as she sped faster and faster into the night.

* * * *

 Alan felt horribly alone and deserted when Bea disappeared. The audience pressed forward, at the Prince’s invitation, to inspect his gifts. Moving against the tide, Colonel McMahon joined Alan.

 “I never dreamt you were going to present such superb pieces,” he said with a touch of incredulity, “and so many! They’re worth a fortune.”

 “I acquired them at very little expense,” Alan told him truthfully. A shilling and ninepence for an old copper lamp, to be precise. “There are more than I have space to display, and I can think of no one more likely to truly appreciate them than His Highness.”

 The Colonel nudged him in the ribs. “Not to mention the little matter of a title,” he said slyly. “I don’t think there is going to be any trouble over that. His Highness is mightily pleased. Well, if you’re sure you don’t want to join the throng, I’ll take you to his private library. He will be along shortly, I expect.”

 The library was far more to Alan’s taste than the public rooms he had roamed the day before. The oriental influence was subdued, a patterned carpet in russet and dull blue, and aquamarine wallpaper with a white design. The furniture was elegant rather than eye-catching, the chandelier crystal without a dragon in sight. It depended from a ceiling painted to resemble a summer sky—just the colour of Bea’s eyes—with puffs of white cloud, a fancy Alan rather liked.

 He had time to glance at the books in the bookcases, and to note a novel by Miss Austen lying open upon a table. He was nervously twirling one of a pair of large globes when Prinny arrived.

 Afterwards, Alan remembered little other than the Prince’s gracious affability, but one moment stuck in his mind.

 “Now do tell me, my dear fellow, how did you manage that business with the dragons? We have never seen such a realistic illusion. Spectacular!”

 “I...I...” Alan stammered, “that is, I fear I don’t know how it is done, sir. It is my secretary’s secret. I leave that side of things to him.”

 Prinny laughed, his vast belly shaking, and winked at McMahon. “Nothing like having a master magician for a secretary, Mr. Dinsmuir! There are times we could do with one, eh, Sir John? Well, we thank you again for your notable contribution to our little place here. You will find us not ungenerous in remembering your generosity.” He held out his hand.

 Alan bowed low and backed out. Outside the door, he leant weakly against the wall, dabbing his brow. It had gone quite well, he thought. Prinny had not seemed offended by what could be regarded as a refusal to explain the dragons, but had his laugh hidden a royal chagrin?

 Perhaps he would only grant a knighthood, or no title at all. If so, Bea was lost to Alan forever. Why the deuce had the Jinnee thrown in a horde of live dragons?

 McMahon came out. “Viscountcy,” he said laconically. “Those dragons turned the trick. People will be talking of them for weeks, and there is nothing he likes better. I shall notify the Heralds’ College and the London Gazette. You will get your Patent of Nobility in a week or two, by Royal Messenger. By the way, I don’t believe I have your direction?”

 Alan’s euphoria changed into panic. Wadham College? he wondered. Cherry Tree Cottage? “I shall be travelling about a lot in the next fortnight,” he said hastily. “I’ll send my secretary to pick up the patent. Er, you did say ‘viscount,’ didn’t you?”

 “That’s right. It’s quite proper to use the title immediately. Allow me to congratulate you, my lord.” He bowed with a sardonic air, only just not a sneer.

 Let him sneer, Alan thought, striding jauntily towards the inn. McMahon had pocketed his bribe quickly enough. It was not the first title sold for good value; doubtless it would not be the last. For darling Bea’s sake...

 Already walking on air, Alan scarcely noticed at first when his steps started climbing into the sky. Then he was rushing through the darkness, homeward he assumed.

 Homeward—what he needed now was a home fit for a viscount, and more important, fit for a viscount’s bride.

Chapter VI

 “A house?” said Mrs. Dinsmuir at the breakfast table. “Oh yes, dearest, we have thought of that, have we not, Mr. Jinnee?”

 The Jinnee beamed. “Yes, indeed, my lord. Miss Dirdle— admirable woman!—suggested weeks past that you would require a suitable dwelling.”

 “We did not want to add another burden when you had so much else to worry over, so we talked about it when you and dear Bea were walking in the garden. We have everything in train.”

 Alan half-choked on a piece of sausage. The Jinnee thumped him on the back.

 Recovering, he asked in dismay, “Mother, you haven’t gone and bought a house, have you? Bea must be consulted, and I should like some say in the choice.”

 “Of course, dear. Besides, you will want a new house, not someone else’s old one, with the neighbours regarding you as intruders and constantly making comparisons with the last residents.”

 “New! Bea and I can’t wait while a new house is built.”

 “A night’s work,” said the Jinnee with a sort of modest benevolence.

 “Good lord, this isn’t ancient China! If a house mushrooms overnight, it won’t be simply a nine days’ wonder, like Aladdin’s. I dare not even contemplate the legal repercussions!”

 “We may not be lawyers, Alan,” his mother said sharply, “but we have not all lost our wits. Mr. Jinnee has kindly combed the country for land for sale. He has found several parcels where a building may be erected out of sight of all neighbours and roads. People may wonder why they saw no signs of construction, but they cannot be sure it did not take place in the normal way.”

 The Jinnee gave her a nod of approval. “I put down earnest money on all the plots,” he told Alan. “I shall take you and Lady Beatrice to inspect them and make your choice. You have only to give the word.”

 “You’re waiting for me to give the word?” Alan said a trifle sourly. “That makes a change!”

 Mrs. Dinsmuir took him severely to task for ingratitude. The Jinnee—his servant!—had not the grace to make himself scarce but listened with a bland smile to the scolding. Alan was rescued by a knock on the door, heralding the arrival of Bea and Miss Dirdle.