Joan Smith (11 page)

Her own wish was to put Luten to the absolute maximum of inconvenience, preferably roaming over the countryside for days. “Cornwall would be nice,” she said tentatively.

“Cornwall! That wouldn’t do me much good!”

“Thoughtless of me. It is rather a long drive—why, I’d never get to see you,” she added with a fond smile. “Tunbridge Wells, then?”

His lip curled in derision at her choice of this hotbed of  romantic intrigue, where all the declassed females went to find a rich patron. “I thought Tunbridge Wells might be to your taste,” he said.

“Yes, indeed. I have spent a few Seasons there. The chalybeate springs are so invigorating. The historical associations are very much to my taste—the visit of Queen Henrietta Maria, the park retained in her honor, right in the center of town. And the company too is so lively and amusing,” she added provocatively.

“A small cottage at Tunbridge Wells, then,” he agreed.

“Not too small! I have my aunt, you remember, and the servants. So is it a thousand per quarter, plus the cottage?” she asked, assuming a businesslike manner.

“Agreed. Is there anything else?”

“A carriage and team would be nice,” she ventured, looking to see if he accepted this addition. His face, while considering, was not downright negative. “Just a small open carriage, but stylish. I suppose cream ponies would be too expensive?” she added on a wistful sigh.

“Much too expensive. I’ll get you a gig and one horse to draw it.”

“All the better class of—of mistresses have two horses.” She pouted, but her cheeks grew pink to mention herself in this low class of female. “Of course, I’ll need a clothing allowance, but you need not fear I’ll be pestering you for jewelry. I am not at all interested in jewelry,” she added as a sop.

“A woman is wiser to ask for cash. About the clothing allowance, I prefer to select and pay for the gowns myself. Your accessories you can provide from your allowance.”

There was a sound from the kitchen, not really close at hand but suggesting that the others were finishing their chores. “Very well. Go now,” she said, ushering him toward the door.

“I’ll find you here, after I’ve made the arrangements?” Luten asked.

“Yes, I’ll be here,” she said, and felt a dreadful premonition that she would indeed be here, and not safe beyond his wrath when he got back.

“It will take a few days,” he pointed out.

Miss Barten breathed much easier at this good news. “There is no hurry,” she assured him.

“Where is Peter? Will he be back in the meanwhile?”

“No, he is gone to Newmarket.”

“You must turn Peter off. Tell him—that is, don’t tell him who your new protector is. Just tell him you have decided you two do not suit. Write him a letter. I don’t want you seeing him again.”

There was another sound from the kitchen, and Trudie nudged him faster toward the door. “Why, after getting to know you better, Lord Luten, I think Peter and I do not suit. He is a trifle boyish for me.”

Luten made a bow, finally ready to leave. “I take that as a compliment to myself, ma’am.”

“It was meant as one,” she said sweetly, and finally got the door closed behind him.

Luten left, surprised that he had gotten out without succumbing to the urge to either strike her bold face or berate her loudly. Conniving, cunning, grasping, unfaithful wretch! His heart was pounding in anger, but at least he’d got her off Peter’s back. She would release Clappet, go off to the cottage at Tunbridge Wells, which would be hired on a month’s lease, no longer. He’d go once or twice to see her, just enough to let her hope he was seriously interested. Demme and he’d have to purchase a horse and gig. He wouldn’t let her at any of his own bloods with those cow hands. His frown faded, and a malicious smile took its place, Yes, he’d buy her a horse and gig all right, and they’d be the most ignoble outfit for sale in the whole of London.

Mrs. Harrington came into the hall. “Was someone at the door, Trudie?”

‘‘It was a mistake. The man was looking for someone else,” Trudie prevaricated, and went to her room to unpack a gown. She was on nettles lest Luten come back before they had all left for Newmarket, but at least he would certainly not be back today, which gave her time to think and plan and remember all Luten’s sins, not omitting that he was willing to steal what he believed to be his nephew’s mistress. He mustn’t think her so bad either, she thought, since he wanted her for himself.

Lord Luten received a note from Peter’s bank and went there to learn all the details. The banker was frightened at the livid hue his customer’s face assumed, and very much surprised that no abuse was heaped on himself.

“I understand,” Luten said. “Naturally you could not offend such a good customer as Lord Clappet will be in the near future. Five hundred pounds, eh?”

“He wanted a thousand—for a personal matter, he said. I couldn’t get anything else out of him.”

“That’s quite all right. I happen to know what matter my nephew referred to. I’ll take care of it.”

He took care of Miss Barten’s stunt of gouging an extra five hundred out of Peter by searching out in the stables of London a mangy, sway-backed hack, which he bought for five guineas at Newmans’, the largest livery stable. The groom couldn’t imagine what an out-and-outer like Luten wanted with the old jade, but supposed it must be a prank. He found a gig that did justice to the nag. It was a faded, dilapidated rig, the wood bereft of paint, the irons rusty, and the wheels wobbling unsteadily on bowed shafts. Miss Barten would be lucky if she got halfway to Tunbridge Wells without a breakdown. Such was Luten’s faith in his desirability that he still thought she would go on to the cottage and wait for him.

A day was spent on the trip to Tunbridge Wells to hire a cottage. He could not find as bad a shack as he wished, but on further consideration, he thought if he went too far, she would go running back to Peter and reveal the whole plan. It might even push him into marriage. Miss Barten was a cunning woman, and despite her deplorable character, she was not only pretty but genteel in her manners when she wasn’t pressed by greed.

At Tunbridge Wells, Luten found a rather quaint Queen Anne-style cottage just at the edge of Queen Henrietta Maria’s Park. The parlor was low and dark, the bedchambers, while numerous enough to accommodate her household, were small and dingy. The terms were one hundred per annum, or thirty guineas per quarter. He hired it for three months, reckoning he had got out of the dilemma cheaply, at under fifty guineas. He’d have to pay the woman some part of her first quarter’s allowance as well, but he’d pay it on a monthly basis. With luck, Miss Barten would soon pick up a new patron at this second rate watering spot.

Lady Clappet, figuring some monetary outlay had been
necessary to turn the girl off, didn’t press too hard to learn
the sum, in case Luten should take the notion it should come out of her pocket. Her brother didn’t ask her for the money, nor did he intend to dun Peter’s account for it. He derived so much amusement from the deal that he considered it payment enough. As a further snub to the chit, he didn’t call in person to make her aware of the arrangements but sent around a very curt note, with a request that she reply to let him know she had not changed her mind. He would send the carriage and gig to her on Thursday morning and expect to see her at the cottage on Friday.

Trudie could hardly believe her luck that Luten did not come in person, for of course she hadn’t told her aunt of the arrangement. She wrote back very civilly that the cottage sounded extremely attractive, and she looked forward to seeing him on Friday. With a malicious smile, she added a postscript in Latin from Horace’s
Satires,
claiming that all she wanted from life was a small cottage near a wood, free from worldly cares, with nights and suppers of the gods.

Thursday she received a note from Norman that he had found them a cottage at Newmarket, and they could come at any time. Heaving a vast sigh of relief, she sent Bogman off to the coaching house to book them passage on the next vehicle leaving in that direction. Before they got away from the apartment, the gig and the old nag arrived at the door, delivered from Newmans’ stable. She was curious enough to go out and have a look at it; she saw the ancient animal, his head drooped with fatigue before starting the trip, and his eyes bleary with age. The gig sagged even when empty.

Mrs. Harrington went out with her and was thrown into confusion. “What can it mean, Lord Luten sending this to Peter? Who is it for?” she asked the groom.

“For the young female what lives here,” the groom answered, as confused as the others.

Trudie rushed in to explain the confusion. “It is obviously for Peter’s servant—it must be a cart for delivering green groceries and things. I’ll handle it, Auntie.”

“You’d better send it back to Luten,” Mrs. Harrington said doubtfully. “Clappet has no stable here.” On this speech, she went back into the house.

“Where is Luten to be found? Would he be at his home?” Trudie asked the groom.

“No, ma’am, when he dropped round at the stables a while ago, he said he was on his way to his club. That’d be White’s, in St. James’s Street.”

“I suggest you take it to him there,” Miss Barten decided.

“Ah, ‘tis some kind of a joke,” the groom said, nodding his head.

“Yes, I want the carriage returned to him at his club. And tell him—tell him the female on Poland Street is not at all amused. In fact,” she decided, worried that he might come before she left, “tell him his friend went on ahead to Tunbridge Wells with another friend. Perhaps Lord Luten would be kind enough to drive the carriage down to us. I fear I could not handle such a lively stepper as Dobbin.”

Trudie regretted that she must miss the commotion at White’s when his lordship went out to see his carriage, but she was too busy hurrying the others out of the house half an hour earlier than necessary to give it much thought.

Luten sat ensconced in a parlor with a few cronies at his club, playing a desultory hand of cards while talking and drinking coffee. He noticed a larger than usual group gathering at the front window that looked out on the passing show of St. James’s Street, where only the fops and dandies paraded. A respectable female was denied the privilege of traversing this particular street, at peril of losing her reputation. A noisy clamor of laughing and joking was going forth at the window.

“What can it be? What’s going on?” one of the men asked, and rose up to join the others.

“Is it possible the Prince Regent is trying to walk the length of the street?” one of the wits inquired.

“Trying to ride, perhaps,” another quipped, and shoved back his chair.

Luten got up and went with them to view whatever spectacle the morning was offering. He recognized the gig and nag at a glance and knew he was about to be the butt of much merry roasting. His greater worry was that Miss Barten had come in person to chastise him in front of his friends.

This at least was spared him. It was a page of the club who came in and announced, through unsteady lips and in a loud, fluting voice, the message. “Your lady friend, milord, says she don’t care for your taste in horses and has accepted a drive to the house you got for her at Tunbridge Wells with another bloke, and she’ll meet you there, as agreed. And would your lordship be so kind as to drive this here animal down there for her yourself.”

Knowing he was pulling off a rare stunt, the saucy fellow bowed ceremoniously while a roar of guffaws and taunting shouts rose up to the ceiling. “Will I have the chariot wait outside, milord, or will you have it drawn ‘round to the stables and brought back when you’re ready to leave?”

“Taken a grandmother under your wing, have you, Luten?” one fellow shouted, to a loud round of approval.

“By Jove, Luten, I thought you had a better eye. Where’d you get this one, at the glue factory?”

“No, I swear I saw Dobbin pulling a dun cart on the Chelsea Road yesterday,” another taunted.

Each friend had his say while Luten stood mute and furious, trying to conceal his condition beneath a mask of spurious good humor. “Finished with your compliments, gentlemen?” he asked during a pause. “I’ll take the rig to Tunbridge Wells at once, fellow,” he told the page. “There’s no need to pull it ‘round to the stable. Anyone going my way?” he asked, making a jest of it.

“That creature won’t get you as far as the corner, let alone to Tunbridge Wells,” he was told.

“What’s up, Luten? Is it a bet?” one knowing one asked.

“No, a dare,” he replied, swallowing his ire, and he went out the door with his head high and his shoulder straight, to hop into the seat, which immediately cracked beneath his weight. He went falling ignominiously to the floor, in front of all his friends. He muttered a curse under his breath as he scrambled up and got a perilous perch on the seat’s edge, but, with a mind to his audience, raised his hand and waved as he jiggled the reins. He held his smile till he had jogged beyond view.

Before Luten got to the corner of Piccadilly, he realized he had no wish to drive all the way to Poland Street in the dawdling cart, with his friends looking, pointing, and laughing at the spectacle, but as he had stepped boldly out of White’s without summoning his groom, he had little choice but to continue. He stopped a servant met just at Green Park and had him take the outfit back to Newmans’ with a curt message that it had served its purpose, as the stable had done. He did not wish for reimbursement, nor for any future doings with an establishment that could not follow simple orders. His ire partly mitigated by this piece of ill humor, he paced rapidly to the apartment. He was greeted by drawn blinds, a locked door, and similar signs of a vacant set of rooms. She actually had gone on to Tunbridge Wells, then, he surmised.

Without wasting a minute, he hailed a hackney cab, returned to his club for his own carriage (and another round of roasting), thence straight on to the little cottage by the park at Tunbridge Wells. It too was locked and barred. He strolled around the park, returning to the cottage at frequent intervals throughout the next few hours, at which time the awful realization was accepted that Miss Barten had played off another trick on him. She wasn’t coming, and it was that five hundred Peter had borrowed at the bank that was financing her independence. Why else had he borrowed it, but for her?