Lady in the Stray (3 page)

Minette’s spirits were not the least bit elevated by the simple repast she set out upon the large gateleg table drawn up between the two benches in front of the fireplace. Minette preferred more exotic fare, such as Russian caviar and Spanish olives, reindeer tongue from Lapland and brandied blackberries. She plopped down upon the bench opposite Delphine.

That ancient turned her malicious attention upon her plate. “Stab me! What’s this pap?”

Minette knew she would never earn her living as a cook, but at least this time the meal had not burned. “It’s the only food you’ll get in this kitchen. I don’t care a fig if you don’t wish to eat it. But you can’t blame
me
if you starve!”

Once more Orphanstrange stepped into the breach, although he privately agreed with Delphine about the quality of the soup. It was fit only for paupers— which, in point of fact, they were. “We have little time,” he pointed out. “Master Marmaduke’s heiress will come to claim her legacy any day. At which time we’ll all three be without a roof over our heads.”

“And without further opportunity to discover Marmaduke’s treasure.” With a notable lack of enthusiasm, Minette plunged a spoon into her own soup.

“You two may be without a roof over your heads, but I shan’t.” Dislike as she might her meal, Delphine attacked it with gusto, in the process liberally splashing soup upon her zebra-striped skirt.
“I
don’t mean to be turned out. I can go on comfortably enough no matter who’s living in the house, and they’ll never know I’m here, because no stranger will ever find his way about.”

That was true enough; Mountjoy House was a veritable warren of tunnels and passages and secret rooms. One of these latter, hidden among the attics, Delphine had claimed for herself. The old woman would be better housed in Bedlam, Minette thought.

She propped her plump elbows rather rudely on the table. “I don’t see why
you
should be allowed to stay!” she protested. “A poor relative handed down from one generation to the next. Marmaduke didn’t invite you to live here with him. The truth is he inherited you!”

“I
am family.” Having disposed of quite half the loaf of bread and a large amount of soup, Delphine leaned back on her bench and emitted a genteel belch. “Not some graceless tatterdemalion who cozened an old reprobate to take her in off the streets.”

Minette was quick to defend her benefactor: “Marmaduke wasn’t
old!
And I wasn’t on the streets.” She nibbled on a knuckle. “Not really. Marmaduke was
très sympathique.”

“Marmaduke,” retorted Delphine with every appearance of enjoyment, “was
très
bacon-brained.”

Before the ladies could be carried away by the heat of their mutual antagonism, as frequently happened, Orphanstrange put forth the suggestion that Marmaduke’s heiress might be compassionate.

“ ‘Compassionate’?” Delphine settled herself even more comfortably upon the bench. “You think that the wench won’t turn us out? Fiddlestick! Of course she will—and so would you if the shoe were on your foot.”

“Oh! We must look all the harder for Marmaduke’s treasure,” sighed Minette.

“How we are plunged into grief!” Delphine yawned. Before Minette could respond, her eyes closed, and she slipped slowly sideways.

“Ma foi!
Again she sleeps,” exclaimed Minette in disgust. “I am sorely tempted to leave her here. It would not be long before she was found out, I think, and then she would be well served. But I am not of such a mean nature
.
I will allow even the viper-tongued Delphine to benefit from my cleverness.”

Whatever cleverness Minette possessed did not exhibit itself in domestic matters, reflected Orphanstrange as he finished off the soup. He inquired what maggot his companion had taken into her brain.

Minette did not allow this lack of faith to cast a blight upon her optimism. Marmaduke would have made provision for his little family, she knew, if only he had not met his maker prematurely via a misstep on the stair. Therefore it was for Marmaduke’s little family to see that his unstated wishes were carried out. “Me, I am above all practical! First, we must find a screever. You know, one who writes letters for those who cannot write themselves.”

“A screever.” Carefully, Orphanstrange set aside his empty dish. “What manner of letter, miss?”

With a lazy finger, Minette rearranged bread crumbs on the tabletop. “A letter from Marmaduke to his heiress,
naturellement!”

CHAPTER THREE

While Vashti Beaufils exchanged pleasantries with her cousin’s solicitor and Minette exchanged hostilities with Delphine, yet another pertinent encounter was taking place, this latter between Yves Santander and his godfather. The setting for this meeting was the most select of gentlemen’s clubs, White’s.

Yves Santander, Lord Stirling, was generally accorded a very handsome man. His physique was trim and muscular, his stature tall; his hair was golden; his features were unexceptionable, most notable among them cerulean blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and a—or so the ladies claimed—very well-formed mouth.

Just now, as Lord Stirling gazed upon his godfather, the set of his mouth was wry. “A trifle scorched, are you? Again?” he fondly inquired.

“No more than usual,” cheerfully replied Lord Stirling’s companion, a corpulent, untidy gentleman with rosy cheeks and bristling brows. “Even if I were, I wouldn’t put
you
to the touch, Yves.”

To this generous profession, Lord Stirling offered no rejoinder. The corpulent gentleman raised one bristling brow. “Ah. I conclude that I already
have
put you to the touch. What an old reprobate I am, to be sure. You should not concern yourself with my pecuniary embarrassments, Yves; I am always badly dipped. But I didn’t ask you to meet me here so that we might speak of that. I seek your opinion of a different matter altogether—and not a pretty one.” He frowned.

They made a striking couple, Lord Stirling very elegant in his single-breasted morning coat, striped waistcoat, pristine neckcloth, tight pantaloons and Hessian boots; and his companion looking like a country bumpkin in a long dark-gray coat and unpressed trousers and bursting waistcoat. In both instances, appearances were deceptive. Lord Stirling was no dilettante; and his godfather was a great statesman who, in between delivering brilliant speeches in the House of Commons, had dissipated several fortunes and kept a series of lively young mistresses, and was now referred to alternately as an Awful Warning and a Noble Ruin.

Lord Stirling’s thoughts dwelt upon those lively young mistresses and the tendency of his godpapa to squander fortunes not his own. “Open your budget!” he invited cautiously.

With singular sweetness, the corpulent gentleman smiled. “Set your apprehensions at rest; I don’t mean to involve you in any of my imbroglios, Yves.” The smile faded. “Although I suspect you would rather this imbroglio
was
mine, once you hear the whole. It is an awkward business.”

“So I conclude.” It was odd for his godfather— equally loquacious in the House of Commons and in the pursuit of vice—to be so indirect. Yves’s tone was ironic. “I wish you would get on with it.”

The corpulent gentleman did not immediately comply, instead fussed with his bursting waistcoat, upon which could be detected food stains and snuff. Difficult to envision the Noble Ruin in his younger days, with his fellow Macaronis sporting blue hair-powder and red-heeled shoes. “What is your opinion of the peace?” he suddenly inquired.

Expecting his godpapa to confess to difficulties either of the pocketbook or the heart, Lord Stirling was taken aback. “It is infamous, of course. The whole war with France has been unjust and disgraceful, and never more so than in its termination. I don’t expect the peace will last; relations between France and England are already strained. Why do you ask me? You have been in Paris recently.”

“So I have.” Untidily, the corpulent gentleman took snuff. “Little Boney occupies the Tuileries in state equal to Louis XVI and goes about in a carriage drawn by white horses, attended by a splendid body of guards. I was privileged to meet him. The young man is considerably intoxicated with success.”

Lord Stirling began to wonder if his godpapa might not also be a trifle foxed. “Devil take it, Richard. This not-so-pretty affair of yours concerns
Bonaparte?”

“In a manner of speaking.” The corpulent gentleman rested his hands upon his straining midriff, touched his fingertips together, looked wise. “The peace has given Boney opportunity to engage in even more grandiose scheme of conquest. He has sent out expeditions to examine every region where England has a settlement, you will be interested to know. He has even sent spies here, their mission to prepare plans of our chief ports, complete with all pertinent details.” He twiddled his thumbs. “Fortunately, the French agents became known.”

This much, if not common knowledge, was not news to Lord Stirling, who became increasingly curious about his godpapa’s reticence. “Anyone known to have entered the country for such purposes is forthwith asked to leave it. And so?”

“Little Boney sent his agents not only to us.” The corpulent gentleman’s heavy jowls quivered with his sigh. “Secret agents have also been established in Holland and Italy. It is as good as a play to observe the Corsican’s antics—or would be if there was less at stake. I fear, Yves, that we were too hasty to disarm. Even do hostilities resume, I doubt Boney would venture upon an English invasion, nonetheless.”

Lord Stirling contemplated one of his brilliantly polished boots, purchased from Hoby, the bootmaker whose select shop was located on the corner of Piccadilly and St. James’s. “You fear a French invasion, Richard?”

“I do not.” The corpulent gentleman quirked one of his bristling brows. “If Boney
did
embark upon so rash a venture, he would most likely be destroyed. And even if he managed to achieve a landing, he’d cause more fright than real harm. I didn’t wish to speak to you specifically about Boney, Yves, although from what I know of the Corsican, he’s nourishing some ambitious design. This matter is more serious than that.” He paused.

More serious than impending French invasion? Lord Stirling disliked the tenor of his godpapa’s remarks. Yves wished very much that he was elsewhere—inspecting the latest acquisitions at Tattersall’s, perhaps, or practicing his science in “Gentleman” Jackson’s boxing saloon, or fencing in St. James’s—anywhere but sharing White’s famed bow window with his devious companion.

Growing bored with his gleaming Hessian boot, Lord Stirling elevated his gaze. Established as a chocolate house over a hundred years before, White’s had soon become a select gaming club. Though the hour was very early, rich lords of the Whig aristocracy were already deep at play.

Richard followed his godson’s thoughtful gaze. “I squandered
my
fortune at Brooke’s,” he remarked. “But that is fair and far off. I crave your attention, Yves.”

“You
have
my attention!” retorted Lord Stirling. “You have had it this past half hour. I wish you’d get to the point, Richard. You’re not addressing the Commons now.”

This unjust slur upon his oratorial abilities the corpulent gentleman let pass. “I’m not wandering in my wits yet, my boy. Has it not occurred to you that Boney may not be alone in the employment of spies?”

At this moment, Lord Stirling was very close to subjecting his godpapa to a display of the violent temper for which he was famed. “You take advantage of the fact that you are too large for me to hurl through the window, Richard.”

“Ah. I try your patience.” Again came that singularly sweet smile. “Bear with me but a few moments longer, Yves. There is a purpose to my discourse.” A waiter arrived, bearing a tray. A bottle was broached, and glasses filled. “In short, a memorandum has turned up missing,” Richard continued when the waiter had gone. “A very important memorandum. One that could affect the outcome of the ongoing hostilities with France.”

Now that his curiosity was well on the way to being satisfied, Yves wished that it were not. In his stomach was a very ominous feeling that had nothing to do with the quality of the wine.
“Are
the hostilities ongoing?” he inquired perversely. “Perhaps I just imagined the Treaty of Amiens.”

“You may think France and England are at peace; certainly George thinks it, but Boney does not. To continue: this confounded memorandum has disappeared, and in it are mentioned some names which should not have been. You look confused, Yves. Pray use that acute wit that I am assured you possess. We English have always emulated the French, and in this instance with notably more finesse.”

Richard now had his godson’s full attention. “You are saying that we have emulated Boney’s tactics, and that because of this missing memorandum our good work may be set at naught. Our agents are named, I conjecture—the devil! How could such an important document go astray?”

“That is an excellent question.” The corpulent gentleman did not appear anxious to vouchsafe an answer. “The person whose carelessness is at fault shall remain unnamed. He came to me when he realized what had happened—no, Yves, you may
not
lecture me on the quality of my friends. You understand why it is imperative that we straighten out this tangle? Does that memorandum fall into the wrong hands, the case could grow desperate.”

“Especially for the agents named therein,” Yves responded drily. “I agree that it’s a damnable situation—but why tell me about it?”

The corpulent gentleman looked angelic. “You possess a nicety of judgment, Yves.”

“I do
not
possess a disposition to meddle!” Lord Stirling countered. “You may spare me further flummery.”

“A pity.” The corpulent gentleman rearranged his bulk. “I had planned to remark next upon your painstaking discretion and your way with the ladies. Sometime you must tell me whether it is your offhand manner they so admire, or your blue eyes, but not now. You must perceive that if the memorandum were to fall in the wrong hands, the consequences could be quite dreadful.”

“What I perceive, Richard, is that you seek to embroil me in this.” Lord Stirling evidenced little enthusiasm for the prospect. “I wonder why I should let you. It is your friend who has made so grievous a blunder—by the by, how came it about?”