Larcenous Lady (2 page)

“It’s the ship that’s rolling,” Belami replied. “Rather heavy weather. I feared we wouldn’t be leaving today at all.”

Pronto’s pink face blanched to white, and he wobbled to his feet. “Believe I’ll just have a lie-down. Lucky if I don’t flash the hash.” He left and Belami strolled to the common room to see if anyone else was still up and about. He took his newspaper with him in case he was destined to be alone.

The room was thin of company, but one elderly gentleman sat at a table smoking a meerschaum pipe and having a brandy as he perused some newspapers. Belami recognized the man he had just mentioned to Pronto and went to greet him.

“Good day, sir. May I join you?” Belami asked.

“I’d be delighted for the company,” the man answered.

Belami glanced at him and wondered who he might be. A stocky man in his early sixties with gray hair and a ruddy complexion. He was obviously a gentleman, and obviously not a gentleman of the first stare. The nap was worn from his jacket, and his linens were the worse for wear. A bachelor, probably.

“Are you traveling alone?” Belami asked, as he took up a seat.

“Aye, I’m traveling through life alone. The name’s Captain Styger, late of His Majesty’s Navy.”

“Belami,” Lord Belami said, and offered his hand. “That accounts for your sea legs. Does a brandy help?”

“A brandy never hurt anyone, at sea or ashore. Allow me to treat you.”

Styger called for another brandy for himself and one for his companion. They fell into conversation. “I’m off to see the world,” Captain Styger said. “Thus far I’ve only seen ports and shores. Now I mean to land and walk on foreign grounds.”

“Where were you during the Napoleon campaign?” Belami said.

“I’m afraid I captained a desk at Plymouth during those crucial days,” Captain Styger admitted sadly. “I took a ball in the leg during the early French blockade and they locked me up in an office.”

“The infamous Orders in Council.” Belami nodded. “What’s your opinion of them, as a naval man?”

“Orders are orders,” the man replied vaguely.

Belami was surprised. Most naval officers would rant against them for an hour. “Did you actually land at America?”

“America? No, I didn’t get there.”

A few more vague answers were enough to show Belami the man was no officer. He had apparently promoted himself from crewman to captain upon retirement. Belami’s next item of interest was the counterfeit coin. When the brandy arrived, he said, “If you’re paying with a guinea, I’d like to see it first. I got a counterfeit coin at Dover—indirectly through you, sir. You might have had contact with the infamous Jalbert gang. Do you remember where you got this guinea?” He showed Styger the coin.

“What’s that you say?” Styger exclaimed, and looked around in alarm. “A counterfeit coin?” He looked so worried Belami took the notion his money was scarce, and the loss of a guinea a matter of some importance. Belami paid for the brandy himself and said, “Could you describe the man you got this guinea from?”

“Why—I—I really don’t recall. How do you know it came from my pocket?”

“You were right in front of me at the desk this morning. Do you recall where you got the coin?”

Styger shook his head. “I was in a game of cards last night with half-a-dozen gentlemen. Tall and short, dark and fair—it might have come from any of them. Why do you ask, sir? Are you a government agent?” He looked askance at Belami’s elegant jacket.

“Oh, no, just a concerned citizen.”

“Ah. Well, as I rooked you, let me buy the coin back with genuine money.”

“I’d prefer to keep it,” Belami said, and turned the conversation to other topics.

It wasn’t the brandy that did the mischief. Belami rather thought it was the man’s pipe tobacco that was turning his stomach queasy. When the ship gave a lurch that sent their drinks sloshing to the table, Belami rose and said, “I’m going to see how my friend’s making out. I left him in the cabin nursing a bout of seasickness. Nice talking to you, sir.”

“My pleasure. Do you mind if I have a look at your newspaper?” he asked, as Belami left it on the table.

“Help yourself. It’s pretty wet from that spilt brandy.”

“It’ll soon dry,” the captain said, and picked it up.

By the time Belami reached his cabin, he scarcely had the strength to open the door. He lay on his bunk, wondering why he had ever left firm land.

On the other side of the ship, the duchess of Charney was asking herself much the same thing as she huddled into the blankets. Deirdre Gower, on the other hand, was as lively as a cricket. It was the first time she had ever left England. Europe spread before her like a fairyland. Paris, Venice, Rome. She’d come home a world-weary sophisticate, dropping phrases in foreign languages. She’d meet princes and potentates—perhaps she’d even have a few affairs.

When she returned to London, dripping with the glamor of foreign travel and wearing risqué gowns, she’d smile condescendingly on Lord Belami and whatever provincial lady he had married. Then he’d be sorry. He’d be trotting at her heels like a pup, and she’d dismiss him carelessly.

“Deirdre, bring the bucket!” the duchess called, interrupting her niece’s reverie. And Deirdre brought the bucket.

Chapter Two

The crossing that could take three hours under optimum conditions took eight. The duchess made her influence felt at customs and was rushed through with no problem. She had been thoroughly briefed half a century before and knew the Silver Lion was the best posthouse. It was to this place of faded elegance that she took her niece.

“I’m reduced to a shade after that wretched crossing,” she complained. “We shall have a bite to eat and go up to bed.”

Deirdre dressed with care for her entrée into cosmopolitan society. A very dashing gown of deep blue silk exposed her arms and shoulders to whistling drafts as the ladies descended to the dining room but created quite a stir amidst the oglers.

“If your vanity has been satisfied by the admiration of this gaping crew, you might put this nice warm shawl on,” the duchess suggested, placing a decrepit mauve shawl around her niece’s shoulders.

Deirdre kept it in place till the meal was served, knowing that once her aunt was involved in fork work, she’d spare no notice for anything else.

Pronto was detained at customs. “I know I had that curst passport in my pocket,” he said a dozen times, but a dozen searches didn’t produce it. He finally had to send his valet to open the trunks and root about till it turned up, carefully marking his place in Plutarch’s
Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans,
which he’d been reading all winter.

“I’ll carry it for you,” Belami said impatiently when they were finally released, and put Pronto’s papers with his own.

Night had fallen when they left customs. A damp, cold wind whistled through the streets. “There isn’t a carriage to be had,” Belami said. “We’ll head straight for the Hotel d’Angleterre. It’s the best place. We can hire a carriage there for the trip to Paris.’’

The rooms at the Angleterre were all filled. “We’ll have to make do with the Prince of Orange,” Belami decided. There, too, they arrived too late. “Damme, it looks as if we must stay at that fleabag, the Silver Lion.”

“If we don’t find some food soon, my stomach will collapse,” Pronto complained. “It’s been empty so long it thinks my mouth is sewed shut.”

As Pronto spoke only garbled French, it was Belami who went to the desk to arrange accommodations. This left Pronto free to scout out the dining room. The first person he saw was the duchess of Charney, sitting like a ghost at the table. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and a strange ringing invaded his ears. “By jingo, I’m seeing things. I’m weak with hunger.” He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Now he was seeing double visions. Deirdre Gower sat beside her aunt, eating what looked like a very tasty ragout. His mouth watered, but even hunger didn’t divert his thoughts. What the devil was Charney doing here? She was supposed to be at Fernvale, sick as a dog. The old liar—it was all a ruse to break off the wedding. His next problem was whether or not to tell Dick.

When they went upstairs to view their rooms, Pronto hung about Belami’s door, nibbling his thumb in a way that alerted his friend to trouble. “What’s amiss, Pronto?” he asked.

“I was just thinking, Dick, as a hypo what-do-you-call-it question, you know. What would you do if Charney and Deirdre was here?”

Belami’s lips clenched and a flash of lightning sparked from his eyes. “I’d leave.” Pronto thought of the ragout and the search for another hotel in the miserable wind. “Why do you ask? Are you trying to spoil my appetite?”

“No, no. Nothing of the sort.”

Belami frowned and began to dress, wondering if Pronto was ill. As soon as he left Belami, Pronto shot back downstairs like a bullet. He knew he was becoming nearly as clever as Dick, and his next Machiavellian inspiration proved it. He had a “complimentary” bottle of wine sent to Belami’s room, and insisted they try it before dinner. When at last they entered the dining room, Pronto flashed a glance at what he mentally called “the scene of the crime” and saw with a rush of relief that the table was vacant.

“By Jove, this is something like.” He smiled broadly and strode forward. “
Table pour deux, monsieur.’’
With a knowing look at his friend he said, “Time to start parlaying the old bongjaw.
Vin et viande—
that’s what we want.”

The wine, when it arrived, was a remarkably good Beaujolais. It would be a crime to destroy it by unpleasant news, so Pronto put off telling his tale till after dinner. In the comfortable haze of two bottles of wine and a postprandial brandy, the problem eased to insignificance. A clever rascal like himself could keep them apart.

“We’ll leave early tomorrow,” he told Dick. “Lost out on a decent hotel by dragging our feet. We’ll check out of here at seven and nip over to the Angleterre for breakfast and hiring the carriage.”

“The Tour du Guet should be worth a look while we’re here. It’s thirteenth century.”

“Then it’s too old to bother with. Bound to be falling apart. We’ll nick straight off to Paris.”

“If you like,” Belami agreed, but he knew Pronto’s tardy habits and didn’t expect to see him at seven. They dawdled over coffee and brandy, enjoying the babel of foreign conversation around them and the unusual details of dining in a foreign country. At ten, they had sat long enough and rose to retire.

At the bottom of the stairs, they stood aside to allow three ladies to descend. Belami noticed they were speaking English and said “Good evening,” with a smile that explained his forwardness. Fellow countrymen in a strange land automatically formed a freemasonry against the natives.

Smiles were returned as the group passed. The party was composed of two young ladies and one older—mother or chaperone. The older lady was tall, gray-haired, and thin. It was at the daughters that Belami looked more sharply. The younger was blond-haired and blue-eyed, small but buxom with a childishly round face. She shyly averted her eyes as they passed.

Belami hadn’t much interest in wilting violets. It was at the older, taller one that he continued looking. Her raven hair reminded him of Deirdre. Except for the blue eyes, she bore little resemblance to the other girl. She met his gaze boldly, as an equal. He liked those statuesque ladies with bold eyes. She had a prominent nose, well-shaped, and a firm chin.

He lingered a moment belowstairs, noticing that the chaperone was having difficulty making herself understood by the clerk. He advanced and introduced himself. “I speak French. May I offer to act as your interpreter?” he inquired politely.

“Why, thank you, milord.” The chaperone smiled gratefully. “I am trying to inquire for a carriage to Paris for tomorrow.”

“It’s the Hotel d’Angleterre you must go to. I’ll be going there myself tomorrow morning. I’d be very happy to make the arrangements for you, Mrs.—

“Mrs. Sutton, and these are my daughters, Elvira and Lucy,” she said, indicating the elder first.

“Miss Sutton, delighted,” Belami said, with his best bow.

The haughty beauty curtsied stiffly and gave him a scathing glance. This lack of encouragement intrigued Belami. They remained a few minutes talking. Mrs. Sutton announced that she was taking her girls on an educational trip abroad. “My Elvira is artistic,” she explained.

Belami used it as an excuse to observe the haughty Elvira. He wasn’t imagining the flash of anger in her beautiful blue eyes. They were a deep blue, much prettier than Lucy’s. “Then I expect you’ll be stopping at Florence,” he said.

“We mustn’t keep the gentlemen, Mama. Thank you for your assistance, Lord Belami,” Miss Sutton said in a firm voice, and taking hold of Lucy’s arm, she turned to ascend the stairs.

“Thank you so much,” Mrs. Sutton repeated. “I shall be awaiting word here tomorrow morning regarding the carriage.”

“Good-looking gels,” Pronto remarked a moment later. “But we’ll not cozy up to ‘em till we’re out of Calais.”

“Why not?” Belami asked. “I never knew you to spurn a lady’s advances, Pronto. Lucy was rolling her eyes at you.”

“No, at you. If you’d stopped mooning at the other one long enough, you’d have noticed. No time to be chasing women.”

“That’s part of the reason we’re here, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s the reason we’re going to Paris and Italy. You’ve got to keep your nose clean in Calais.” The poor devil wouldn’t get a wink of sleep if he told him about Deirdre before morning. They began climbing the stairs, talking as they went.

“Are you worried that the customs bogeyman will come after you?” Belami joked.

“That’s it.” Pronto leaped on this excuse. “I didn’t like the sharp eyes of him. Could open an oyster with a glance. Regular gimlets. We’ll be up and out of here at seven o’clock.”

The walls of the Silver Lion were thick. No more than a murmur penetrated to Deirdre’s room as the gentlemen passed, laughing and talking. Something in the tone of the voices, also the firm tread of one, the shuffling gait of the other, reminded her of Dick and Pronto. But then everything reminded her of Dick. He’d never put up at a wretched old place like this. How different this trip would be had she come with him on their honeymoon. She wouldn’t be in bed at ten o’clock, listening to her aunt snoring. They’d be out, seeing the city. And afterward, they’d come home together. She wouldn’t be lying all alone, with a hot tear trickling down her cheek.