Little Coquette (13 page)

“What? What is it?”

“She made plates for forged banknotes.”

“Forged? You mean Dooley gave me counterfeit money?”

“It seems a suitable payment. Counterfeit money for counterfeit love. The serial numbers are all the same on the fives.” He checked the tens. “Yes, on these as well. I wonder if this is from the lot Eldon was complaining of in the House this morning. That would explain why Dooley is eager to get new plates—probably for different denominations.”

“Oh! That is why he said not to spend it all in one place. And that is what he meant by the distribution! He said the distribution was all set. How clever of Prissie! I wonder how she learned to do it.”

“She had some skill as a forger, or so I assumed from the Dürer prints. It would be more difficult to work on the copper plates, but not impossible.”

“Then she quarreled with Dooley and ran off with the plates. The question is, what did she do with them?”

“I doubt she left them behind when she went to Kesterly,” Beaumont said. “She would know Dooley would be looking for them.”

“He searched every place she had been. The Nevils’, where she kept Richie, the inn at Kesterly, as well as her flat here. Where would she have put them for safekeeping, I wonder?”

They stood a moment, looking at the forged bills. One possible answer occurred to them both at once. “You don’t think—” Lydia said, as Beaumont exclaimed, “Sir John!”

“But she would never tell Papa what she was doing.”

“She wouldn’t have to. She might have asked him to hold on to a parcel for her. A smallish, heavy parcel.”

“If she gave it to him, it is at Grosvenor Square. He would never take anything belonging to her to the Hall.”

They extinguished the lamps, locked the door, and went out into the street, where Beaumont’s carriage was just turning the corner. “Do you see any sign of Dooley?” Beaumont asked, looking around.

“No, and even if he sees us, he’ll just think I’ve accepted your patronage,” Lydia said unconcernedly.

Beaumont looked at her and shook his head. Lydia Trevelyn was not the prude he had taken her for. In the carriage, she turned to him, grabbed his arm, and gasped.

“Beau! I’ve just thought of something! There is a smallish, heavy parcel in Papa’s office! I saw it on his desk. I even picked it up, but it was too heavy to contain billets-doux, so I didn’t pay any heed to it. What shall we do with the plates? Should we turn them over to Bow Street? Prissie is already dead, so they cannot hang her.”

“They would be interested to learn what Sir John was doing with them.”

“We’d have to do it anonymously. That would fix Dooley’s wagon!”

“It wouldn’t help Prissie, and it wouldn’t put Dooley behind bars either. I think we should use the plates to catch him.”

“I do feel sorry for Prissie, but avenging her death is not my top priority. I have to think of Papa. She was not only a lightskirt and a criminal, she used Papa to hide behind. Imagine if the plates were found in his house. He’d be ruined. We should just throw the plates down a well. That would be the least troublesome way to be rid of them.”

When the carriage reached Grosvenor Square, they went into the house. “Is my aunt home yet?” Lydia asked the butler.

“Not yet, Miss Trevelyn. It’s only eleven-thirty. She is usually out a little later than this.”

“Thankyou, Blake. Wouldyou make us some tea, please?” she said, to be rid of him.

As soon as he was gone, she rushed into her father’s office. The smallish parcel sat on the edge of the desk. She snatched it up and began pulling at the strings. Inside was a small box of heavy cardboard. Her breath came in short pants as she lifted the lid. She looked at the contents, blinked, and looked at Beaumont.

“Well?” he asked, stepping forward to see for himself.

“It’s a clock,” she said.

Beaumont took the box, removed the clock, and began to examine it.

“The plates aren’t inside it, Beau. It’s the little French boudoir clock from Mama’s bedchamber. It stopped running a month ago. Papa brought it to London to have it repaired. He either forgot to take it home or it has come since he left. What a take-in.”

She gave a weary sigh, her shoulders sagging. She looked ready to bawl.

Beaumont felt a rush of some tender emotion. “That’s not to say the plates aren’t here somewhere in the house,” he said bracingly.

“That’s true!” she said, brightening. “And the likeliest place for them to be is either here or in his bedroom. We’ll look here first.”

They began pulling out drawers, opening cabinet doors, and peering under the bed. It didn’t take them long to learn the parcel was not in the study.

“His bedchamber,” Lydia said, and headed for the door.

They met Blake, just carrying the tea tray into the saloon. Lydia just glanced at it. “Oh, you have brought plum cake. How nice, but do you know, Blake, Beaumont was just saying he would like some bread and butter and cold mutton. Would you mind terribly?”

Blake bowed his obedience, set the tray on a table, and left. They immediately ran upstairs to Sir John’s bedroom. It was more difficult to search. Besides the toilet table, the desk, the bed, and the clothespress, there was the sitting room, with countless places to hide a small box. By the time they returned belowstairs, breathing hard and empty-handed, the second tray had been delivered.

“I don’t know what Blake must think,” Lydia said, and gave a nervous laugh.

As the words left her mouth, the butler appeared at the archway. “Will there be anything else, Miss Trevelyn?” he asked politely, but his darting eyes took in her breathless state and her toilette, which had become mussed from her frantic search. He frowned heavily at her escort.

“That will be all, thank you,” she said primly, but with a laughing eye at Beaumont.

“He thinks we’ve been carrying on,” Beaumont said. “We had best be careful, or Sir John will be demanding to know my intentions.”

“I’ve already promised I would jilt you, if worse came to worst.”

“It is not very flattering to hear myself spoken of as the worst,” he said, picking up a sandwich while Lydia poured the tea. He watched with interest as she daintily poured, with her white wrist gracefully curved in the approved fashion. It seemed homey, the two of them having tea together.

She gave him a saucy smile. “I wager you receive enough flattery from the ladies. It will do you good to realize not everyone would jump at an offer.”

“Of course not every one. Just most of them,” he riposted. “Some misguided ladies have taken the unaccountable notion they want to be spinsters.”

“You or no one, eh? Such conceit,” she said, taking up another sandwich.

She glanced across the room to a silver cigar humidor on a side table. It was about twelve inches long, nine wide, and six deep. She rose and went to lift the lid. Beaumont watched. He noticed she didn’t walk as stiffly as she had before. Not so wiggly as when she was being Nancy, but there was a noticeable difference. She was more relaxed, more womanly, more interesting. . . .

The humidor held half a dozen cigars, but no plates. She looked around the room and began to consider other spots. A pair of large China vases sat on either side of the fireplace. She peered in. Seeing what she was doing, Beaumont rose and looked in a bombe-fronted chest in a corner and other possible spots.

In one dark corner stood a high Queen Anne cabinet holding a selection of small china Limoges ornaments. Lydia dragged a chair to it and climbed up to peer on top of the cabinet. “Let me do that,” Beaumont said, when he saw what she was doing.

The movement of the chair and their talking diverted them from hearing the front door open.

“Don’t bother. There’s nothing here but dust,” she said, wiping her hands.

Beaumont lifted his arms to assist her from the chair and she placed her hands on his shoulders. Her waist felt small and warm beneath his fingers. He lifted her bodily from the chair, while her skirts swung about her ankles. When he placed her on her feet, he kept his hands about her waist as he gazed down at her, and she looked up at him with a question in her eyes. The air seemed hushed as they continued looking. They were in this peculiar position when Nessie entered the saloon.

“Good gracious! What are you doing, Lydia?” she asked.

“Beau was just helping me down from the chair,” Lydia said, pointing to the chair and blushing like a peony. “I was looking for a ball on the top of that cupboard.”

“What would a ball be doing up there?”

“Beau threw it up. Oh, years and years ago,” she added, as she had no ball to produce. “We were just talking about the old days. You remember my birthday party, here in London some years ago. Beau and his mama came. He thought he was much too mature for such childish goings-on and threw the ball up there for an excuse not to play with me.” She stopped then, as she realized she was rambling.

Nessie was happy to hear the young couple were reliving their youth. She peered at Lydia and said, “My dear, is that rouge I see on your cheeks? And what on earth have you done to your hair?”

Lydia’s inventiveness failed, and Beaumont stepped in to rescue her.

“Did Lydia not mention my little impromptu party this evening was a masquerade?” he said.

“No, she didn’t. What did you go as, Lydia—a lightskirt?” Nessie laughed merrily.

Beaumont and Lydia exchanged a quick glance and bit back their laughter. “An actress,” Lydia said. “We just wore dominoes. It wasn’t a very elaborate party.”

“You got home early.”

“I’m afraid it was a very boring do,” Beaumont said. “And how was your evening, Miss Trevelyn?”

“Marvelous. I do wish John had been there. Everyone was asking about him, and sending their congratulations. Lady Jersey was hinting that Almack’s could use another hostess. Imagine!”

“Quite an honor,” Beaumont said, feigning enthusiasm for this dullest of the dull social clubs, which maintained its aura of exclusivity. Princes and generals were spurned if they did not adhere to the club’s strict standards of dress and deportment.

Sensing that she had interrupted an intimate moment, Nessie said, “You had best say good night to Beaumont now, dear,” and left them to make their farewells in privacy.

“Your talent for deceit is slipping,” Beaumont said, when they were alone. “Who would play ball in a saloon?”

“You would.”

“It wasn’t a ball. It was just a piece of paper I squeezed up when you insisted on playing some childish game.”

“Now I remember! It was tic-tac-toe. And you only squeezed up the paper because I was beating you. And you didn’t bring me a present either.” She gave a sniff of offense at this ancient slight.

“I didn’t know it was your birthday! Mama dragged me along.”

“You always knew my birthday was the ninth of May,” she said with a pout.

When she realized she was behaving childishly, she blushed, then tried to hide it with a scowl. “You had best go. Nessie will be waiting to hear me come up.”

“That is one of the scourges of being a spinster,” he said nonchalantly, but he peered to see if the warning had hit home.

Annoyed by this reminder, she took his arm and propelled him into the hall. “Blake will see you out. Good night, Beaumont. Thank you for the very boring masquerade party.”

“You are entirely welcome, Miss Trevelyn. Would you care to accompany me on a very boring drive tomorrow afternoon?”

“Won’t I see you in the morning?” she asked.

“Such eagerness! I am flattered. At this rate, worse may come to worst sooner than I fear— thought.”

He picked up his curled beaver, put it on at a jaunty angle, and left, smiling.

Lydia found, after she was in bed, that she was not in the least tired despite her busy day. She had experienced such a confusion of new thoughts and met people so different from her usual friends that she felt her life had turned upside down. She had finally met a group of women who were free of the usual social strictures, only to discover they were still ruled by men and were immeasurably worse off than herself.

How childish her complaint seemed when placed beside the hardships of girls like Sally and Mary and even Prissie Shepherd, whom she had never met, but felt she was coming to know indirectly. When she thought of Prissie taking such risks to provide a good home for her son, she felt she had misjudged the woman. What had she meant to Papa? What had he meant to her?

It seemed impossible that she could have loved a man old enough to be her father. No, he had been a necessary evil, the best of a bad lot. The older gents were nicer to you, Sally had said, but making them happy was a job, not a pleasure. It sounded a perfectly wretched life. No, wonder Prissie had turned to helping Dooley with his counterfeiting scheme. It would free her from her other profession and provide a good nest egg for her son.

The greatest trial of her own pampered life was that kind, well-meaning gentlemen wanted to wrap her in cotton wool. It was frustrating, but compared to putting up with the vagaries of a man who cared for nothing but his own enjoyment, her life was one of ease and luxury. And when the gentleman tired of his girl, he left her. If she happened to be lumbered with his child, that was her lookout. They didn’t want to hear about the consequences of their selfishness. Of course, not all gentlemen were so hard-hearted. No doubt some of them truly cared for their mistresses and treated them not only well but lavishly.

She could not forget her papa’s indiscretion, but she was perilously close to understanding his position, and to understand is to begin to forgive. It must have been lonely for him in London, away from his family. After a hard day’s work, naturally he would want some relaxation and easy female companionship. It was no new thing for a man to stray from the vows of matrimony, and at least he had been at pains to protect his family. He had chosen a modest mistress and apparently treated her well, except in the matter of Richie.

If she ever married—not that she necessarily would—she would behave quite differently from her mama. She would go where her husband went and watch out for his welfare. If only her mama were more like Nessie, all would have been well at home. Nessie was the kind of wife a politician needed. A wife need not devote all her time to house and home and embroidery. Her husband ought to be her major concern.