Little Coquette (7 page)

“I did not choose spinsterhood, goose,” Nessie said, horrified. “The gentleman I loved did not care for me, and I could not care for the few gents who proposed to me. I would have married in the twinkling of a bedpost if the right man had asked, and been better off, too. I regret every day of my life that I did not marry and have children. What else is a woman put on earth for, but to have a family?”

“There are plenty of other things a lady can do—good, useful things. Helping the poor, expanding her mind.”

“Does marriage prevent her from doing that as well? Marriage doesn’t mean one has to store her brain away in cotton wool and let her husband think for her. That was not Mary Wollstonecraft’s meaning. You may be sure she married—and not wisely either. The trick is to marry the right sort of gentleman.”

Lydia considered this and asked, “What sort do you mean?”

“The sensible sort who does not treat you like a child. Now, enough of that for the present. What will you wear to the party?”

Lydia held up a blue taffeta gown that was poorly cut and badly trimmed. “I brought this evening frock with me.”

Nessie looked at it and said, “Oh yes, that would be fine for a lecture. Pity you hadn’t realized there was to be a party, or you would have brought a fancier gown.”

When she stood in front of the mirror, Lydia had a sinking sensation the blue gown would look dowdy beside the gowns of the other ladies at the party. Even at home it had caused very little stir. She assured herself it didn’t matter in the least. It was superficial to worry about such things, but still the frock looked dowdy. She could see it in Nessie’s eyes, and she saw it again in Beaumont’s when he arrived for dinner.

To add to her chagrin, Nessie’s gown was extremely stylish. With her black hair in a chignon and pearls at her throat, she looked sophisticated and nearly beautiful, and made Lydia feel lumpish. She noticed Beaumont gazing in admiration at Nessie over dinner. The two of them kept up a bantering conversation, half of which flew over Lydia’s head.

Of course, Beaumont was too polite to say anything about her own toilette, but as soon as dinner was over and they left for the party, she said in an aggrieved voice, “You need not look at me like that. I didn’t know we would be attending a party or I would have brought a different gown.”

“I see nothing amiss with the gown,” he said politely. “If I betrayed any dissatisfaction, it is that scowl you wore that caused it.”

“It is the gown that caused the scowl, so it amounts to the same thing.”

“Try to talk sense to a woman! There is as fine a piece of sophistry as I have heard this age. It might ease your mind to learn men don’t give a brass farthing about a lady’s gown, Lydia. I couldn’t tell you a single outfit Miss Lawrence wore last Season, but I could describe her sooty eyelashes and her pearly white teeth and her dimples to a nicety. Lovely eyes she had. Blue, but with little flecks of silvery gray in them. I never saw such eyes.”

This detailed praise of Miss Lawrence did not improve Lydia’s temper one whit. “Is Miss Lawrence a lightskirt?” she enquired demurely. “All those dimples and sooty eyelashes sound quite like one of Prissie’s sketches.”

“I hardly think the Duke of Arnprior would marry a lightskirt. Miss Lawrence nabbed him, and she had only ten thousand dowry. That usually buys no more than a baronet. Of course, Miss Lawrence’s beauty is priceless.”

“What does a duke usually cost?”

“Twenty-five thousand is the customary sum.”

“Then Miss Lawrence’s beauty is not priceless. It is worth fifteen thousand pounds.”

Beaumont gave a reluctant chuckle. “You have a good head for ciphering, Lydia. I think you would have hammered out a good bargain at the Marriage Mart.”

“No doubt, but I chose not to auction myself off to the highest bidder.”

To tease her, he said, “Pity,” and shook his head, as if he were personally disappointed to hear it.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed her head flew around to look at him. He expected some argumentative response, but she just sat, thinking. Nessie regretted not having married. What if she came to regret it, too, when it was too late? Marriage to the right gentleman did not preclude living that full mental life she aspired to.

At the party, Lord Farnsworth seemed to like Lydia despite her blue gown. When she smiled and fluttered her eyelashes at him to test Beaumont’s theory, he looked quite besotted and asked her if he might call the next afternoon. Due to the exigencies of her mission, she had to decline. Sir James Harcourt also expressed an interest in calling. All the attention left her in a strangely euphoric mood, and reinforced that Beaumont knew something of the world. She told herself none of this masculine attention meant a thing. She might remain single, but still it was comforting to know that gentlemen found her attractive, that she could marry if she wished. But it was disconcerting to learn that men, who ruled the world, were such fools as to be blinded by an insincere smile and a pair of fluttering eyelashes.

The party was so enjoyable that when Beaumont joined her at eleven-thirty and suggested rather brusquely that they should leave if she could tear herself away from Farnsworth, she was not at all eager to go.

“They will be serving supper in half an hour,” she said.

“And we shall be enjoying lobster patties and champagne while Dooley walks off with the Dürer forgeries. I wager that is what he was looking for at the inn.”

“They wouldn’t fit in the bandbox.”

He assumed an air of indifference and said, “You stay here, if you like, and enjoy the party. I’ll run along to Maddox Street and come back for you later.”

“No! No, he is my papa. I’ll go with you, but I don’t see what difference half an hour makes.” She pouted and added, “I am just in the mood for champagne.”

“Then stay,” he said grimly.

They left at once.

“It was a lovely party,” she said, as they drove at a smart clip toward Maddox Street. “Lord Farnsworth is very charming, is he not?”

“Yes, charming,” he said stiffly. “And well to grass, too. Not that his fortune would be of any interest to a determined spinster.”

“Oh, of course not. I was merely discussing his personality. Spinsters have friends, you know. I don’t plan to retire to a convent after all.”

“I should hope not! A flirting nun would be scandalous.”

“I was not flirting!”

“You behaved little better than a coquette.”

“I had to do something to distract attention from this horrid gown.”

“Rationalizer!”

As she was not sure what the word meant, she just tossed her head and looked out the window. They could see as they drove toward Prissie’s house that no lights burned in her flat. Beaumont told his coachman to drive around the block and return in a quarter of an hour. They went together down the cobbled path to the back of the house. It was dark and frightening at night. Lydia peered into the shadows, expecting someone to jump out and strike her at any moment. When a swaying branch caused a shadow to loom, she moved closer to Beaumont and held on to his arm.

“Afraid?” he asked, grinning.

“Certainly not! The cobblestones are rough. If you were a proper gentleman you would have offered me your arm.”

“If I weren’t afraid of getting my head bitten off, I would have done it. I thought you liked to take care of yourself.”

“I do take care of myself! That doesn’t mean one must ignore the social conventions.”

“Only when it suits you,” he replied.

At the kitchen window, they stopped and exchanged a look. The window was wide open.

“Someone’s been here!” Lydia whispered.

“I’ll go in and have a look.”

She caught at his sleeve. “No, he might still be in there. I’ll go around and tap at the front door. I’ll rattle my nail file in the lock to make him think I’m coming in. He’ll leave by this window, and you can catch him on the way out.”

Beaumont said, “A good plan,” in a brusque way, as if he disliked to admit it.

“I told you I’m not an idiot,” she said, and hurried back along the dark passage, around to the front door. She did as she had said, but no one scampered out the back window.

When she rejoined Beaumont, he said, “It’s safe. No one’s in there—I hope.”

As Lydia was shorter than he, he had to boost her up to the window; then he scrambled in behind her.

“Should we light a lamp?” she whispered.

“Let us tiptoe about a little first. See if you can find a poker. I’ll take this stick of wood.” He helped himself to a small log from the basket of wood by the stove, Lydia found the poker, and together they walked along the corridor, stopping often to listen for sounds from beyond.

By the time they reached the parlor, they were convinced there was no one in the flat and lit a lamp. First they looked all around the room. As at the inn, the place had been searched. The sofa was pushed aside, the pictures askew.

“The Dürer sketches!” Beaumont cried, and ran toward the bedroom.

The search here had been more detailed. The bed-coverings had been ripped off, drawers hung open with clothing tumbled to the floor, but the Dürer sketches were still in the folder.

“That’s odd!” he said. “I was sure this was what he was after.”

“I told you—”

“I know. They wouldn’t fit in the damned box.”

“You mean bandbox.”

“Damned bandbox is what I mean.”

“There is no need to fly into a pelter, Beaumont. I begin to think we must take the bull by the horns.”

“Unfortunately, the bull has fled, taking his horns with him.”

“Talk to Papa, I mean. Prissie told him about Dooley. He must know what this is all about.”

“I’ll take you home tomorrow, then.”

“No, no. We cannot both leave. You go home and talk to Papa and let me know what he says. I shall stay here and see what I can discover on my own.”

“What can you possibly do here?”

“Keep an eye on things,” she said vaguely.

Beaumont looked at her askance. He didn’t trust that scheming light in her eye. “I can hardly ask Sir John the necessary questions. He’ll know I’ve been prying into his private life, reading his billets-doux. It is none of my concern, and so he would tell me in short order.”

“I certainly cannot ask my own papa about his mistress! He’d box my ears and send me to my room.”

“Then we have reached an impasse.”

Lydia stood a minute, deep in concentration. “You mentioned Dooley’s name in Prissie’s address book. Were there any other names that looked promising?”

“Promising?” he asked. “There was no entry that said ‘dangerous man,’ or ‘murderer.’ “

“There is no need to snap my head off. Did any name occur frequently? We might be able to trace them and—and learn something,” she said.

“She used only first names for the most part. There were no addresses, just names.”

“Hmmm. You said Dooley probably met her here. If that is so, then the neighbors might know something about him.”

“Yes, that’s true. I’ll drop by tomorrow and see if I can strike up an acquaintance with one of the other lightskirts.”

“Drop by where?”

“Here. These flats are very likely all filled by the muslin company. When they move in, the other occupants have a way of moving out.”

“We shall come back tomorrow morning, then.”

“We?” he asked, and laughed. “If you think I plan to introduce you to a parcel of lightskirts, you are very much mistaken, Lydia. I shall come alone, and let you know what I discover.”

Her heart pumped faster at this overbearing speech. “What time will you call? On me, I mean?” she asked coolly.

“Five-ish. The girls tend to sleep till noon or later. Give me a couple of hours to gain their confidence. I should have something by five.”

Lydia opened her lips to object, then closed them again. It was clear Beaumont planned to take over, leaving her out of all the excitement. Furthermore, if he discovered anything truly scandalous, he would keep it from her. It was kind of him to have brought her to London, but now that she was here, she would do a little work on her own.

“Very well. Thank you, Beaumont,” she said, and they left, again by the kitchen window.

Beaumont climbed out first to help Lydia out, and catch her when she landed. He hoped for a little flirtation when he held her in his arms. She seemed in a mood for it tonight, to judge by her behavior at the party. She was not in the mood for flirting with Beaumont, however. He twirled her around in the air when he caught her. “You’re light as a feather,” he said, to make her aware of his strength.

“Put me down!” she said angrily. “You nearly bumped my head on that tree.”

As the tree was some five yards away, he said, “What a big head you have!” and put her down with a thump.

When he delivered her to her front door, he said, “You might want to write your mama a note explaining that you will be staying another day. If I get a line on Dooley, as I hope, you will want to be here. I’ll discuss with you what is best to be done.”

“Yes, do keep me informed, Beaumont.”

“What will you do during the day?” he asked.

“A pity I refused to let Farnsworth call.”

“You could drop his sister Maggie a note. You ladies enjoy visiting the shops.”

She, being a mere lady, was to idle away her time shopping at Vanity Fair while he, the gentleman, attended to the more important matter.

“Perhaps Nessie would like to go,” she said, in a very civil voice. She thanked him again and went into the house.

Beaumont stood a moment on the curb, frowning. Lydia was proving a more complicated lady than he remembered. She claimed no interest in marriage and flirted her head off with Farnsworth. She cut up stiff when he tried to flirt with her, and had been suspiciously acquiescent to his continuing the investigation alone on the morrow. He had expected an argument about his going alone to Maddox Street. Apparently she realized it was totally ineligible for a young lady to visit lightskirts. Or perhaps that prudish side of her disliked the notion. In any case, he told himself, he was glad she would not be there to hamper his activities—though actually she had helped once or twice with the details.