Little Coquette (8 page)

Nessie was playing cards with a group of friends when Lydia went inside. She introduced Lydia, who went up to her room very soon afterward. There she paced to and fro, planning how to discover who Dooley was and what business he had with Prissie. She felt the other girls on Maddox Street must be Prissie’s friends. If no one else except their patrons visited them, then obviously the girls would have formed a close group. Those sketches in Prissie’s parlor suggested it. She must talk to those girls. They would not all sleep until noon. She would go earlier, about ten, and see if she could find one of them awake. And when Beaumont came to tell her what he had discovered, she would show him who was the better worker.

Going to Maddox Street required an excuse to Nessie, who would certainly insist on accompanying her if she claimed she was going shopping. After a few moments’ pacing, she remembered a friend, Irene Coltrane, who had come to make her bows. She would say she was calling on Irene.

When all this was settled in her mind, she went to her papa’s bedchamber and looked again at those pictures. She was glad he didn’t have one of Prissie. At least the woman had not invaded the sanctity of his home, even in effigy. She lay awake a long time, wondering how her papa had met the woman, and what wiles Prissie had used to attach him. Was it simply a matter of batting her eyelashes and letting him think he was marvelous? Could men possibly be that gullible? She didn’t think Beaumont would be, but with a memory of Farnsworth and Sir James, she concluded that many men were. It might prove a useful piece of information. At length, she slept.

Luck was with Lydia. The next morning, Nessie told her she had to visit Lady Melbourne regarding an orphans’ charity in which she was involved, but she would be home for luncheon.

“I shall tell Lady Melbourne I cannot stay.”

“Oh no, Nessie. Do stay. Beau will be calling for me in the afternoon.”

“Indeed! I am delighted to hear it. But what will you do in the morning?”

“I had arranged to visit an old friend, Irene Coltrane.”

“I’ll send the carriage back for you, then.”

“Miss Coltrane will send her carriage for me,” Lydia lied. She preferred to arrive at Maddox Street in a hired cab, in case the coachman should report back to her chaperon.

As soon as Nessie left, Lydia dispatched a note home telling her mama she would be remaining for a day or two. She admitted to missing the Coleridge lecture, knowing her mama would be delighted that she had attended a party with Beaumont instead.

It was nearly eleven o’clock by the time she got out of the house and hailed a hansom to take her to Maddox Street. She went to the front door, knocked, and when there was no reply, admitted herself with her nail file. She took a quick look around to make sure the flat was unoccupied before setting to work. The disheveled apartment was just as it had been the night before, which suggested that whoever had searched it had not returned. She picked up the pillows and straightened the pictures.

Even Kesterly had its lightskirts, and Lydia knew they would not be forthcoming to a lady. It was therefore necessary that she become a temporary member of the muslin company. To this end, she went to Prissie’s bedchamber and sorted through her gowns until she found a blue-sprigged muslin that nearly fit her. It was at the back of the clothes-press, somewhat wrinkled and a size smaller than the newer gowns, which suggested it was from a former season.

She put the sprigged muslin on, hung her own clothes at the back of the clothespress, and went to the toilet table. Prissie had taken her cosmetics with her, but there were still some odds and ends to work with. She carefully applied a little rouge to her cheeks. Her coiffure proved more difficult to handle. Her hair was fine and silky and impossible to turn into a lightskirt’s coiffure on short notice. She selected a brilliant red ribbon, tied it around her head, and made a bow at the front.

When she looked sufficiently tawdry, she went into the parlor, planning to call on her nearest neighbor. Before she opened the door, there was a tap at it. Lydia flew into a panic. What if it was Dooley or some other man with evil intent? She was about to run for the kitchen window when a woman’s voice called.

“Is that you, Prissie? It’s me, Sally.”

Lydia stood a moment, calming herself, then went to the door. A pretty girl not much older than herself stood there, peering in with the greatest curiosity. Sally looked like a farm girl, with glossy chestnut curls, red apple cheeks, and friendly brown eyes. It was hard to credit she was a lightskirt, but the cut of her gown and the surfeit of baubles on her wrists and fingers did not speak of the country.

“Is Prissie back yet?” she asked.

“No, she’s not, but do come in. I’m happy to meet you, Sally. Prissie has told me about you.”

“You’d be Nancy, then?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling and ushering Sally in, and wondering who Nancy was.

“I heard you moving about in here and thought you was Prissie come back. Have you seen your sister lately?”

Sister! So that is who Nancy was. “No, but she didn’t know just when I was coming, so I let myself in,” she said vaguely. Sally didn’t think to enquire how she had done this.

“I hope nothing’s happened to her,” Sally said, staring in consternation.

“I hope not indeed. When do you think she’ll be back?”

They sat down on the sofa. “She was going to visit her son for his birthday, but she did say she might stay a few days if he was feeling poorly. That cough of his hangs on so.”

This casual mention of a son sent Lydia’s mind reeling. Was this son her half brother? She wanted to ask a hundred questions, but first she had to learn how much Nancy might be expected to know. If she lived in London, too, then she would know all Prissie’s doings.

“Poor fellow,” Lydia said. “I hope it’s not serious.”

“Just a cold, I wager, but you know Prissie. She thinks the sun rises and sets on her boy. Sir John, Richie, and her art, that’s the sum and total of Prissie’s life. I hope the lad ain’t really sick. It looks bad, don’t it, her staying away so long?”

“Indeed it does. I wonder if I should go to her.” She hoped this might call forth the destination, as indeed it did.

“It wouldn’t take long. St. John’s Wood is only a few miles away. Prissie goes every Sunday. Mind you, it’d cost, taking a hansom.”

St. John’s Wood. Lydia stored up the fact, and as she did so, it occurred to her that a little orphan boy would be waiting to see his mother, who would not be coming back. She pinched her lips to steady them.

Sally gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Never you mind, now, Nancy. Prissie often stays a day or two with the Nevils, just to be with her boy. With his birthday this week and Sir John away, she’s likely decided to stay. That’s what it is, count on it.”

“I daresay,” Lydia said, blinking back a tear. “How old will Richie be on his birthday? I’ve lost track.” She did not lose track of the name Nevil, but put it away for future use.

“He must be nine or ten by now, eh? She bought him that sailor suit he liked so much the year I moved here. Lord, how time flies.”

Lydia wondered if her father was also the boy’s father. Prissie had been under his protection for approximately a decade, so it seemed likely. He would have to take charge of the boy if that were the case. What would he do with him? Would he claim him to be some relative’s orphan and bring him to Trevelyn Hall? Meanwhile, she wanted to discover something about Dooley. As it was possible that Prissie’s sister knew about him, however, she had to tread carefully.

“How’s your ma?” Sally asked, looking around the room at the pictures. One of them was of herself, posing with her finger coyly holding up her chin.

“Fine.”

“Did she like the muslin Prissie sent?”

“Yes, very much.” Lydia took note that Prissie was a dutiful daughter, sending her mama presents.

“That’s not a piece of it you’re wearing, is it?”

“No, this isn’t it.”

“I thought she said pink.”

“This is an old gown of Prissie’s. She gave it to me.”

“You won’t be wearing hand-me-downs for long, Nance. We’ll find a fellow for you, if that’s why you came,” she said, looking for an answer. Lydia nodded, aware that her cheeks were warm with shame. “What sort do you like?”

“Rich,” Lydia said, and gave a nervous laugh. Surely the lightskirts were only interested in money.

“And handsome as well, I suppose!” Sally said jeeringly. “Lord, you’ll be lucky if you get one that don’t beat you. The young bucks are just after one thing, and as soon as they see a girl they like better, they run off and leave you high and dry. When all’s said and done, you’re better off with an older gent. Take Sir John, now.” Lydia came to sharp attention. “He treats your sister like a princess, Nancy. He’s that fond of her. Well, it stands to reason, with a wife like he’s got, that leaves him alone all year, he’s happy to have someone pay a little attention to him.”

“Does he tell Prissie about his wife?” Lydia asked, but almost hoped the answer was negative.

“Only that he’d never leave her, nor do nothing to hurt her or his two kids. He has two kids, a son and a daughter. Not that Prissie ever expects him to marry her. Still, after all this time, it’s practically a marriage, innit?”

“It sounds like it.” Someone to pay a little attention to him. How sad, that her papa had to pay for a little attention.

“I say, Nance, do you have a cuppa tea?”

“There’s nothing in the larder. No milk.”

“Come over to my place, then. My gent brought me a case of wine last night. Good stuff. We’ll celebrate your arrival.”

Lydia was happy to get away, and also curious to see another lightskirt’s abode.

“You’d best lock the door and take the key,” Sally said. “She keeps a spare there, just under the doormat.” The doormat was inside the door. Lydia reached down and took up the key. Sally still didn’t ask her how she had gotten in. Perhaps there was a man who took care of the building.

“Where is her maid?” Lydia asked, thinking this was another lead she could follow.

Sally laughed. “Did she tell you she had a maid? Sir John did get her one, but she said she’d rather have the extra blunt and sweep her own floors.”

Sally’s flat was not so very different from Prissie’s place. It had the same sort of furnishings and decorations, but with woodcuts instead of watercolors on the wall, and a mirror in lieu of the series of tourist plates.

Sally poured them wine, a good claret, and they settled in to continue their chat.

“There’s a do tonight at the Pantheon,” she said. “The place where they have masquerade parties, you know. Why don’t you come along?”

“You’ll be going with your fellow, I suppose?”

“No, I’m meeting Warner there. He’s going to a fancy dinner party at his wife’s aunt’s place first. She’s a baroness,” she said, lifting her nose in the air with her finger in jest.

“I don’t have a domino.”

“Prissie has one about somewhere. She won’t mind you using it. You’ll meet all sorts of fellows at the Pantheon.”

“Will Dooley be there?” Lydia asked in a casual tone.

“Very likely. He’s always hanging around, but you won’t want nothing to do with the likes of him.”

“I know Prissie doesn’t like him much.”

“Lord, she hates the sight of him.”

“What did he do that she dislikes him so?”

“ ‘Twas some business they had going together when she first came to town and didn’t know what he was like. She was with him for a while. I don’t know exactly what it was, but he seems to think she owes him something. Money, I suppose. Your sister squeezes a penny pretty hard before she lets go of it. No offense I’m sure. It’s all because of Richie. She’s saving up to send him to a good school.”

“Won’t his papa help?”

Sally shrugged. “They don’t like to hear about the outcome of their pleasure. It puts them off to mention kids. I know Prissie is footing Richie’s bills herself. Mind you, Sir John’s generous. A real gent. He’d like you, Nance. Where’d you learn to talk so fancy? Papa! Most of us call him Da or Pa. Must be that fine lady you was working for back home.”

Lydia was glad to have her excuse handed to her. “That’s it,” she said, trying to tame her refined accent. “No harm sounding ton-ish.”

“Some of them like it.” Sally nodded. “More wine?” She held up the bottle.

Lydia’s thoughts kept spinning back to Richie. It wasn’t certain that her papa was the boy’s father. If Richie was ten, then he might have been born just before her papa met Prissie. The father might be this Dooley. Sally held up her glass as if to make a toast, but before she spoke, the door knocker sounded.

“That’ll be Warner,” Sally said, and rushed to admit her patron.

Lydia didn’t recognize the name, so she had no fear of being recognized. She heard a murmur in the hallway; then Sally said, “Sorry, sir, Prissie ain’t at home, but her sister’s here. You can have a word with her.”

Lydia stared at the doorway, afraid she was about to be revealed as an impostor. She looked up to see Lord Beaumont staring at her in disbelief. His nostrils dilated, and his eyes glowed like hot coals.

“This here is Nancy Shepherd, Prissie’s sister. This is Mr. Marchant, Nance. He has a message for your sister from her gent.”

“How do you do, Mr. Marchant?” Lydia said, staring at him like a rabbit mesmerized by a snake.

“Miss Nancy,” he said, walking forward and offering his hand. He drew her up from the sofa in a sudden, swift motion. “It will be better if we speak in private,” he said to Sally. “You don’t mind?”

“That’s up to Nancy,” Sally said with a belligerent air, looking from one to the other.

“That’s fine.,Sally,” Lydia said. “We’ll go to my sister’s flat, Mr. Marchant.”

“Come back when you’re finished,” Sally said, with a suspicious look at Beaumont. “We’ll have lunch together, Nancy.”

Beaumont ushered Lydia out the door, with a hand clamped firmly on her elbow.

Lydia’s instinctive reaction was guilt, but by the time she got Prissie’s door open, the guilt had turned to anger. She didn’t have to account to Beaumont for her actions.