The Bachelor List (20 page)

“It's my father. He tells us he's taking delivery of a new Cadillac tomorrow afternoon. But we can't let him keep it,” she said simply. “He has very little patience and if it causes him the slightest inconvenience he'll give up on it in disgust. We have to find a way to fix the engine so that happens.”

“Dear God!” he exclaimed, hooting his horn at a cow that was wandering slowly across his path. The animal kicked up its heels at the strident sound and ran for the open field across the lane. “You and your sisters are planning to sabotage your father's new car?”

“In the interest of his safety, yes,” Constance said with a sweetly innocent smile. “Better a damaged car and a live parent than the reverse.”

“And you want me to help you?” He was incredulous, and yet it seemed entirely in keeping with what he had learned about the Honorable Misses Duncan since they'd first swum into his ken.

“If you wouldn't mind. It is in a very good cause. Life and death, really. We'd do it ourselves but we don't know much about engines. As yet,” she added.

“As yet,” he muttered. “Perhaps you'd like to drive us home.”

“Oh, I'd love to. May I?” Constance turned sideways in her seat, her eyes shining. “I've been watching you, and it doesn't look that difficult.”

It wasn't once you'd mastered the gears, Max admitted to himself. But he wasn't about to admit that to Constance. “I don't think it's something that would come easily to women,” he stated. “They're not mechanically minded and the gear changes are quite complex.”

Constance gave a crow of laughter. “Why did I expect you to say anything different? Just wait and see, Mr. Ensor. Women will be driving these things before you know it.”

“And in the meantime, on your own admission, you don't know much about engines,” he reminded her. He wasn't prepared to contest her statement, since he was beginning to get the suspicion that if society was peopled by women like Constance Duncan and her sisters, there would be women behind every steering wheel in the country.

“No,” she agreed. “Which is why I am so humbly asking for your help.”

“And how am I supposed to help?” He kicked himself for asking the question. It was only going to lead him into trouble.

“We thought that after Father takes delivery and after his first run, then when he stables it, or whatever it is you do with motorcars in the mews, we could fiddle with it so that when he next took it out it would be unreliable.”

“And when is this operation to take place?”

“Tomorrow night.” She looked across at him. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“For sabotage?”

“That's harsh.”

“But true.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “He'll be so thrilled with the motor after his first run that he'll want to take it out the next day, and we'd like it to break down on him just far enough from the city for it to be incredibly inconvenient. He won't want to drive it after dark the first day, so once he's stabled it tomorrow evening we could do what's necessary. In fact,” she added with growing enthusiasm, “you don't need to do anything yourself. Just tell us what to do. You won't be involved in any way.”

“No, just an accessory after the fact.”

“Don't worry, we won't hand you over to the authorities.”

“And I won't worry about tarnishing my spotless reputation as a Member of Parliament.” He raised his eyebrows in sardonic punctuation.

“Will you help?” Her voice was suddenly serious. “Just tell us what to do.”

“For God's sake, Constance, isn't there a simpler way to achieve your object?” he demanded, fighting the unnerving sensation of slipping fast down an icy slope. “Why do you have to come up with such a devious scheme?”

“Believe it or not, it is the simplest way,” she said. “Father has to decide for himself to give up the idea, he won't listen to anyone else.” She turned sideways on her seat and laid a hand on his arm. “We really need you to help. There's no one else we can ask.”

“Oh, God help me,” he muttered. “All right, I'll come round and I'll tell you what to do.” Even as the words emerged, Max couldn't believe what he was saying. How could he possibly be agreeing to help in such an addled scheme? He should surely be showing male solidarity with Lord Duncan rather than with the man's eccentric daughters. He looked at Constance in exasperation and found something in the glow of her dark green eyes that answered his question. When she wanted to be, Constance Duncan was irresistibly bewitching. No man stood a chance.

“Thank you,” she said with a radiant smile. “Will you come round at about ten o'clock tomorrow night, then? Father will be at his club.”

“I can't promise a time,” he said. “It depends how late the House sits.”

“Yes, of course,” she said amenably. “Whenever it's convenient . . . we'll just wait up for you.” She busied herself retying the ribbons of her hat more securely against the rush of wind as Max increased his speed.

“By the way, what's the name of this potential secretary you're sending me?”

“Henry Franklin. Should he come to the House of Commons next Monday morning?”

He adroitly swung the wheel to avoid a stray dog that had run barking into the road at the sight of the motorcar, and then said, “It would be simpler to send him to my house. I meant to tell you . . . I've found a suitable house in Westminster. I signed the lease yesterday.”

“Oh, that's splendid. Does that mean we might—” She bit off the rest of the sentence in some confusion. Here she'd been telling herself to pedal slowly and now suddenly she was back in the Tour de France.

“It certainly means we could,” he said solemnly. “Should you decide to speed things up a little again.”

Constance bit her lip. “I haven't. It just slipped out. I told you I'm in lust with you. But I'm serious about learning things about each other.”

Max took his eyes from the road for a minute to look at her. There was nothing playful about her at the moment; in fact, he thought she looked somewhat confused. “Let me return the compliment,” he said, and she gave him a quick and rather grateful smile.

“I don't see why we can't gratify lust and a thirst for knowledge at the same time,” he suggested. His wind-tossed hair shone in the sun, and the blue of his eyes seemed even more intense than usual as they rested on her countenance. The sight of him made her knees go weak again.

She cleared her throat. “About this house . . . ?”

“It's furnished. I have the key.” He patted his breast pocket.

“That's convenient. I should be interested in looking at it.”

“That could be arranged.”

“Where were you all day?” Prudence asked as Constance came into her bedroom dressed for dinner.

“Having a picnic along the river at Windsor,” her sister replied. “I came to borrow your topaz earrings. They go so well with this dress.”

“In the box.” Prudence gestured to the jewel box on her dresser. “What about the rest of the day?”

“Max has taken a lease on a house in Westminster.”

“Oh. Objectivity went by the board again, did it?”

“Maybe.” Constance sifted through the box and selected the earrings. “Honestly, I don't know, Prue. I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels. I've never felt like this before.”

“Not even with Douglas?” Prue turned on the dresser stool to give her sister her full attention. It was unlike Constance to express this kind of confusion.

Constance shook her head, tossing the earrings from hand to hand. “No, it was very straightforward with Douglas. I knew I loved him and he loved me. There was nothing . . . nothing oppositional about our relationship. I didn't feel the need to best him all the time. And yet with Max it's as if there's an edge to almost everything we say. I feel I can't let myself be vulnerable . . . let my guard down. And yet he's never done anything to justify that feeling. Only his Neanderthal attitudes about women.”

She shrugged, and fastened the topaz earrings. “Normally I just despise men who hold those views, but it's not possible to despise Max.”

“No,” agreed Prudence with conviction. “One could loathe him, but one certainly couldn't despise him.”

“And I don't loathe him,” Constance said with a resigned smile. “Quite the opposite. It's very confusing, Prue.”

“I can believe it.”

“But on a more positive note,” Constance continued, “I did get Max to agree to see Henry. On Monday at his house.”

“Oh, wonderful.” Prudence turned back to the mirror and took up her comb again. “Amelia sent a note to say that she's arranged for the license, and the wedding is scheduled for next Thursday afternoon at four o'clock at the registry office in Caxton Hall. We're to be witnesses.”

“Always assuming Henry plucks up the courage to get himself here,” Constance said a touch gloomily. “The farther I'm away from him, the more pessimistic I get.”

“Don't be. Chas is confident he'll come. She's never wrong.”

“You have a point. Where is she tonight?”

“Dining with David and Hester at Lady Winthrop's.”

“Ah.” Constance raised an eyebrow. “Matters move along, then.”

“So it would seem,” her sister agreed.

“I also persuaded Max to help us with the motor business,” Constance said, a gleam now in her eye. “Tomorrow night.”

“I don't believe it,” her sister declared. “He's so straitlaced, how did you ever persuade him to lend himself to such a trick?”

“It was surprisingly easy, actually. He tried to resist, but somehow . . .” She gave a blasé shrug. “He just couldn't.”

“You are so wicked!”

“I'm in good company, sister dear. As I recall, this was Chas's idea.”

Prudence acknowledged this with a resigned chuckle and rose from the dresser stool. “Are you ready to go down? Lord Barclay is dining with us.”

“Oh, God help us!” Constance exclaimed. “And I was having such a satisfactory day.”

Chapter 13

I
s that the doorbell?” Chastity sprang to her feet the following evening and ran to the parlor door.

Constance glanced at the clock. It was just ten-thirty. “It must be Max.” She followed her sister out onto the landing, Prudence at her heels. “Jenkins, is it Mr. Ensor?”

“It is indeed.” Max appeared in the dim light of the hall and put one foot on the bottom stair, looking up at them as they clustered at the top of the stairs. “Did I keep you up?”

“No, no, of course not,” Constance said. “Come upstairs to the parlor. Jenkins will bring you a whisky if you'd like. Otherwise we have cognac up here.”

“Or hot chocolate,” Chastity called cheerfully.

“Whisky, thank you, Jenkins,” Max said, and came up the stairs. “Your father's out of the way?”

“Yes. He's been gone all evening. Jenkins has the keys to the motorcar.”

Max's eyebrows lifted. “Your butler knows about this?”

“Oh, yes, Jenkins knows everything about this family. Every dirty little secret we have,” Prudence declared. “He would help us himself but he doesn't know anything about motors.”

Max's eyebrows remained uplifted.

“You look very clandestine,” Constance said approvingly. “Very secretive with that long black cloak. You'll just blend into the shadows.”

“I thought I had better dress the part.” He assumed she had no secrets from her sisters and gave her an unceremonious kiss. Their lovemaking the previous afternoon had been of a rough-and-ready nature, a wild tumble in the deserted house, and he was somehow still in the same frame of mind. She was dressed simply but with customary elegance, in an evening gown of lavender crepe, and he had an urge to rumple her, to pull the pins from her hair, to roll her on the carpet and kiss her senseless. It was not his usual style at all and he found this strange aberration amusing, although puzzling. He put it down to the disreputable if not downright illegal character of the evening's activity.

After an instant of surprise at the salute, Constance offered no resistance to the kiss, and a gleam showed in her eyes, as if she could read his mind and was indulging her own memories.

Her sisters exchanged a glance and moved farther into the room, turning their backs to the doorway. Jenkins came up the stairs with a tray bearing the decanter of whisky and a glass. Without haste, Max raised his head and straightened, moving away from Constance into the parlor. The smile lingered on his mouth and in his eyes, however.

“Did you bring anything to do this with?” Chastity asked, noting his empty hands and clearly empty pockets.

“I don't need anything. Constance said the motor was a Cadillac . . . Oh, thank you, Jenkins.” He took the proffered glass.

“It is, but what's the significance of that?” Constance asked.

“I'll show you when we look at the motor. You need to understand that while I hate to disappoint you, I have no intention of doing damage to that motorcar. It's far too valuable a machine.”

“I quite agree with you, sir.” Jenkins paused on his way to the door.

“Oh, Jenkins, how could you?” Prudence said. “You know how things stand.”

“Yes, I do, Miss Prue, but if there's a way to persuade his lordship to give up the motor without vandalizing the vehicle, then I think we should consider it.”

“Well, of course we don't want to do wanton damage,” Constance said. “What
are
we going to do, then, Max?”

“A little trick with the fuel tank,” he said, taking a sip of whisky and nodding his appreciation. “Lord Duncan knows his single malts.”

“Our father's tastes are as perfect as they are expensive,” Prudence declared. “Only the best of anything comes into this house.”

Max wondered at the caustic undertone to the comment, but he didn't pursue it. He'd already noticed that something was amiss between Lord Duncan and his daughters, but he didn't feel inclined to pry. Maybe as he got to know them better it would come out. Not that he wasn't already well on the way to getting to know them all far too closely for comfort, he reflected dryly. Engaging with them in an act of sabotage at dead of night was as intimate a deed of friendship as he could imagine. It was certainly as close as he wanted to get to the nefarious heart of the Duncan trio. He had the feeling there was very little they wouldn't do if they saw a need, and he doubted they'd have any scruples as to the tools they used to go about it. He had certainly been shamelessly co-opted.

He glanced across the room to where Constance sat perched on the wide arm of a sofa, so casual, so elegant, yet so wonderfully, wildly sensual when the mood took her, and he understood with absolute clarity why he had allowed himself to be so co-opted.

He set down his empty glass. “This is a rather messy operation, and since I have no intention of dirtying my own hands, I'm wondering if you three shouldn't change into something a little less delicate.”

“Oh, we can do that.” Chastity was already heading for the door. “We'll only be a few minutes.”

“How messy?” asked Constance warily. She had the feeling that Max was rather relishing the prospect of standing aside in pristine elegance while they got themselves covered in whatever grease and mess went into a motorcar's engine.

“Very,” he said with a glimmer in his eye that told her she had been right. “And smelly too.” And now he couldn't help a grin of satisfaction.

Reprisal time,
Constance thought with reluctant acceptance. She followed her sisters to the door. “We'll be back in a minute.”

Max poured himself another drink and idly glanced around the room. It was a pleasant, informal parlor, with an endearing shabbiness. He wandered over to the secretaire and his eye fell on a copy of
The Mayfair Lady.
It was hardly surprising to find the broadsheet here since he knew they read it. He turned aside, and then spun back. Something had caught his eye. Something very odd. He picked up the sheet and stared at the date.
Monday, July 31st.
But that was two weeks hence. What were they doing with an advance edition?

But of course it was obvious. They were responsible for it. His earlier hunch had been right.

He heard voices in the corridor and dropped the sheet on the desk and walked swiftly to the window. When the door opened he was innocently looking down onto the dark garden, his recharged glass in his hand.

Constance immediately sensed something different about him. A sudden tension between his shoulders, the set of his head. He turned from the window and said, “What a pleasant room this is.”

“Yes, it was our mother's favorite room, very much her own. We haven't changed anything since her death.” Constance's eyes darted around the room, fell upon the secretaire and the broadsheet lying in full view. How could they have been so damnably careless?
Had he seen it? Should she ask him, mention it casually, and see how he responded?

It was a ridiculous dilemma. She didn't want to draw his attention to something he might not have remarked. Even if he had seen it he might not have noticed the significance of the date. Current issues were to be found everywhere, so finding one here was not remarkable. But if he had seen it and noticed that it was not the current issue, then their secret could be broadcast throughout Mayfair by tomorrow evening if he chose to betray it. He wouldn't do that, of course. At least not without talking to her first. She was sure of it.
Wasn't she?

She walked casually to the secretaire and as casually tidied up the papers on the top. Her gaze flicked across to him but he didn't seem to be aware of what she was doing. Inconclusive, she decided, but there was no time to worry about it at the moment.

“So, are we suitably protected for this dirty work?” Chastity asked cheerfully. “We're wearing our oldest clothes.”

Max regarded them with his head cocked as he considered this. They were swathed so completely in heavy cotton aprons that he couldn't see what they wore beneath.

“We have gloves too.” Prudence showed him the thick cotton gloves. “They're what the housemaid uses to clean the grates.”

“You'll do,” he said. “Let's get on with it.”

Constance led the way downstairs. They took another flight of stairs down into the vast basement kitchen. Three oil lamps stood on the massive deal table.

“There's no gas light in the mews, so we'll have to take oil lamps. Jenkins filled them and trimmed the wicks for us,” Constance explained. She asked doubtfully, “Are you sure we don't need anything? A knife or something?”

“I already told you, you're not going to do any damage . . . not so much as a scratch on the paintwork,” he said, following them out into the small courtyard behind the kitchen. He thought it was like following a trio of Florence Nightingales as they rustled along in their aprons, holding their lamps high. Three very subversive ladies with lamps. How had he possibly found himself in this absurd position?

They crossed the courtyard and went through a gate into the mews. It was in darkness, no lights showing from the coachman's accommodation above the stable block. The smell of hay, horseflesh, and manure was strong in the air and a horse whinnied from the stable as they crossed the cobbles.

“It's in here,” Prudence whispered, turning a key in a double door in the building next to the stable. The doors creaked open and they went in, holding their lamps high. The light fell on a gleaming vehicle, all chrome and brass, and the smell of new leather was stronger even than the stable smell.

“Beautiful,” Max said involuntarily. He ran a hand over the motor's shining hood. “These Cadillacs are magnificent . . . an ideal model for our purposes,” he added.

“Give me a horse anyday,” Chastity declared, setting her lamp on an upturned barrel. “Do we need the keys? Con has them.”

Max shook his head. “We don't need to start it.” He walked around to the back of the car and bent to look underneath. “Good, just as I thought. Cadillacs usually have a tap, so we don't need to siphon.” He stood up. “Now, one of you find a bucket. Constance, feel under here.” Constance knelt on the stone floor and reached a hand under the car. “Just to your left, there's a tap. Can you find it?”

“Yes, it's here.” Her fingers closed over the tap.

“All right. Keep your hand there. Prudence, bring the bucket and position it beneath the tap. That's right. Now, Constance, open the tap. Let the spirit trickle out slowly . . . very slowly, so you can control the flow. No . . . that's too fast. Close it off again.”

“It would be so much easier if you would do this,” she said, gritting her teeth with concentration. Her voice was muffled, her fingers cramping from the strain, her shoulders tight with the awkward position. “You know what you're doing.”

“Oh, no. This is your show. My hands are going to stay clean.” As if in emphasis, he drove them into his coat pockets. “Chastity, you'll need several more buckets.”

“I'll get them from the tack room.”

“What is this stuff, anyway?” Prudence asked, wrinkling her nose as she straightened. She took off her glasses, which had misted over, and peered at him myopically in the shadowed garage.

“Fuel. Motors have to run on something, or didn't you know that?”

“There's no need to sound so patronizing,” Prudence said, replacing her glasses. “As it happens, I'm with Chastity when it comes to a preferred method of travel.” She bent again to the bucket. “Can you manage, Con?”

“I think so. I think I've mastered the flow now . . . if I keep the tap at half cock.”

“All right, that's enough. You don't want to drain it,” Max instructed.

Constance swiftly closed the tap. She stood up, wiping her reeking hands on her apron with a grimace of distaste. “I think I get the point of all this. How much have we left in?”

“Enough for about two miles, I would guess. A motorcar as big and heavy as this won't do more than ten miles to the gallon. But there'll be spare cans stowed at the back for refueling. Probably in a little compartment behind the jump seat.”

Constance found the compartment. “There are three in here.”

“Take 'em out.”

She lifted them out with a grunt of effort. They seemed to weigh a ton. She shot Max a resentful glare, which he either didn't notice or chose to ignore.

“Now pour about half of each one into the spare buckets. But be very careful. It's dangerous stuff, very volatile . . . it doesn't take much to ignite it.”

“How comforting,” Constance murmured. “I suppose you wouldn't consider lifting this damned can yourself?” She heaved the first one up onto her hip.

“Absolutely not. Aren't women supposed to be a match for men in everything?”

“There are some physical facts you can't get around,” she said with a distinct snap. “And being sardonic isn't helping matters.”

“My apologies.” He tried to hide a grin but failed.

“Let me help.” Prudence came to her sister's aid, supporting the can as Constance tilted it into the bucket.

“Chastity, can you find some lamp oil from somewhere?” Max inquired.

“How much?”

“As much as you can.”

“I'll look in the scullery. I believe there's a barrel of it stored there.” Chastity started for the door, then paused, her hand on the latch. “I'm sure I can manage to roll it across the kitchen courtyard without assistance.”