The Bride Hunt (17 page)

“There’s so much stuff in here . . . I’m sure a lot of it’s out-of-date.” She reached into the depths of the safe for the last few pieces of paper, then closed the safe door. Constance let the painting swing back into place.

Chastity put the pile of papers on the cherry wood desk that stood in the bay window looking out onto the walled back garden. “Shall you go through these, Prue, while Con and I go through the desk drawers?”

“Yes. We’re looking for anything that resembles a legal contract. Any piece of paper that has a law-firm heading . . . or something that sounds like one.”

“Jaggers, Tulkinghorn, and Chaffanbrass,” Constance said, sitting at the desk and opening the top drawer.

“You’re mixing your authors,” Prudence observed, gathering up the pile of papers liberated from the safe and crossing to the sofa in front of the fire. “Chaffanbrass was Trollope, not Dickens.”

“I know,” Constance said. “They just had a nice ring to them.” She drew out a folder from the drawer. “So when are you seeing our barrister again?”

“Tomorrow.” Prudence leafed through her pile. “At some godawful hour. I’d like to have something concrete to show him.”

“I wonder why he’s not meeting you in his chambers,” Chastity said, on her knees in front of the cupboard in the side of desk. “If he’s preparing you for the witness stand, why’s he coming to fetch you in his motor?”

“I have no idea,” her sister said. “The man’s a mystery to me.”

“Of course it is Sunday,” Constance pointed out.

She looked up, aware that Prudence wasn’t listening. “What is it? Have you found something?”

“I don’t know,” Prudence said slowly. “There’s a note here, signed ‘Barclay.’ No date.” She turned it over. “It refers to ‘
our agreement.
’ ” She frowned. “‘As per our agreement of last week, the payment schedule should be advanced to take advantage of the present favorable market. I am advised by the principals that interest rates will rise in the next month to our disadvantage.’ ”

“But it doesn’t say what the agreement is?”

“No, Chas. Nothing specific. But it seems that he’s asking for money. I wish there was a date on it.”

“Let me see.” Constance came over to the sofa. Prudence handed her the note. “Well, it’s not recent,” Constance said. “The paper’s got an old stain on it . . . here, at the bottom.” She indicated a brown smudge. “See how it’s faded?”

“The paper’s a bit yellowed too,” Chastity observed, peering over her sister’s shoulder. “And the ink’s faded.”

“We’d make very good detectives,” Prudence said. “So, let’s assume that this is about three years old, about the time of Father’s investment in the Trans-Saharan Railway. We’re talking interest rates, payment schedules . . .”

“But no indication of what for,” Constance said.

“Perhaps they had a verbal agreement,” Chastity suggested. “If Barclay was up to something fraudulent, maybe he didn’t want anything on paper.”

“Surely Father wouldn’t agree to something so huge without something in writing?” Constance said.

“Wouldn’t he?” Prudence responded glumly. “A man who’d believe in a chimera in the Saharan desert?”

No one could find an argument for that. “Let’s just go through everything thoroughly, just to make sure we don’t miss anything,” Prudence said, folding the note carefully. “I’ll give this to Gideon tomorrow. Maybe he can see a way to use it.”

At the end of another hour, she looked at the piles of paper with something like despair. “That’s it,” she said. “We’ve gone through everything with a fine-tooth comb.”

“There must be something else we can do.” Chastity threw another shovel of coal on the fire.

“The bank,” Prudence said suddenly. “We have to get access to his bank records.”

Constance said from her perch on the arm of the sofa, “The bank manager must know you because you do all the dealings with the household accounts, maybe he’d be willing to let you look at Father’s personal records.”

Prudence shook her head. “Not Mr. Fitchley. He’s a real stickler for the rules, and I’m sure he’d think an unauthorized examination of a personal account would be unethical.” She paced restlessly to the window and stood looking out on the rain-drenched garden, drumming her fingers on the sill. “But maybe there’s a way to get Father to sign an authorization for me,” she said slowly.

“How so?” Chastity asked.

Prudence turned from the window and stood resting her palms on the sill behind her. “He signs things I put in front of him,” she said, sounding so reluctant, it was almost as if the words were being dragged from her. “Bills, orders for the household, those kinds of things. Usually he doesn’t bother to look at them.” She watched her sisters as comprehension dawned.

“It’s so deceitful,” Chastity said with a tiny sigh. “I really hate the idea.”

“We all do, love,” Prudence said. “But I don’t see any other way. I’ll write an authorization and slip it into the middle of a pile of other papers and catch him this evening before we go to Con’s. He’ll have had a good lunch with Barclay, and by then he’ll probably have had a whisky while he was dressing for dinner. He won’t give anything a second glance.”

“It is horrid,” Constance said, “but I don’t see we have any choice. Once you get the authorization you can go to the bank on Monday morning.”

“I’ll write it now.” Prudence went to the secretaire and selected a sheet of paper headed with her father’s crest. She took her pen and inscribed, “To Whom It May Concern.”

Her sisters sat in silence until she had finished and blotted the ink. “Tell me if that seems official enough.” She held it out to them.

“It might be even more convincing if we could get Father’s seal for the envelope,” Constance said, going over to the desk. “He keeps it in this drawer, I think.” She opened the top drawer. “Yes, here it is. He doesn’t usually lock it away, does he?”

Prudence shook her head. “Not as far as I know. Why would he? He’s not expecting it to be misappropriated.” There was a touch of irony in her otherwise dull tone. Then she shook her head again, as if dismissing her bleak thoughts. “We’re doing it for his benefit, after all.”

“That’s exactly right,” Chastity affirmed. “This is a case where the end definitely justifies the means.”

Prudence took the paper back. “I’ll put together some other papers, then, and get it over with this evening.”

“I’d better go home,” Constance said, rising to her feet. “Since this is my first official dinner party as Mrs. Ensor.”

“Oh, what happened last night, at Downing Street?” Prudence asked, suddenly remembering. She’d been so taken up with their own concerns she’d forgotten to ask if anything significant had come out of the Ensors’ dinner with the Prime Minister.

Constance smiled. “This whole business put it right out of my head. After the ladies had withdrawn, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars, the Prime Minister offered Max the Ministry of Transport.”

“That’s wonderful,” her sisters said in unison. “He must be delighted.”

“I think he’d have preferred the Foreign Office or the Home Office,” Constance said with a grin. “Maybe even the Exchequer, but you have to start somewhere.”

“I think it’s amazing to get a Cabinet post after only one year on the back benches,” Prudence said.

“Yes, so do I. And he really does seem quite pleased with himself. He was still smiling when he woke up this morning.”

“Well, we can celebrate this evening,” Chastity said, accompanying her sister to the door. “Eight o’clock?”

“Thereabouts,” Constance said, kissing her sisters before hurrying down the stairs.

Prudence dressed for dinner early and then waited in the parlor until she heard her father’s tread on the stair. She popped her head out. “Are you going to dress, Father?”

Lord Duncan paused on his way to his dressing room. “Yes. I won’t be very long. What time are we expected?”

“Eight. Cobham will bring the barouche at quarter to,” she said. “When you’re ready, I’d like you to sign a few orders and bills for me. There are some papers to do with the estate at Romsey, a couple of tenant roofs that need to be replaced. I’d like to get them in the post on Monday.”

Lord Duncan nodded agreeably. “I’ll be down in the library in half an hour.”

Prudence returned to the parlor and picked up the pile of papers she had assembled. For the tenth time, she riffled through them. And as before, the one she wanted hidden seemed to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. But that was only because she knew it was there, she told herself.

Chastity came into the parlor, also dressed for the evening. “We’ll do this together,” she said, seeing her sister’s strained expression. “Let’s go down to the library and wait for him. Jenkins will bring us sherry, you look as if you could do with some Dutch courage.”

Prudence nodded. “I need something, Chas.” They went downstairs arm in arm. Jenkins was arranging some late chrysanthemums in a copper vase on the hall table. He turned to greet the sisters. “Where would you like sherry, Miss Prue?”

“In the library,” Chastity answered. “Lord Duncan will be joining us there in a few minutes.”

“I’ll bring the whisky too, then,” he said, standing back to survey his flower arrangement with a critical air. “I don’t know why it is, but I don’t seem to have your touch, Miss Chas.”

“You don’t need a touch, Jenkins,” Chastity said with a smile, coming over to the table. “With chrysanths, all you need to do is pick them up, like so . . .” She lifted the flowers out of the vase. “And then drop them back and let them find their own arrangement. See?” She suited action to words and the big-headed blooms fell into a natural composition.

Jenkins shook his head. “I’ll fetch the sherry.”

Chastity laughed and followed her sister into the library. Prudence laid the papers on the table and stood back, looking at them. Then she approached them again, squared them off, and patted the top sheet. “It doesn’t look natural,” she said. “Perhaps I should just give them to him, put them in front of him when he sits down. What do you think?”

“I think that if you don’t relax, Prue, you’re going to make him suspect something the minute he walks in.” Chastity leaned over the desk and spread the papers out a little as if they’d just been dumped there. “Where’s his pen? Oh, here it is. I’ll put it beside them. Now we’ll both sit down, and when he comes in you can gesture to them very casually and ask him to sign them.”

“Why are you so calm?” her sister asked, sitting on the sofa.

“Because you aren’t,” Chastity replied. “Only one of us at a time can panic.”

That produced a smile from her sister just as Jenkins came in with a tray. Lord Duncan followed him. “Ah, good, Jenkins, whisky. You read my mind.”

“Father you always have a whisky at this time of the evening,” Prudence said lightly. “Jenkins doesn’t have to be a mind reader.” She rose from the sofa with a casual air. “The papers I need you to sign are on your desk. There’s a pen there, I think. Oh, thank you, Jenkins.” She took the sherry glass from the tray and was relieved to note that her hands were quite steady. She resumed her seat on the sofa.

Lord Duncan took a deep draught of his whisky and moved behind the desk. He didn’t bother to sit down, merely picked up the pen and began to sign the papers. “Did you know that Max has been offered Secretary of Transport in the Cabinet?” Prudence asked swiftly as he set aside one signed order form and his eye ran down the paper beneath.

“Is this the farrier’s bill?” he asked, picking it up and holding it close. “Don’t recognize the name.”

“No, he’s new. He took over from Beddings,” Prudence said. “Did you hear what I said about Max?”

Lord Duncan scrawled his signature on the paper and set it aside. His daughter’s letter of authorization was now uppermost. It seemed to Prudence that it glared up at her father, trying to attract his attention. “Max,” she said. “They were dining at Downing Street last night and the PM offered him a Cabinet post.”

Her father looked up. “Well, how splendid,” he declared. “Always knew he was going far. Constance did very well there. Transport, did you say?” As he spoke he scribbled his signature on Prudence’s sheet.

“Yes,” Chastity said, moving to the table. She leaned over and scooped the signed papers to one side, sliding the letter of authorization under the pile. “Constance joked that he’d have preferred the Exchequer or the Home Office, but of course he’s very pleased.” She straightened the remaining papers for him. “Just a couple more.”

“Oh, yes.” He resumed his task. “Better take something to celebrate this evening. How about a bottle of that Coburn’s, the ’20 vintage, Prudence? Ask Jenkins to bring one up.”

“Yes, Father.” Prudence went to the door, aware that her legs were like jelly and her palms wet. “I think there’s only one bottle left.”

Her father gave an exaggerated sigh. “Always the way these days. Whenever I ask for something special, there’s only one bottle left . . . if we’re lucky enough to have any, that is. Never mind. Bring it up anyway. It’s not every day a man’s son-in-law is given a Cabinet post.”

Prudence left the library and stood for a minute in the hall, leaning against the closed door while she waited for her heart to settle down. She’d been frozen in her seat the minute the incriminating paper had been revealed. But it was done . . . over. Thank God for Chastity’s quick thinking. Now all she had to do was visit Mr. Fitchley at Hoare’s Bank on Piccadilly. There must be something there. There
had
to be.

Chapter 11

T
here.” Prudence pressed her father’s seal into the melted wax on the envelope that contained the bank authorization. She glanced out of the library window. It was barely dawn and only she and Chastity were up in the silent house. Lord Duncan was snoring sonorously after a late night of bridge and substantial quantities of Coburn’s 1820 vintage.

“Let’s go back to bed,” Chastity suggested, hugging her dressing gown closely around her.

“You go, I’m wide awake now,” her sister said, returning the seal to its drawer. “I’ll make some tea and read a little. I have to be ready to leave at eight-thirty anyway.”

“It’s barely six now,” her sister pointed out, yawning. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Eight o’clock,” Prudence said, closing the drawer gently. She glanced around to make sure everything was in its place, then extinguished the gas lamp and followed Chastity from the room.

In the house on Pall Mall Place Gideon too was up and about at the crack of dawn. He rarely slept more than a few hours a night and he found himself even more wakeful than usual. Prudence Duncan wouldn’t leave his mind. He felt challenged by her, as if she herself was a case he had to win. He had not seen her the previous day, but he had not stopped thinking about her . . . or rather, he corrected himself swiftly, about the case and her role in it. Part of his job as a barrister was to coach witnesses. And since Prudence Duncan was the only witness he was going to have, he couldn’t afford any mistakes.

He ran hot water into the basin in the bathroom and began to shave. Lathering his face with slow circular movements, he contemplated the day he had planned. He had decided that their next meeting should be in different surroundings, somewhere removed from the official background of chambers and law books. Even his library in his own house was more like an office. He wanted to see what she was like when she was relaxed, in a more social frame of mind.

He drew his razor through the lather, frowning at his reflection in the mirror. He wanted to catch her off guard. Would she make a better witness if she was not on the defensive, not combative, not challenging? He had provoked this response from her, and he was obliged to admit it had not always been intentional. There was something about the way they reacted to each other, the proverbial oil and water, which he didn’t quite understand because he couldn’t control it. However, he had certainly intended to see how she would respond under pressure. He knew now from his own bristling reaction that a judge and jury were not going to sympathize with her in that guise.

He washed off the lather, burying his face in a steaming washcloth with a little sigh of pleasure. He peered closely in the mirror to make sure he hadn’t missed a spot, before stepping into his bath. He slipped down beneath the surface of the water, wondering if the day he had planned for them would achieve his goal.

He wanted, no, needed, to soften her reactions, persuade her that she would have to appeal to the male responses in the courtroom, appeal to masculine sympathy. Convincing her of that necessity would not be an easy task, he was under no illusions on that score. She would initially see it as weakness, as evidence that her case was not just if she had to resort to acting. But if he could get her in the right frame of mind, one where she quite naturally lost her combative edge, then perhaps he’d have a better chance. So long as he didn’t inadvertently put her back up. She was as prickly as a blackberry bush.

Nevertheless, he was feeling in a relatively optimistic frame of mind when he went down to the breakfast parlor. Sarah, in riding dress, was consuming a mound of scrambled eggs. She greeted him with a sunny smile. “Milton said he was bringing the motor around. Are you going somewhere, Daddy?”

“For a drive in the country,” he said, bending to kiss the top of her head.

“There’s deviled kidneys for you.” The girl gestured to the covered dishes on the sideboard. “Are you going for a drive on your own?”

Gideon helped himself to kidneys. “No,” he said. “With a client.” He sat down and took up the newspaper.

“With Miss Duncan?”

Now, how had she guessed that? He gave his daughter a rather exasperated glance over the top of the
Times.
“As it happens.”

“But you don’t usually see clients on a Sunday. And you don’t go for drives with them.” She drank from a cup of milky coffee and took a piece of toast from the rack.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Sarah spread butter and then marmalade on her toast. “Do you like Miss Duncan?”

There was something deceptively casual about her tone. Her father shrugged and turned to the editorial page with a decisive crackle of paper. “That’s hardly to the point. She’s my client.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” The question was muffled by a mouthful of toast and marmalade.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

She swallowed, dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “But do you?”

Gideon folded the paper beneath the leader. “No,” he said definitely, without taking his eyes off the printed page. “That is not a word I would use to describe Miss Duncan.”

Sarah looked disappointed. “I think she is.”

“Well, you are entitled to your opinion.” He set down the paper and looked across at her, his tone softening. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Oh, I’m going riding in the park with Isabelle this morning. Then she’s coming back here and Mrs. Keith is making us Sunday lunch of roast chicken with blancmange for pudding. Yesterday we went to Madame Tussaud’s exhibition.” Her eyes gleamed. “There’s a real chamber of horrors there, with an actual French guillotine. Well, it’s wax, of course, but they say you can’t tell the difference.”

Gideon grimaced slightly. “I expect you could if you were about to lose your head to it.”

Sarah laughed. “You’re so silly, Daddy. Of course you could tell. The wax one would bend.”

He laughed with her. “Did Mary take you?”

“No, Isabelle’s governess. Mary’s gone to visit her sister for the weekend. Did you forget?”

“I suppose I must have done. Hadn’t you better get ready?”

Sarah pushed back her chair and came round to him. He put an arm around her waist and hugged her to him. “Don’t fall off your horse, will you?”

She laughed again at the absurdity of such an idea, and kissed his cheek. “What time will you be back?”

“I’m not sure exactly. It’s quite a long drive, so probably after you’re in bed.” She nodded cheerfully and danced her way from the room. Gideon, still smiling, returned to his kidneys and newspaper in peace.

The black Rover drew up at the curb punctually at eight-thirty that morning. “He’s here,” Chastity said from the parlor window where she’d been watching the Square. “Driving himself, no chauffeur. He looks very dapper this morning. You get your things and I’ll run down and tell him you’re on your way.” She whisked out of the parlor.

Prudence went to her own bedroom, where she studied her reflection for a moment in the cheval glass. She smoothed the long jacket of her mulberry-colored wool suit over her hips and shook out the pleats of the long skirt, which was edged with darker red braid. She was aware of a certain nervousness, a slightly swifter heartbeat than usual, and her pale complexion was tinged with rose. Why she should feel so unsettled, she couldn’t imagine. Gideon Malvern didn’t alarm her.

Did he?
Ridiculous idea. She’d handled him perfectly well from their first meeting, and while their preparation session today might be a little unpleasant, she knew that it was only intended to armor her against the much greater unpleasantness she could face in court. But she couldn’t help wishing her sisters were coming along for the ride. There was strength in numbers. But what on earth did she need strength for, she demanded crossly of herself. He was just a man. A perfectly ordinary man. She’d been alone with men often enough. And she’d never felt this anxiety on those occasions.

She shook her head as if to dismiss the buzzing of her thoughts, and slipped on the fawn silk-and-alpaca dust coat that would protect her dress from the dust of the road, and tied a heavy silk veil over her felt hat. She could drop the veil over her face if the dust was really bad. But where were they going? Why had he come for her in the motor? Perhaps they were just going to his house again and he was being overly polite by coming to escort her in broad daylight. No, she decided. That was not Gideon’s way.

She pulled on her leather gloves, picked up her purse, handkerchief, notebook, and pencil, and Lord Barclay’s note, and dropped them all into the deep pockets of the dust coat, then went downstairs.

Gideon and Chastity were talking in the hall, the front door ajar behind them. He was wearing a wolfskin coat and a flat woolen motoring cap with a visor. He was definitely dressed for something more than a short drive through the London streets.

He turned and smiled at her as she came down the stairs, then the smile vanished. “No,” he said decisively, “that won’t do at all.”

“What won’t?” she demanded, taken aback.

“What you’re wearing. You’ll freeze to death. It’s sunny but it’s cold.”

“But we won’t be in the motor for long?” she protested.

He ignored the hanging question, merely repeating, “You’ll freeze to death. You must have something warmer.”

“The fur, Prue?” Chastity suggested with a tiny shrug.

“It seems so unnecessary. It’s only October and the sun’s shining.”

“If you have fur, I’d really suggest you go and put it on,” he said, making a big effort to sound conciliatory. “Trust me, you’ll need it.”

Prudence hesitated. For a minute she almost laughed, because the effort he was making to subdue his customary imperiousness was so obvious. She was tempted to question it but then decided to honor the attempt. She turned back to the stairs.

The sisters had inherited a silver fox coat, hood, and muff from their mother, as well as three strands of matchless pearls. They shared both jewelry and furs according to whose need was greatest. Prudence took them out of the cedar chest in the linen room, where they had resided throughout the summer, and held up the coat. It smelled faintly of cedar, but unlike the dress she’d worn the other evening, not of mothballs.

She tossed aside the dust coat and slipped the fur on. Immediately she felt invested with an aura of luxury and elegance. It was a wonderfully extravagant garment with a high collar that caressed her neck. The hood fitted closely over her head, hugging her ears, but revealing the carefully arranged russet curls on her forehead. She buried her gloved hands in the muff and decided with a grin that even if she was roasting it was well worth it for the effect. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her she looked stunning. She took a second to transfer the contents of the dust coat’s pockets into the muff and went back downstairs.

Chastity was still in the hall, but there was no sign of Gideon. “You look fabulous, Prue.”

“I know,” Prudence said. “This coat always has that effect, whoever wears it. Where is he?”

“He’d left the motor running and he didn’t want to leave it unattended.”

“Did he say where we were going?”

Chastity shook her head. “I tried to ask but he just said you might be late this evening and we weren’t to worry, you were in safe hands.”

“Ye gods, he’s
impossible,
” Prudence exclaimed. “Does he think women like to be pushed around like that?”

“I don’t think he can help it,” Chastity said, laughing slightly.

The blast of a horn from outside made them both jump. Prudence threw up her hands and Jenkins moved smoothly across the hall to open the door. “I believe Sir Gideon is waiting, Miss Prue.”

“I wonder how you guessed,” she said. She gave Chastity a quick kiss. “I’ll see you later.”

“Good luck.”

Prudence hesitated. “Why would I need good luck, Chas?”

Chastity shrugged. “I don’t know, it just seems that you might.”

Another imperative blast of the horn sounded and Prudence raised her eyes heavenward and hurried outside.

Gideon stood beside the car, one foot on the running board, one hand resting on the horn mounted on the dashboard. His eyes widened as Prudence came running down the steps. “I should really have a horse-drawn sledge and a frozen Russian lake for you,” he observed.

“The horses would have run off by now with that blasted horn,” Prudence said with asperity. “There was no need for that.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he said. “I do try for moderation, but I am a little short on patience, I’m afraid.” He opened the door for her, spoiling the apologetic effect with the unwise addition, “But you’ll get used to me.”

“I’m not sure that’s an overriding goal,” Prudence murmured, stepping into the motor.

“I beg your pardon?” He stood holding the door.

“Nothing,” she said with a sweet smile. “I have a habit of talking to myself. You’ll get used to me.” She tucked her legs neatly under the dashboard.

He raised his eyebrows, closed the door on her, and went around to take his own seat. “Oh, you’d better put these on.” He reached into the back and felt around. “Here.” He handed her a pair of tinted goggles in wide metal-and-leather frames. “They should fit over your glasses.”