The Other Daughter (18 page)

That wasn't an answer. Rachel scowled at Simon. “I'm hardly notorious.”

“Aren't you?” There was a decidedly cat-and-canary gleam to Simon's curved lips. “You might want to acquire a copy of today's
Daily Yell
.” He pushed away from the wall, the urbane mask once more in place. “Ah! Cece, darling. I'd begun to fear you'd fallen prey to the blandishments of Dr. Radlett.…”

 

ELEVEN

There was a newsstand at the corner of South Audley Street, the day's headlines emblazoned on white pasteboard.

Rachel passed by the murders, the communist plots, the rising prices, and flipped, instead, straight to the society column. “The Man About Town,” the byline read. She supposed it wasn't entirely surprising that Simon wouldn't use his own name. It was hardly an exalted profession, gossip columnist.

The first few paragraphs were what one would have expected. Peers' daughters making their curtsies and dancing on tables; flower shows and bottle parties. Elizabeth Ponsonby's name featured prominently throughout, along with Brian Howard, Stephen Tennant, the Lygon sisters, and, in the thick of it, Cece Heatherington-Vaughn. Rachel's cousin.

Rachel brushed that thought away and plunged resolutely on, heedless of the effect of newsprint on the pale leather of her gloves.

It was three paragraphs down before she spotted her assumed name. She nearly missed it at first. The piece began innocuously enough:
It was a lively crowd at Dean Street on Wednesday night
. The usual names came into play. Bons mots from Brian Howard. Ennui and diamond bracelets hanging off the incomparable Cecelia Heatherington-Vaughn. Evelyn Waugh had been sacked from the
Express
, leaving him free to devote himself to Miss Evelyn Gardner: would they wed and raise a brood of little Evelyns?

And there it was, halfway down the page.

The party was enlivened by the addition of the elusive heiress Miss Vera Merton. Usually found yachting off the South of France or riding one of her many horses at her stepfather's hacienda in Argentina, Miss Merton blazed onto the scene in flame-colored chiffon with gold accents, carrying an ebony-and-gold cigarette holder rumored to have been gifted to her by a certain very important personage whose name cannot, for obvious reasons, be repeated here. Although she would neither confirm nor deny the rumor, it is common knowledge that the gentleman in question is but one of her many conquests; she still wears, on occasion, the heirloom ruby gifted to her by none other than the Rana of Kildapur, who gave his cong
é
to all his concubines in the hopes of enticing Miss Merton to take up sole occupancy in his harem.

When not flying her aeroplane over the plains of Kenya or breaking the hearts of minor rulers, Miss Merton delights her circle of acquaintances with her accomplished performances on the clavichord.

The edges of the paper crinkled beneath Rachel's gloved fingers. The clavichord? She wasn't even sure what a clavichord was. An instrument, presumably. Preferably a blunt one.

“Miss? Oy, miss!” Rachel was recalled to herself by the insolent call of the stallholder. “This ain't a lending library.”

“Here.” Rachel thrust a shilling into his hand and retreated with the paper firmly wedged beneath her arm.

She didn't feel particularly heartbreaking at the moment. Sweat dampened her hair beneath her close-fitting hat and made her frock cling to her back. No rana in his right mind would give her a second glance. And a certain very important personage? Rachel didn't know whether to laugh or swear.

It was absurd, all of it. How was she meant to pretend to anyone that she had been to or seen any of those places? Kildapur, Kenya—even the South of France. She knew Paris, or at least the bits of it one might visit on a half day, or with three sulky charges in tow, and she knew rather small patches of Normandy and Provence. Very small patches. As for horses, she had sat on the back of a rather sullen pony as a small child, but that was the last acquaintance she had had with the breed.

One couldn't even contemplate the clavichord.

If the porter thought anything of her choice of reading material, he didn't comment, although the ink from the paper was leaving dark smudges on the white bits of Rachel's dress. He sent her up in the lift with a smile and a nod, as though she had every right to be there, as though she had always been there.

And why shouldn't he? thought Rachel wildly. Compared to scaling the Himalayas or whatever else it was that Miss Merton was meant to have done, a flat in Mayfair was shockingly commonplace.

Letting herself into the flat, Rachel dropped the paper unceremoniously onto a table, stripped off her ink-stained gloves, and made straight for the telephone.

“The clavichord?” she said, without preamble, when Simon picked up the phone.

“And good afternoon to you, too, my pet. I presume you picked up a copy of the paper?”

He sounded so damnably pleased with himself. Rachel took a deep breath and counted to ten before saying, in what she hoped were reasonable tones, “You might have consulted me.”

“Would you have preferred the virginals?” Without waiting for her to respond, Simon went on, “You're not likely to encounter a clavichord. If you do, all you have to do is disclaim modestly. Most people are only too delighted to be spared a recital. I doubt you'll be pressed upon to perform.”

Rachel gritted her teeth. “That is not the point.”

“Was there some other item to which you formed an objection?” asked Simon, sounding rather abstracted. There was a rustle of fabric in the background.

“Yes! To all of it. What am I meant to do when people ask me about the raj of—wherever it was?”

“Kildapur, my love. The Rana of Kildapur. You needn't worry about him. He's quite gaga, although he does have some quite lovely jewels. His hobby is toy railways.”

“I see,” said Rachel, in carefully controlled tones. “And my aeroplane?”

“You've given that up. What's the fun of flying over England when you've seen elephants stampede? Use a little imagination, darling.”

Under other circumstances, Rachel might have been amused by the sheer effrontery of it. But this was her life Simon was playing with. What if someone thought to look into any of the details of that absurd story?

If she were discredited … the doors of Ardmore House would be well and truly closed to her. She could feel her father receding into the distance.

Her hand tightened around the receiver. “I wish you had used a little less.”

“The point was to make you a sensation—and, after this, you shall be.”

“Until someone decides to look into any of it,” countered Rachel.

“By cabling to Kenya? Even if they did, no one likes to be left out of the know.” Simon's voice was briefly muffled. He must, Rachel realized, be dressing. “There'll be half a dozen people to swear they saw the notorious Miss Merton doing high kicks on a billiard table at the Muthaiga Club—and no one will want to say them nay.”

“You sound very sure.”

“Fortune favors the bold.” More rustling from the other end, then Simon's voice, clear again. “I'll call for you at nine. We have an engagement at the Cave of Harmony.”

The last thing Rachel wanted was another night out and about. “I'll be at home—practicing the clavichord.”

As if she hadn't spoken, Simon went on. “There's to be a treasure hunt of some sort. Bobbies' helmets and an olive from the Ritz. Bring a warm wrap.”

As if she were an actress, on a stage of his devising. “I've already met my—” She caught on the word sister. “I've already met Lady Olivia. I don't see the point.”

“How quickly they forget.” Now that they were away from Heatherington House, Simon's voice was maddeningly cheerful. “The point, my sweet, is that we had a bargain. An entr
é
e for you, copy for me.”

Rachel kicked off her uncomfortable shoes, her abused toes sinking into the soft white carpet. “Can't you just make it up? Besides, I thought I was meant to be elusive.”

“Not that elusive.” There was a pause, the familiar snick of the lighter. “Nothing comes for free. Consider this the cost of your lodging.”

It shouldn't have come as a shock. She'd known those were the terms of the bargain. But put that way … “That sounds like blackmail.”

“I prefer to call it rent,” said Simon. “Be ready at nine.”

Slowly, carefully, Rachel replaced the receiver. The large drawing room was light and airy, sunlight streaming through the long windows, glinting off new chrome and old silver. Her hat sat discarded on the glass table, her keys in a bowl by the door.

There was no reason for it to feel, suddenly, like a cage.

All she had to do was walk away. Rent, he called it. She could leave at any time. Abandon the rich dresses, the golden fillets. She could find a reasonably priced bedsit in Holborn. No one would miss her. Simon was only sponsoring her because she had bullied him into it.

And she would be left where she had been before. Wondering.

Rachel dropped down onto the white sofa, facing the picture of the willowy woman cradling the little boy in the white smock, with his mischievous face and deceptively fair curls.

She hated the idea of being played like a puppet, but she couldn't walk out, not now.

These were, whether they knew it or not, her people, too. It was a strange thought. Rachel tested it, like a sore tooth. Her aunt, her cousin. Her sister. Simon had provided her the introduction—and, yes, if she were being just about it, the lodging and the means. For that, she would play his game. But only to a point.

It was time to start taking matters into her own hands. And she thought she might know how.

With new determination, Rachel crossed the room to the telephone. The operator knew the number; there was a slight delay while a maid chased down the corridors, time enough for Rachel to rehearse her opening line.

By the time a hand snatched the receiver and a voice said breathily, “Hullo?” Rachel was ready.

Rachel took a deep breath and plunged in. “Cece? Darling! It's Vera. Vera Merton. Might I persuade you to lunch with me?”

*   *   *

Rachel was heavy-eyed when she left for lunch the next day.

From the Cave of Harmony, they had gate-crashed a party in Mayfair, although it hardly seemed to count as gate-crashing when most of their group appeared to have been on the guest list. Rachel had caught a brief glimpse of her sister, dancing neatly and properly with Mr. Trevannion, before Rachel's party had whisked away again, in an impromptu chase across London, piled into cars and taxis, everyone leaning out the windows, shrieking and laughing, before ending the night with strong black coffee and a bacon butty at the stands where the taxi men bought their breakfasts. By that time, it was dawn.

She had long since lost Simon somewhere in the scrum—hadn't seen him, in fact, since the beginning of that chase across London—but had, in the process, progressed to first-name terms with a sporting man with very pink cheeks, an earl's daughter named Mamie, and a very drunk young man just sacked from his job at a boys' school, who vomited copiously out the window somewhere past Trafalgar Square, but cheered up enormously at the sight of a bacon butty.

They had all, cheerfully and unquestioningly, accepted Rachel as what she claimed to be. She wasn't sure whether to be flattered or alarmed.

There was a small brown paper parcel just outside of Rachel's door. Moving very gingerly, she reached down to pick it up. Within was a stack of letters, all addressed to Rachel Woodley at Ivy Cottage, Netherwell.

Rachel hadn't arranged for her mail to be forwarded. She rather thought she knew who had.

Frowning, Rachel leafed through the pile. A letter from her mother's solicitors. An answer to a query about a bedsit. Notes of condolence from her mother's former pupils. Those, Rachel set aside to read and be answered properly. And, below them, four envelopes inscribed in Cousin David's familiar spidery hand.

“My dear…”
began the first.

Rachel thrust it to the bottom of the pile. He could “my dear” her all he liked. It didn't change the fact that he had lied, and would have gone on lying if he'd had the chance.

Would she have been happier not knowing?

Rachel shoved that thought aside as immaterial. The three following letters grew more terse and more anxious. He had rung the post office to find that she had gone. The only forwarding address was a postbox in London. He was concerned for her. He felt responsible. He trusted she wouldn't do anything rash. There were matters she needed to know—

Rachel's lip twisted.
Now
she needed to know? That made a change.

The last note had clearly been written in haste. He was going down to London to view some documents at the British Library. He would be staying at his club. If she cared to call on him … any time … He would be at the Marlborough for the next fortnight.

Rachel's face softened. Dear Cousin David. She wondered who was taking his tutorials while he was away. He couldn't say right out that he had come to look for her. But he would be at his club if she needed him.

For a moment, she considered it. But what would he tell her? That it had been her mother's wish? That she should leave well enough alone?

No. Rachel drew on her gloves with unnecessary force. There was no one she could trust in this except herself.

And so it was that the fashionable Miss Vera Merton found her way to the Ritz, where Miss Cecelia Heatherington-Vaughn, the scandal of the season, was already waiting.

Cece lifted a hand in greeting as Rachel sailed into the dining room. “My dear, my head!” she said, without preamble.

She already had a cocktail in front of her, in a particularly noxious shade of green. It matched the bright hue of her dress.