The Shocking Miss Anstey (22 page)

I’ve done enough of that, and---‘

‘And you’re fond of Mary? Right. I’ll deal with her.’

‘Then when do we meet?’

‘Dinner, I should think.
Not
at Larkin’s. I’ll call on Mary after breakfast, so you’ll probably be out when I get back, but if there’s anything to report I’ll leave a note.’

‘Where will you be?’

‘Queen Street, perhaps.’ He laughed softly. ‘A last look at Mary Ann. And it’s time I paid respects to little Ann.’

‘Anice, please.’

‘I beg her pardon. A slip.’

‘I think I’ll come with you.’

‘You damned well won’t. Heavens, man! You fight a duel--about Anice--you know Mary’s worried, and when it’s over you rush straight off to Anice,
not
seeing Mary.’

‘That’s not---‘

‘It’s how
she’ll
put it, which is what matters. And could you blame her? Try some thinking--and leave me to call on Anice. I’ll convey your undying devotion.’

‘I didn’t say so.’

‘You sounded like it. Now, is it all clear?’

‘Perfectly. Orders understood. Proceed with all despatch.’

‘Breakfast first, if you please. I can smell muffins now.’

They went to a leisurely breakfast, disturbed only by the discovery, just as they were sitting down, that Richard’s coat had a long jagged tear in the left shoulder, and John, leaning across the table to view it with an experienced eye, pronounced grimly that he had seen that kind of tear before, and rather too often. It was Luttrell’s pistol ball; which showed what the intention had been, whatever he had said afterwards. They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak, and then John pushed ham and a cold pheasant across the table. It was time, he said, for breakfast in earnest.

To walk in the Park that morning was an ordeal. It brought a sense of being watched, of being noticed and whispered about. Men raised hats whom he did not know, and ladies turned hurriedly to look. Captain Curry swooped on him and took ten minutes, for which he was grateful, and then two strangers raised their hats a little stiffly and asked if he knew them. He did not, but he might have done, for they proved to be naval officers, and he remembered that they had been in Larkin’s.

He went back to the hotel for his cake and madeira, and a note was waiting from John. He read it quickly.

Message conveyed. M. much relieved and pretended not. Barford out, officially for walk. Suspect really for news of you.

Suspect also M. drove him to it. Inclined to slap her, and she me. Mutual.

Now for Q. Street and little Ann--no, Anice. See you five-thirty.

John

He -was still savouring that, and wondering what Mary had really said, when another note was brought to him, addressed in a hand he did not know. He was impassive as he ripped the seal.

I learn with dismay that you fought Luttrell in the Park. I am glad indeed of the outcome, but your position is delicate after such an indiscretion. I must suppose you do not appreciate this; so pray call with no delay on:

Barford

He read it twice, not knowing what it meant, or even what the indiscretion was. Duelling, of course, was illegal, but the law was seldom enforced. It would be enforced, perhaps, if sharp practice were suspected, but if an affair between gentlemen conformed to the accepted rules nothing need usually be feared. He read the note a third time. Then he finished his madeira, picked up his hat, and walked round to Curzon Street, where he found Barford similarly engaged with madeira. There was no sign of Mary.

Barford seemed pleased. He waved to a chair, poured madeira, cut a slice of cake, and then leaned back, delicately balancing his glass as he made his opening.

‘I’m glad to see you. Good of you to come so quickly. Mary? Keeping to herself, I’m afraid. John was here, and he may have upset her. And last night, of course. But did you understand my note?’

‘Not entirely.’

‘I feared you wouldn’t. It’s--er--difficult. The law is unsatisfactory, of course. It prohibits such affairs.’

‘But they occur.’

‘Oh, certainly, and I’m not suggesting that you did wrong to go out. It can be a duty for a gentleman. But, even so, it’s a breach of the law, and it’s therefore reckoned proper after such an affair that the principals shall be discreet, leave Town perhaps, and generally keep out of notice for a time. It’s easier then for the blind eye not to see them.’

‘You mean that
I
should leave Town?’

‘I’d have said that in the best of circumstances. But as it is ...’ The touch of asperity in his tone changed to something trenchant.
‘Need
you have fought in a Royal Park?’

‘Royal?’

‘My dear Grant! Do you really not know it’s Crown land?’

‘I haven’t heard so. There are limits to what one hears at sea.’

‘And in the Army, too, it seems. Three soldiers and a sailor, and you didn’t know it between you. Permit me to say that it is so--so much so that the Queen had a thought of walling some of it in, to make the Palace gardens bigger. She had to be told there’d be a riot if she did.’

‘Possibly.’

‘You’re damnably cool about it. Which leads me to suppose you haven’t seen the point. Understand, please, that to fight in a Royal Park is only one remove from fighting in the precincts of a Palace. It’s disrespect to royalty--in this case to the Queen, and she may resent it. Prinny, of course, won’t give a damn. But it’s the Ministers you must think of. They’re on such bad terms with Prinny that they want to stand well with the Queen, and that’s your danger. They may feel forced to prosecute, and if you’ve been in the Park this morning that will make it worse.
Why
did you invite such attention?’

‘Error of judgement, I’m afraid. But I suppose all this must apply to Luttrell too?’

‘Luttrell’s probably out of Town already on his way to Prinny. He’s a friend of Prinny--a sort of amateur coachman to him. Drives him about. Prinny likes it, so he’ll see Luttrell

safe. It’s
you
I’m thinking of, and you must take yourself out of sight for a while. But forgive me. Your glass seems empty.’

Barford leaned forward and carefully filled both glasses. Then he sat back, smiling a little now, as if the difficult part were behind him. His most affable tone returned.

‘You will not, I hope, resent my saying these things? I’ve more than one reason to wish you well. But I really think you must slip out of polite society for a while. Then you will find, I think, that Ministers are very tolerant.’

‘Very well. I’ll accept your advice. For how long, would you think, should I be away?’

‘Most of the winter, I’m afraid. You’ve complicated the affair, and the usual month or so won’t do.’

‘The winter will seem long. Where should I go?’

‘Where you please, so long as it isn’t London--or Brighton. Was that in your mind?’

‘I’ve hardly anything in mind.’

‘But I did hear a tale that a lady is expected to go there.’ The smile was flickering again. ‘My dear Grant, I sympathize--I do indeed--but you must
not
go to Brighton. With Prinny there you couldn’t possibly call it slipping out of notice. Besides . . .’ A touch of hesitation came suddenly back. ‘I don’t know how far it will weigh with you, but you’ll have noticed a little difficulty with Mary last night. You must give your own meaning to that, of course, but she will hardly be pleased if you go off to Brighton at this moment. After all, it does appear that Miss Anstey was the cause of your quarrel with Luttrell.’

‘Say his with me.’

‘By all means, if you think that Mary will make that distinction.’

‘Then I’ve no idea what I shall do.’

‘There is much that you could find diverting. All Europe is open, now we have no war. And at home--is there no place you have wished to see?’

‘Bath, perhaps.’

‘By all means. That’s a mixed society where you can move without attracting notice. And it reminds me--wasn’t there some talk of Cheltenham in the spring?’

‘Yes.’ He had to collect his thoughts to remember this. ‘I’m not sure it was a firm arrangement.’

‘Then shall we call it one? Does it suit you?’

‘What will Mary say to it? I’ve had no word with her.’

‘It’s not a propitious moment. You’ll understand why it isn’t. However . . .’ He had an air now of bringing the talk to an end. ‘I think you may leave Mary to me. I’ll have some help from John, no doubt, and these present troubles will have blown away and been forgotten. Don’t arrive in Cheltenham with your pretty horse-breaker, of course.’

‘Really, sir---‘

‘You may find your thoughts turn that way.’

That was an easy prophecy. His thoughts were very much that way as he walked slowly back to his hotel. He had not seen Mary, and there seemed no chance that he would see her for months to come. He would probably not see Barford either, whose sage advice he had no thought of flouting. These matters of protocol and ministerial behaviour were precisely where Barford was expert. But a winter in something like banishment was not what he had hoped for after the lost years at sea, and his anger began to rise again against Luttrell, who had caused all this and could now fare better as a friend of Prinny. He could at least go to Brighton--and the thought led to Anice, who would also be in Brighton. It was as well that she had lately had enough of Luttrell, whose presence might even get her out of Brighton all the sooner. So what after that?

He came to the hotel, and to his surprise he found John waiting for him, looking impatient and perhaps a little disturbed.

‘Here at last?’ was his greeting. ‘They say you went out again?’

‘A request from Barford. It seems we’ve made a blunder or two.’

He explained it as clearly as he could, and John listened impassively. It almost seemed as if his thoughts were elsewhere. But then he nodded.

‘Sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s my fault.
I
chose the Park to fight in. Or Digby and I did, between us.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it does. But what will you do?’

‘Heaven knows. Bury myself at Bath, perhaps. Unless, of course, I hear from Anice.’

‘She---er--promised it, didn’t she?’

‘Why that tone?’

‘Just something I didn’t like.’

‘What is it? Have you seen her?’

‘This morning.’ There was a pause, and he seemed to be wondering how to put it. ‘I went to see Mary Ann, and I must say
she
was in hand all right.
Quite
the lady’s maid. But Anice was friendly too. Glad to see me, and so on--and I think she really was. We had a very pleasant chat.’

‘But what are you coming to?’

‘Well.. .’ Again he hesitated. ‘Anice had hired a chaise, it seems, to take them to Brighton, so there we were, waiting for the chaise to come, and it didn’t come. A barouche came instead--
very
smart, groom behind, coachman up, everything to wish for--except for the coachman. Can you guess it?’

‘You don’t mean . . . ?’

‘Yes, I do.’ John’s voice hardened suddenly. ‘Luttrell himself, coachy in full style, and he’d done it so well I didn’t know him till he’d jumped down and Mary Ann had the door open. But Anice knew him, of course, and she just squeaked at him, all excited, and called him Tommy.’

‘You mean she was pleased?’

‘She sounded like it. Mind you, I don’t think she’d expected him. It wasn’t an arrangement.’ ‘But what did he want?’

‘Anice--blast him! Though I will say he looked pretty hard at Mary Ann. But he came in, just as damned sure of himself as ever, saw me, nodded as if I was some sort of waiter, and then kept to Anice. Told her he had to go to Brighton, short notice, and he’d drive her down. Was she ready?’

‘What did she say?’

‘Well, she looked at me, then back at him, then me again--and then she started thanking me for calling. Glad to see me, enjoyed the chat, and so on and so on.’

‘Dismissal, in fact?’

‘Obviously. Very polite, but that’s what it was, and I had to accept it. What else could I do?’

‘Nothing. You think she’s gone with him?’

‘I know she has. I had to leave the house, of course, and get out of sight, but I went back in half an hour and had it out of her footman. He’s an old Peninsula hand, by the way, so it wasn’t hard. She’d gone with Luttrell, on the box. Mary Ann in the back. So what do you make of it?’

‘Is there anything I
can
make of it?’

He was trying to keep the sickening disappointment out or his voice and eyes. She had seemed all that was left to him--Anice, whom he could talk to as to no one else--and of all men, it was Luttrell, whose crazy humours had brought all this. He would be with Anice now, perhaps half-way to Brighton.

‘I think,’ said John cheerfully, ‘you made a mistake when you wasted that shot. You should have made an end of him.’

‘Would it have helped?’

‘God knows. But you were uncommonly generous, and this is how he answers it. That’s your Corinthian. He’s probably laughing at you now.’

‘But what’s Anice
doing?
After what he---‘

‘Don’t get heated. It’s not worth it, and she’s not either. She must be mad if she prefers Luttrell, but you never know, with girls like that. Sometimes I think they can’t help it.’

‘Help what?’

‘Oh, anything. Excitement, if you like. What will you do? Go after her?’

‘I shall
not.
All else apart, and forgetting Barford, I’ll not bear up for
this
pursuit.’

‘I think you’re right.’ John spoke soberly and then looked straight at him. ‘It’s going to be a long winter.’

‘Damned long.’

‘We’ve known long ones before, and yours may not be the only one. I fancy Mary’s going to find it longer than she likes. And Anice---‘

‘Yes?’

‘Hers might be the longest of all--when she knows what she’s done. Let’s wait and see.’ ‘It’ll be a long wait.’

‘Not for two of us. I’m coming with you.’

Mr. King, the Master of Ceremonies at Cheltenham, was almost at his wit’s end, hard put to it to hide his thoughts and keep his smooth politeness. This should have been his year of all years, his pinnacle before retiring, and instead it was driving him mad. Certainly it was his duty to oblige a visitor, and especially a noble visitor, but he could not do the impossible.