The True Darcy Spirit (23 page)

“I, care? Petifer, it’s the Garden of Eden as far as I’m concerned.”

“That Mrs. Higgins, the cook, seems a pleasant enough body, and since her quarters are downstairs in the basement, we won’t get in each other’s way.”

It was a very satisfactory arrangement all round, Camilla said as they parted. “Griffy does need a maid, she told me so, and this way she only has to pay part of her wages. You can still look after Miss Darcy, Petifer, and I rejoice to know that she is in good hands, and there is that room just made for you. Do you intend to finish the portrait of Belle? I think Papa and Mama would be very glad to have such a picture.”

“Even when they know who painted it?”

“Don’t be absurd; we are not such a set of moralisers as you seem to think. I’ll tell you a great secret: My family is very given to running away with men, and although in those cases it turned out more or less happily, it makes us very much less inclined to cast stones than your self-righteous stepfather!”

“I wonder what she meant by that,” said Cassandra, yawning violently as Petifer brushed her hair that night.

“Running away? I can tell you something about that. Mrs. Wytton’s sister, Miss Georgina as was, Lady Mordaunt as she is now, ran away with Sir Joshua last year. Your mama was very shocked, do not you remember her falling into the vapours?”

Cassandra was so used to her mother having the vapours that she rarely took any notice of them.

“She was saying to Mr. Partington how scandalous it was, and he said as how it must be kept a strict secret, but all we servants heard about it. Then, it was a good while ago, before you were born, I think one of Mrs. Darcy’s sisters—I’m talking about the present Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Wytton’s mother—ran off with a soldier. It was all hushed up and she married him, then he was carried off by a fever or died in the war or some such thing. She’s on her second husband now. And there was some scandal over Mr. Darcy’s younger sister, but I never knew the details of that affair.”

“Goodness,” said Cassandra, sliding gratefully between the lavender-scented sheets. “However do you know all this, Petifer?”

“Servants’ gossip, miss. And don’t look down your nose at me, for it can come in very useful, let me tell you.”

Camilla Wytton waved a cheerful good-bye to her husband as he stepped into the waiting chaise and called out to the coachman to go. She would miss him, they were not long married and took a great deal of pleasure in one another’s company, but he had to spend a few days in Edinburgh, and she was not fond of the grey northern capital.

“It is a long journey, and when you arrive, you will be preoccupied with your affairs; I should be left on my own in a city I do not much care for. Go, and do what has to be done as quickly as you can so that you are back in London as soon as possible.”

But for once she almost felt pleased to have the house to herself, for she had a plan, and since she had a suspicion it was not something he would approve of, it was just as well for him to be out of the way for the next few days.

Even before his curricle was out of sight, she was directing the servants to clear every stick of furniture out of the dining room. It could be stored for the present down in the basement, where there was plenty of room, and as for the China and glass that was kept in the cupboards, that could do with a thorough wash and polish. Down came the curtains, with directions that they be cleaned, folded, and stored away.

“Are we to have new ones, ma’am?” her housekeeper asked, pleased by all the bustle.

“We are. I shall visit some warehouses by and by, and they can send samples to match with the paint. Jenkins, careful there with that epergne, it is a very ugly piece, I agree, but it will not improve by being dented.”

That was the trouble with wedding presents, when others’ tastes did not always match your own. The epergne had been a gift from a relation of Wytton’s, and while Camilla’s instinct was to stow it away in a cupboard and forget about it, the great aunt in question was presently in London and inclined to call unannounced. On these visits, she would always open the door to the dining room in her forceful way, and expected to see her large and expensive gift displayed on the mahogany table.

Wytton was philosophical about it, he liked his great aunt, whom he characterised as a game old bird—she had even made the trip to Egypt one memorable year when he was there looking for ancient tombs—and the monstrous thing on the table didn’t bother him as much as it annoyed Camilla.

It would be as well if Lady Plantyre didn’t make one of her swooping visits while Wytton was away, Camilla thought, as a maid swept past, brandishing a duster. She had a feeling that her plans would not be to that redoubtable woman’s taste.

And it was taking a risk that Mr. Wytton would be pleased. It was to be her birthday gift, for his birthday was on the seventh of next month. If he could accept the epergne with a good will, then he could do the same for her present. If he didn’t care for what she was doing—well, she dismissed that thought. She had too much else on her mind.

There were several things she wanted to accomplish today. One was to make sure that Cassandra was safely installed in Soho Square, and whether she needed anything that Camilla might tactfully supply. Then she would broach the subject of the dining room to her prickly cousin. But before that, she was going to find out where one Henry Lisser dwelt, and call upon him.

She had questioned Mr. Wytton about him. Had he heard of the painter?

Indeed, he had; he was a German, he believed, and making quite a name for himself. She must know of him, too, for he had been commissioned to paint a picture of Rosings, he was known for his excellent renderings of houses in their settings: “He paints the most admirable landscapes. Belle must have met him, for I am sure he was down in Kent when she was rusticated there.”

Before she had seen the drawing Cassandra had made of him, Camilla would have said that Belle would take no notice of an artist, but Belle would certainly have been aware of a man who was as handsome as that. Unless Cassandra herself was not being entirely truthful, and it was an idealised portrait of a more ordinary man.

One glance at Henry Lisser’s noble countenance told her that Cassandra had done no such thing; if anything, she had understated Mr. Lisser’s dashing looks. Camilla’s interest was immediately aroused, for this artist was exactly the kind of man that Belle would fancy; how odd that she had heard not a word about him when she saw her sister on her return to London from Rosings. Belle was never one to keep her admiration for a man to herself; last year, she and her twin sister had kept the house in Aubrey Square ringing with their sighs and yearnings for one young man after another.

“Mr. Lisser, is it not?” she said, extending a hand. “I think you are acquainted with my husband. I am Mrs. Wytton.”

He smiled and bowed, and said he had the honour to have met Mr. Wytton. “We see one another at the Royal Society, and on other occasions.”

“You are interested in science and natural philosophy?”

He bowed again.

“Well, I have not come here to talk about scientists, although I must say that Humphry Davy’s lectures are fascinating. And I have not at present come about a commission, either, although perhaps one day we may persuade you to visit us in Herefordshire.”

“I have seen engravings of your house, Sillingford Abbey, is that right? It is magnificent in the best English style, I have a great admiration for such houses.”

“Now, what I want to talk about is this.” Camilla had with her a
flat package, and she unwrapped it to display Cassandra’s painting of Belle, which she had borrowed with her cousin’s consent, saying that she wished to show it to Mr. Wytton.

Henry Lisser’s studio was immaculate, with none of the jumble of paints and brushes and canvases that Camilla had so often seen in artists’ ateliers. He placed the picture on an empty easel, and stepped back to take a better look at it.

Camilla was watching him, and her quick eyes took in the involuntary smile that came to his lips, and a softening to his eyes. Aha, it was as she had suspected; Belle had been playing off her tricks. Unforgivable, with a man like Henry Lisser, who came from an entirely different world to Belle; whatever had the wretched girl been thinking of?

But he had himself well under control, and when he turned back to Camilla, his face gave nothing away. “I could put a name to the artist, I think. It will have been painted by Miss Darcy—a relation of yours and Miss Belle’s, I remember. It is a striking likeness. I was very much impressed by Miss Darcy’s work while I was at Rosings. Were circumstances other than they are, she could have made a name for herself as a portraitist, I am sure of that.”

“Do you think so? So do I, and that is exactly what I want to discuss with you. May we sit down? And then I will tell you just what I have in mind, for I think you would be glad to help Cassandra out of her difficulties.”

Lord Usborne came into Lady Usborne’s chamber to find her in a state of dishabille; she had recently arisen and drunk the cup of thick chocolate with which she liked to start the day.

He looked thunderous, and he was in one of his worst moods.

“My lady, I think you have some letters that belong to me.”

She blinked at him, and even at that hour of the morning, when her eyes were heavy with sleep, he noticed how lustrous and beautiful they were. Once they had held him in their thrall, now they annoyed him.

“Don’t stare at me like that, you look positively moonstruck. Tell me, where are my letters?”

She pulled her flimsy gown about herself. “I know nothing of any letters. I never wrote you any, bar a note or so, so these must be letters from some other person.”

“It is not important that you know who wrote them, I merely wish to find them.”

She shrugged a white shoulder. “Then look elsewhere. I have no interest in any letters you may have received; as we agreed, our private lives are our own affairs.”

“As it happens, these are not private letters.” That was not strictly true, for they were extremely private. “They are not addressed to me.”

“Then why do you have them? Is it a matter of business?”

“It is, but the letters are personal. I ask you again, have you been in my room, looking among my papers, and have you taken anything from there? They are wrapped round and round with a ribbon, and they were in a leather box. The box is there, but the letters are gone.”

“I am afraid I can’t help you. I never go into your room. A servant must have stolen them, or some guest you have entertained in there.”

Was she lying? He never felt quite sure about his wife, she had an extraordinary capacity for self-containment, and it made it difficult to know what she was thinking, or to trace any small, revealing expression or movement in her face or eyes that might give her away.

He flung himself out of her room. Damn it, where were those letters? To have had them in his possession, pure gold, pure gunpowder, with God knew what resting on their being in the right hands, and then for them to go astray. The right hands were, of course, quite the wrong hands as far as the person who had penned the letters was concerned, but that was nothing to Lord Usborne.

He prowled about his private room, turning over papers, even getting down on his hands and knees to look on the floor under his desk. Nothing, no sign of them. And why should there be? Had the box gone as well, then it might be mislaid. The fact that the box was still there, on his desk, but quite empty, indicated that the letters had been removed. Taken by someone who knew their value, or someone acting for a different party. What a waste of his efforts, what a dashing of his hopes should they be destroyed or returned to the person who had sent them.

Valuable as they were, these letters had not cost Lord Usborne a penny. When he had found that the duplicitous George Warren had the letters, whipped out from under his own agent’s nose, he had cursed the man. Usborne had long known him for an untrustworthy, subtle man, but even he had been surprised that Warren had got wind of these particular letters; he would have sworn that no one but the writer and recipient and his own man in the employ of the writer had any idea that they existed.

What did Warren plan to do with the letters? Presumably sell them to the highest bidder. Which would be the Prince Regent,
unless Usborne came up with a better offer. He had no wish to do that, for he would be out of pocket. He had no intention of selling them to the prince; he dealt in favours and power and influence, not in hard cash. No. Had he the letters, he would, at an appropriate time, probably when the prince had retreated to Brighton for his summer revels, present them to Prinny. The gratitude of a monarch, however unpopular, was worth more than any mere money.

As it was, fate smiled on him. He had found Warren one evening at Brooks, where the play was deep, too deep for Warren’s pockets. George Warren came to his senses at half past three on a drizzly morning to discover that he owed Usborne above eleven thousand guineas, at a time when he would be hard put to lay his hands on a hundred. Warren had begun the evening with a winning streak that made him reckless; by midnight, his luck had turned, and there he was, faced with enormous gaming debts that, unlike the considerable sums he owed his tailor and his wine merchant, must be paid.

That was when Usborne had broached the subject of the letters. Usborne made his offer. All would depend on one last turn of the cards, with eleven thousand guineas the wager, against the letters. If Warren won, the debt would be expunged. If Usborne won, then he would take the letters instead of the money.

Warren had to accept. He drew, a knave of spade, and sat back, not knowing whether he felt fear or hope, but knowing that only eight out of the fifty-two cards could beat his knave.

Usborne drew the king of diamonds.

“Very appropriate, don’t you think?” he said, with a soft laugh, tearing up Warren’s vowels, and putting out his hands for the letters.

Warren, his face darkened with drink and fury, put his hand into the inside pocket of his waistcoat and drew out the beribboned bundle of letters. He threw them down on the green baize, amid the cards.

“Damn you to hell, Usborne,” he said, getting up from the table with a slight stagger. “I hope they may ruin you.”

Usborne took no notice of a drunken man’s curse, and he had no
expectation of the letters bringing him anything other than profit, of various kinds.

Now the letters had vanished, before he had had a chance to put them to good use. Who had been in this room? Who had had the opportunity to take them? And who would have known to remove the letters, rather than take objects of more apparent value that lay about on his desk and shelves?

He would have to question the servants. Or, better, he would have his man, Ratchet, question the servants. Direct questions from their master would meet with sullen silence. Skilful questioning by a man as sly as Ratchet would be a good deal more likely to elicit whether anyone in his employ had taken the letters. And God help any servant who had.

He rang the bell, and Ratchet slid into the room. He gave Ratchet his instructions, which the servant received with his usual impassivity. “And there is this note come for you, my lord. From Carlton House.”

Just what I didn’t need, Usborne said to himself, as he scanned the note. A summons to the princely presence.