Lysander's Lady Page 8

  ‘Do I understand,’ she said carefully, ‘that you wish to espouse Lady Sophia yourself?’

  He managed a twisted little smile. ‘Had not—All that happened, I do believe she would be my wife now. I know the Duke did not care for the notion; she was only seventeen and I no great catch, but I had hopes that Wayleigh would stand our friend.’

  ‘Wayleigh? Does he know you are in England?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he admitted, ‘‘twas through him I had word of Sophia’s proposed marriage.’

  ‘And it was he who persuaded you to hold up Mr. Derwent and steal his curricle and pair, was it not?’

  ‘I didn’t need much persuading, I can tell you! ‘Twas only a jest to lower his consequence—Wayleigh don’t like him overmuch Derwent got his equipage back t’other day.’

  ‘When my lord of Wayleigh realised you had caught him the wrong horses!’ she snapped.

  His eyes opened very wide. ‘What d’you mean, Kate? How d’you know about this?’

  ‘Because Mr. Derwent is my godmother’s son, and I am lodging with her at the moment.’

  He got up and began to pace the room, visibly disturbed. ‘Kate, this won’t answer. I’ll not have you involved in my troubles.’

  She waved his protest aside. ‘Never mind that now. Does Wayleigh support your suit? Does he know you have maintained a correspondence with his sister?’

  ‘How could he support my suit now?’ he asked bitterly. ‘What brother could consent to his sister marrying a—a murderer? Kate, I cannot endure this hole-and-corner existence for much longer. Three years have I been out of England, and still I am no nearer to proving my innocence. Were it not for Sophia I’d give myself up to the Runners and have done with it.’

  Her heart ached for him, but well she knew that sympathy won no battles. ‘How do you exchange letters?’ she asked, all practical commonsense.

  ‘Through Bayliss here. He was my steward in better days, and has a daughter in service at Mount Trennick.’

  ‘Does Wayleigh know of this connection?’

  ‘No,’ he answered slowly, ‘he believes me to be still hid in London. What’s in your mind, Kate?’

  ‘That he could betray you.’

  ‘Never!’ he retorted. ‘But for him I’d have been caught by the heels long since. It was he who got me out of the country.’

  This benevolent view of the Marquis did not match with that held by Miss Honeywell. ‘Why does he imagine you have ventured over here if not because of Sophia?’

  ‘To obtain some money, which is true enough. I left some jewels in Bayliss’s keeping which I’ll need to sell now.’

  ‘Why now? What are your plans, Timothy?’

  He hesitated. ‘Don’t know th-that I sh-should tell you. If things go wrong, it’s better you should know nothing.’

  ‘If you have in mind to run off with your lady, I may well be of help to you,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Well, that’s it, if she’ll consent to throw in her lot with a criminal fellow like me.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But much depends on the jewels, and there I am at a stand. Th-there’s one piece in particular, a necklace, that’s been in the family for generations. I cannot be sure how well-known it is or what it is worth, and I dare not offer it to any reputable goldsmith lest it be recognised.’

  ‘Or you could be recognised?’

  ‘Aye, the t-two could add up. And if Bayliss attempted to sell it he would at once be suspected of having st-stolen it.’

  She snapped her fingers in triumph. ‘But I could sell it for you. I am your cousin, and you left the necklace with Bayliss for me to collect when I came to England.’

  ‘That won’t fadge!’ he informed her. ‘No more than I can you walk into Rundell and Bridge and lay it on the counter. Like as not they’d know it and there’d be an almighty hubbub and questions asked, which is what is least wanted.’

  She pondered, tapping her small white teeth thoughtfully with a fingernail. ‘We need a jeweller who won’t ask questions. If only my monies would come from the Cape! But I enquired at the Bank before I left London, and nothing was advised. No doubt settling up papa’s affairs has proved complicated.’

  ‘I’ve not spoken to you about that, Kate,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘No need for it, you wrote it all. Timothy, give me the necklace. We return to London tomorrow and I will discover a suitably discreet jeweller.’

  ‘K-Kate, you c-can’t go visiting s-seedy jewellers on m-my behalf. It ain’t at all the th-thing!’

  The marked increase in his stammer betrayed how strongly he felt on the subject. She patted his arm soothingly. ‘How else can you go on? Do be sensible, Timothy, and think of your Sophia!’

  ‘If it c-came out th-that you were helping me, th-there’d be the devil to pay,’ he protested. ‘I c-cannot conceive of your godmother approving in the l-least degree.’

  No, nor her son, thought Miss Honeywell, more especially if he learned that I was assisting to spirit his intended away from under his classical nose! Then the sound of voices warned her that Toby had come in search of her.

  ‘No one is going to know anything, that I promise you,’ she assured Bredon. ‘Have you the necklace with you? And I must have a letter of bequest from you to prove my right to it.’

  ‘Yes, but—oh, very well! Mind me, Kate, you must observe the greatest care. A letter? Yes, I will date it three years back, I think. Bayliss!’ He addressed the landlord, who had entered hard upon his knock and closed the door smartly behind him to screen them from Toby’s view. ‘Th-this lady will take the necklace and endeavour to dispose of it.’ Bayliss accepted the situation without question, only glancing doubtfully at her dainty tasselled reticule, netted in silk.

  ‘ ’Twon’t fit into that, ma’am, not in its case,’ he proclaimed. ‘But—yes! The oyster pie I’d cooked for our dinner, m’lord, if the lady decided she’d a fancy for it I’d not deny her it, would I?’

  ‘With other than oysters beneath the pastry?’ She nodded her approval. ‘Let me have your direction in London, Timothy, so that I can convey a message when the business is complete.’

  ‘I’ll not be back there until I’ve seen Sophia,’ he warned her, scribbling a few words on a scrap of paper, ‘so make your message guarded. They’re good folks enough, but the less they know the better.’

  After listening to a few more strictures of this sort, she bade him farewell, pressing his hand briefly.

  ‘I’ll come with you now, landlord. I am exceeding partial to oyster pie and would be happy to purchase one from you.’ She raised her voice as Bayliss held the door for her and, without a backward glance, sailed through into the tap where Toby was sadly contemplating the bottom of his empty mug.

  He found her to be very preoccupied on their way home, but, not being a garrulous man, he readily accepted her wish to be quiet. If he thought it an odd circumstance that she should be nursing a large pie upon her knee it was not his place to remark upon it; for, as he well knew, the ways of the quality could be middling strange at times.

  A message having been conveyed to Mr. Derwent acquainting him with the likely time of his mother’s return to Charles Street, it came as no great surprise to Miss Honeywell when Mr. Dacres presented himself on the morning following to solicit her to go driving with him.

  He was delighted at the alacrity with which his invitation was accepted, and tooled his phaeton round the Park with all the assurance of a gentleman who knows he has a Beauty by his side. If it occurred to him to wonder why she should find it necessary to carry with her a reticule as large as a twopenny postbag, he dismissed the thought by concluding that it was the latest whim of fashion or, perhaps, such vast indispensables were the accepted norm in the Cape. He was soon to be disillusioned when she cried out in pretty concern as they trotted briskly along the crowded carriageway, Mr. Dacres touching his whip to his hat in a very knowing way to other less fortunate gentlemen.

  ‘My letter—how excessively tiresome of me! I have forgotten
to leave it for the post. I would not for the world wish to be behindhand in any courtesy to my kind hostess at Brighton!’ She looked appealingly from under her lashes at Mr. Dacres.

  ‘Do you think your groom—?’

  ‘Will carry it to the General Post Office in Lombard Street, ma’am, and so ensure its despatch at the earliest possible moment. Greaves, take a hackney and see to it, if you please.’ Miss Honeywell, having achieved her object, thanked her escort with becoming warmth and talked trivialities for a time before broaching her main subject. The tale she delicately unfolded to him, of pecuniary difficulties and her need to raise the wind until her father’s estate was settled, appealed to his chivalrous instincts. But when she begged him to escort her to a disreputable jeweller, he was profoundly shocked.

  ‘Can’t take a lady to a place like Cranbourn Alley, ma’am! That’s pitching it a bit too strong!’

  ‘Does it have to be Cranbourn Alley?’ she enquired. ‘That’s where all the sharp—I mean those sort of fellows are to be found. Couldn’t you—I mean, could not Lady Glendower—?’

  ‘No,’ said Miss Honeywell decisively. ‘I do not want any word of this to get to my godmother’s ears.’

  ‘As it well might if we were seen tripping in and out of some establishment frequented by the ton,’ he agreed, and lapsed into deep thought while she eyed him anxiously. ‘Did a thing for m’sister once in Ryder’s Court, when she had outrun the carpenter,’ he volunteered at length.

  ‘Well, just think of me as your sister and do it for me, too!’ she pleaded.

  Mr. Dacres had not the least inclination to think of Miss Honeywell as his sister, but he experienced a strong desire to erase the worried frown from her lovely face. So he drew a deep breath and, declaring himself to be willing to oblige her in any way that lay in his power, directed his lively pair out of the Park and along Piccadilly at a brisk pace.

  In Ryder’s Court Mr. Isaac Jacobson, comfortably seated behind his high counter so as to obtain as unobscured a view as was possible through his dirt-encrusted window, rather wistfully eyed a young woman who went hurrying past, basket on arm, on her way to Newport Market.

  ‘A right dimber mort,’ he pronounced aloud in the manner of one who speaks with authority on such matters. His partner, who had been born Samuel Rosenbaum but who, never having set foot in the land of his fathers, had judged it only right to change his name to Rossbourne as being more acceptable in his adopted country, unscrewed the glass through which he had been inspecting a pair of diamond earrings from his eye, and spoke with feeling.

  ‘Not worth a coach-wheel! I tell’e, Isaac, if our mobsmen don’t prig some ream swag betimes we can put up the shutters!’

  Mr. Jacobson, the senior by a dozen years, regarded him with tolerant amusement. ‘How often do I have to tell ‘e, Sam, to be patient? The darkest hour alius comes afore the dawn.’

  Mr. Rossbourne was not impressed by his partner’s poetic flight of fancy. He glanced significantly around the dreary little shop which would have benefited greatly from a good clean through and a fresh coat of paint. ‘Ryder’s Court!’ he muttered bitterly.

  ‘Come, come, Saro!’ Mr. Jacobson rallied him. ‘Would you have us remove to Ludgate Hill?’

  Mr. Rossbourne was about to let Mr. Jacobson have the benefit of his opinion on fashionable jewellers when a figure momentarily cut off the scant light coming in through the open doorway, causing both gentlemen to assume their professional attitudes as smoothly as if they had been sitting there for ever, just waiting for this very occurrence—which, in truth, they had, since the person entering was their first customer of the day.

  ‘ ’Pon my soul, if it ain’t Mr. Dacres!’ declared Mr. Rossbourne, who prided himself on never forgetting a face.

  Mr. Dacres favoured him with a slight nod but fixed his attention on Mr. Jacobson, who had arisen and was bowing and smiling, his hooded eyes taking in every detail of his visitor’s modish apparel.

  ‘Take a look at this, Jacobson, and give me a notion of the value of it.’ Mr. Dacres laid a jewel-case on the counter. ‘And you can stop washing your hands, because it ain’t for sale, not immediately anyway.’

  This peremptory injunction caused a faintly pained expression to cross Mr. Jacobson’s countenance.

  ‘A small charge for the valuation then, sir, if no sale is to be effected?’ he suggested, his long sensitive fingers with their dirty, broken nails opening the case and taking out its contents.

  Mr. Dacres shrugged. ‘So long as it is worth it,’ he said, and watched with assumed carelessness while Mr. Jacobson unrolled a square of dingy black velvet and set out the necklace upon it. There was a short silence while both dark greasy heads were bent over it, and a few muttered remarks were exchanged.

  Mr. Dacres, at first glance, had to admit to being rather disappointed in the thing, for its delicate design was in strong contrast to the prevailing fashion, which demanded a profusion of jewels in heavy settings. It was pretty enough, he had to allow, but his immediate concern was for Miss Honeywell, and he peered anxiously up the street to assure himself of her continued safety. He was consoled by the sight of his pair behaving in the most decorous manner, and she leaning forward to converse with the ragged urchin he had bidden stand to their heads.

  A few minutes later he was out of the shop and hurrying back to her. ‘There’s a shilling for you, m’lad,’ said he, tossing a coin to the boy, who broke into a wide, gap-toothed grin.

  ‘Coo, a borde! That’s somethin’ slap, that is! Thank ‘e, guv’nor!’

  As the lad sped away to enjoy this unexpected acquisition of wealth, Mr. Dacres gave his pair the office to start and made all haste to get away from that insalubrious neighbourhood.

  ‘I’ve left the necklace with old Jacobson,’ he explained to the horrified Miss Honeywell. ‘Says he has got to sound the market before committing himself. It has got an antiquarian value—couldn’t understand all his cant, but he’ll know later today, or tomorrow at worst.’ Seeing her look of alarm, he smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ve got a receipt for it all right and tight. There, you had best hold it until’—say, tomorrow morning? I’ll call for you at about the same time?’

  Miss Honeywell agreed rather absent-mindedly. Her busy brain was registering the fact that this Mr. Jacobson would have twenty-four hours in which to discover the history of the necklace, and the unsuspecting dupe by her side might well be confronted with a law officer on his next visit to Ryder’s Court. Had she been privileged to witness the activity that took place after Mr. Dacres’ departure from the shop, she would have been convinced that her fears were soundly based.

  Mr. Jacobson, once assured that his client was out of sight, had dropped to his knees and begun searching industriously through the collection of dusty tomes that were housed under the counter. Mr. Rossbourne, strangely unmoved by his partner’s curious activity, sat thoughtfully picking his teeth and gazing into space.

  ‘Got it!’ announced Mr. Jacobson triumphantly, producing a small decrepit-looking book which gave off a cloud of dust when slapped down upon the counter. Mr. Rossbourne sneezed violently. ‘Moorish design—Moorish—Moorish—’ muttered Mr. Jacobson as he leafed through the pages. ‘There! Is it not very like?’

  Together they studied the illustration. ‘You’re all about in the head, Isaac,’ said Mr. Rossbourne kindly. ‘It could only be a copy at best. If ‘twas one o’ they, ’twould be—’ He stopped and looked at his partner.

  ‘ ’Twould be worth a pretty penny,’ said Mr. Jacobson softly.

  ‘It says here there’s only one of ‘em known to be in England,’ went on Mr. Rossbourne, as though in a dream. ‘In the possession of—humph! Wasn’t he the cove that—?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Jacobson, taking the necklace out of its case and putting it into a doeskin bag. ‘I’m going out, Sam, won’t be back ‘til mebbe late’s afternoon.’ At the door he paused and looked back. ‘I’m thinking we could name our own price on th
is one.’

  Mr. Rossbourne nodded his understanding. ‘Good luck to ye, Isaac,’ he said, and got on with picking his teeth.

  Upon reflection Miss Honeywell held to the same opinion as Mr. Jacobson, and, while it was a matter of the first importance to obtain the best price possible for the necklace, she had no wish to involve Mr. Dacres any deeper in her cousin Bredon’s affairs. A visit to Miss Linwood’s Gallery of Needlework, followed by a call at her subscription library to replenish the Dowager’s supply of reading matter, passed the afternoon pleasantly enough, and on their way up Bond Street they were gratified by the sight of Mr. Derwent stepping out of Jackson’s Academy. As it was coming on to mizzle, he readily accepted a seat in his mother’s barouche as far as the top of St James’s Street.

  Lysander was in his most conversable mood, and talked so much like an intelligent and agreeable man that Miss Honeywell was quite in charity with him. Feeling a shade guilty about her plans to disrupt his future, she watched his graceful figure walking away towards Brooks’s with some misgiving while the Dowager discoursed upon just why ladies never drove down St James’s Street.

  ‘One would be the object of interest to every buck on the strut, which is what no lady of quality could wish for.’

  ‘Is Mr. Derwent on the strut, then? He looks very fine.’

  Not for the first time did the Dowager wish that her goddaughter would not be so lamentably outspoken. ‘Well, no, how should he be? If he—’ She stopped, confused.

  ‘If he should be betrothed, you mean? But is he, Aunt Hetty?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m sure!’ said her ladyship in the tone of one who washes her hands of the whole thing. ‘He has not confided in me as I am persuaded he would have done if everything was arranged. Now tomorrow, my dear, I have in mind to take you to view St Paul’s Cathedral. I have also received the most obliging invitation from dear Jane to visit at Mansell whenever it is convenient for us, and then there is our dinner-party in two days’ time.’