Joan Smith (9 page)

Trudie had had enough for one day. She admitted to the least of Mr. Mandeville’s offenses, to explain her comment. “He asked me to go out to the theater with him—unchaperoned.”

“The commoner! But do you really think it was wise to hop down from the carriage and walk home? Why, you might have fallen into who knows what fracas!”

Trudie hid the tell-tale staining of her cheeks by rifling in her bandbox for a nightgown. “Nothing happened. We were nearly home,” she said.

Trudie lay awake for a long time, listening to the comings and goings in the hall and the echoes of revelry from the taproom below. The mattress felt as if it had been stuffed with turnips. Lumps and knobs pressed into her back, adding to her misery. Everything had turned out so wretchedly. London was lonesome and boring and expensive. She missed her old friends from home, but most of all she regretted that London was so horrid.

She knew it could be very different. Before Norman left with the carriage, he had driven them to Hyde Park, where the ton met at the barrier at four o’clock. Ladies in furs and beautiful bonnets gossiped while their gentlemen ogled all the ladies, even her. They had walked along Bond Street to see the shops too. It had all seemed just the way she dreamed it would be. That day, she had thought she’d meet those people eventually. They couldn’t all be as bad as Mr. Mandeville.

Mr. Mandeville. Was he the one who had started the rumor about them on Conduit Street? Guilty or not, he was the only suspect she could think of, and her animosity against the man made Christian forgiveness impossible. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t right that he should treat them so badly and get off scot-free. If she ever met him again
...
But she wouldn’t, of course. And that made her sad too.

Lord Clappet and Sir Charles Nicolson attended on Norman at eight o’clock the next morning. They were outfitted in the highest kick of fashion, with gleaming new spotted Belchers arranged with careful disarray at their necks. Each carried in his fingers a jockey’s riding crop, not useful for driving at all, but giving the uninitiated a hint they were dealing with gentlemen of the turf.

The choice of a filly for Peter was still to be made. He preferred descendancy from one of the three founding fathers of thoroughbred-dom: the Godolphin Barb, the Byerley Turk, or the Darley Arabian. An astonishing number of the racers up for sale laid claim to this bloodline.

“In fact, they ain’t
real
thoroughbreds without it,” Sir Charles decreed, hitting the edge of the table with his crop to emphasize the point and to show off the crop.

“You didn’t tell me Firebird was a colt, Norman,” Peter said. “ ‘Promising youngster,’ you called him. I made sure it was a filly. I like fillies. They’re a tad smaller, but you can’t match ‘em for pluck.”

“If it was a filly you wanted, you should have said so,” Norman grouched. “And for God’s sake put down that crop before you knock over my coffee.”

“Don’t want him,” Nicolson said firmly. “We’ll go round to the auctions and pick you up a filly, Peter my lad. Where would you suggest, Norman?”

“If it’s better bloods you’re after, Newmarket is the place. I’ll be going there myself immediately, to begin intensive training with True Lady.”

A burning anxiety gnawed at Peter’s innards. Here was Norman getting a jump on him. He too wanted to go to Newmarket immediately and begin intensive training of his winner. He listened, jealous as a green cow, while Norman continued.

“For twenty-five pounds you can train there for the year. Sand gallops and turf gallops go on forever. Best training ground in England. Jockey Club there—all the knowing ‘uns. If you had more than two hundred guineas to spend, Peter, you might get a filly out of Cheveley Park. Excellent stud farm. Cost you a monkey, though.”

Their talk was interrupted by the descent of the ladies. After admiring their Belchers and crops, Trudie found a private moment to tell Peter she had left her trunks with his servant, which threw him into confusion.

“Why did you leave Conduit Street?” he asked.

She explained discreetly, hoping to make little of it, but he wouldn’t be put off. “I don’t care for old Nettie Rolfe myself, but she ain’t noisy, and she ain’t bad ton. A friend of my mama, in fact. Tell the truth now, Trudie. What happened to send you scrambling down here?”

“We’ll discuss it later. I don’t want to trouble Norman,” she explained quietly.

“You’re welcome to use my rooms in London for the present at least. I shan’t be home for the devil knows how long. I’ll send a note back with you for Uxor, to keep the old bleater in line. Stamp on him if he cuts up stiff.”

Mrs. Harrington was occupied hearing Norman’s plans to remove to Newmarket. “Thank God, you are leaving this place,” she sighed.

When it was time to go to view the pavilion, Trudie took a seat in Clappet’s carriage, letting her aunt and brother go with Nicolson. She outlined very discreetly the advent into her life of Mandeville, saying nothing of his more farouche behavior in the carriage, and asked Peter whether he was acquainted with the man.

“Never heard of him. Sounds like a demmed Cit to me. He don’t sound like anyone Nick would know, and if he
did
know him, he would never in the world send him ‘round to see you alone. The scoundrel learned somehow you were there without a man to protect you and was trying to take advantage of you. Upon my word I think he was, Trudie. I believe you ought to tell your brother. Mandeville ought to be called to account.”

“That is precisely what I do not want—for Norman to become involved in a duel.”

“Duel? Nothing of the sort. Norman ought to draw his cork, darken his daylights, give him a sound thrashing.”

The image lingering in her mind of Mr. Mandeville’s broad shoulders did not incline her to think it was Mandeville’s daylights that would be darkened if it came to a fistfight. “I’ve decided to say nothing about it. My aunt and I have left Conduit Street, and he won’t know where to find us. It’s better this way.”

Had there not been a trip to Newmarket in the offing, Clappet would have insisted on calling the man to account, but his head was full of more vital matters, so he agreed to remain silent. “Oh, that is the famous pavilion up ahead, by the way,” he pointed out as they entered Marine Parade.

She looked at the oriental splendor of spires, domes, and minarets rising white and gold above treetops, and was suitably impressed. It really was a fairyland of enchantment, but it failed to enchant Trudie that day. She was worried not only about Mandeville, and finding a new flat, but about Norman too.

‘‘I hope he takes better care of himself at Newmarket than he does here,” she sighed.

“What he needs is a housekeeper,” Peter said idly.

“Yes,” she agreed mechanically, but soon she saw the plausibility of filling this role herself. At heart she was sorry to miss out on the excitement and fun of training True Lady and of watching her run. Why should she and Aunt Gertrude not go to Newmarket, hire a cottage, and have Norman stay with them, where he would be decently cared for, and at less expense than hiring two places?

Trudie discovered to her great delight that the same idea had occurred to her aunt. Mrs. Harrington had not only thought of it but outlined to Norman the advantages. By the time they all met back at the Princes, the thing had been arranged.

“I shall nip up to Newmarket and scout out a tidy little cottage for us while you go back to London to collect the Bogmans and your stuff. I’ll write you there, and you can all join me at Newmarket,” Norman said. “Where will you be staying in London?”

“They’re staying in my rooms,” Peter said. “In fact, I’ll drive the ladies to London myself. I have decided to go to the bank and arrange a loan and buy my filly from Cheveley Park. I’ll have to make some excuse to Mama as well for being away from London so long. I’ll tell her—oh, dash it, I don’t know what I shall tell her, but I
will
go to Newmarket.”

“Let us leave early this afternoon, Trudie,” Mrs. Harrington said, fearing another night at the Princes.

Sir Charles was frowning while this was discussed. “Thing is,” he pointed out, “can’t stay at Peter’s flat if he is there himself.”

“I’m staying at your place,” Clappet informed him, and put his hand out for the keys. Sir Charles put the key ring on the end of his crop and handed it over with only a little scowl at his friend’s presumption. Not the thing to quibble in front of the ladies, but Peter was taking a bit for granted, it seemed to him.

“Will you go to Newmarket today, Norman?” Mrs. Harrington asked.

“There’s a race over the sticks this afternoon that Nick and I plan to attend.”

“Over the sticks, eh? I should like to see that, by Jove. What time is the match?” Peter asked.

“Two,” Sir Charles answered.

It was finally communicated agreeably enough to Trudie at feast that the ladies would take luncheon with the gentlemen at the Old Ship, after which the former would have the use of Sir Charles’s carriage for a tour of the city while Peter joined the men at the match. When this trip took under two hours, they had time not only to see the shops but to dawdle impatiently about the circulating library for half an hour before meeting the gentlemen back at the Old Ship for tea, then a dash to see True Lady.

It was five o’clock when they set out for London with Clappet, which ensured their arriving well after dark. He assured them five hours was the longest it could possibly take, but in fact it was not far from midnight when they rattled up to the apartment on Poland Street. They were all tired and hungry, and at such an advanced hour the best place to eat was where they were. Mrs. Harrington herself went to the kitchen to prepare them gammon and eggs while Clappet pointed out to Trudie the convenience of his rooms.

Uxor stood glaring like a wet hen. “My friends will be using the rooms for a few days, Uxor,” Peter explained. “I’ll be shutting the place up for a while after they go, so you can go back to Berkeley Square and await word from me.”

“And where shall I tell her ladyship you are gone to, milord,” Uxor asked haughtily, “that you won’t be requiring the services of your valet?” His
eyes cast mute aspersion on the Belcher kerchief, the travel-dusted outfit, the riding crop, still between Peter’s fingers. “You have become a jockey, have you?”

“Don’t tell her anything, or I’ll boil your Friday face in oil,” Peter barked.

“Will the ladies be bringing their own servants?” the valet asked.

“Of course they will, numbskull. You take off as soon as they arrive. They won’t want your ghoulish phiz getting in their way. Till the Bogmans come, however, you will offer the ladies any assistance they require.”

“Yes, milord,” Uxor said in a voice that suggested vengeance for this misdeed.

It was one o’clock in the morning before Clappet took himself off to Mr. Nicolson’s rooms at Albany. “I shall do myself the honor of saying good-bye now, ladies. No point coming back tomorrow before I leave for Newmarket. I already have to go to the cursed bank, and had better look in on Mama or she’ll ring a peal over me when next we meet.”

Trudie had no difficulty sleeping that night. It wasn’t just fatigue from the unusually exciting day that accounted for it. It was the rosy aspect of her changed future she anticipated. They would be leaving London, going to Newmarket to enter a brand-new style of life. Through Norman, she would meet the other gentlemen of the turf. And with a man as part of the family, there would be no misunderstandings of the sort that had arisen here in London with Mr. Mandeville. There was just one little wrinkle in her happiness, and that was that Mandeville should get off scot-free after his treatment of her.

Lady Clappet was not at home the next morning when her son called, for the reason that she had darted over to Belgrave Square to complain of him to her brother. Lord Clappet was certainly told where his mother was and that she would be happy for him to join her there. In fact, a footman was sent off to alert the mother of Clappet’s arrival, but Peter left before the servant got to the corner of the street.

“I am in the devil of a hurry,” he explained briefly. “Tell her I stopped by and that I am fine.” He remained at home for two minutes by the clock before nipping down to the bank to sequester himself in the banker’s office for some highly confusing conversation. He spoke of’ “short-term obligations” and “a bit of dire necessity, if you want the truth,” but said not a word about racehorses, Newmarket, or any related subject.

“What, precisely, appears to be the difficulty, milord?” the banker asked, for Luten had coached him well.

“Who said anything about a difficulty? It’s a personal matter, and that’s all there is to it. I have to have the money.”

“But
we,
milord, must have a reason.”

“There is no question of my being good for it. Deuce take it, I own an abbey, don’t I?” he thundered, but finally fell into a sulk when even this didn’t move the banker to pity.

“Certainly, milord, and if you would just ask your uncle Lord Luten to countersign the note, a loan could be arranged on the spot.”

“This has nothing to do with Luten. It’s my money, ain’t it?”

“Indeed it is, in trust till your twenty-first birthday, at which time a quarter of it comes into your hands outright, the remainder
...
”

“I know all that! I’ll remember your unwillingness to help me when the time comes,” he added coolly.

Not wanting to alienate such a good customer, the banker found himself able to advance five hundred without Luten’s signature.

“Could have got the thousand if I’d had the sense to ask for two,” Clappet muttered as he pocketed the cash and went out the door. All the same, there must be something at Cheveley Park he could afford and still have enough over to handle the expenses of training and racing.

Meanwhile at Belgrave Square, Luten spoke vaguely to Lady Clappet of having “settled the matter” of Peter’s lightskirt, though he feared he had done nothing of the sort. He must go back to Conduit Street and try again, but was singularly reluctant to do so. He had felt a monster when Miss Barten bolted from his carriage and walked home. He even wondered whether Maggie wasn’t mistaken about the girl. She had been horrified when he kissed her, if that attack could properly be called a kiss. He wondered how Peter kissed her and felt the clutch of anger at the very idea.