Little Coquette (4 page)

When Lydia became aware that the window had turned black, she glanced at her watch and saw it was ten o’clock. She rose to go belowstairs to say good night to her mother. As she passed her father’s room, she saw a stream of light coming from the partially opened door. Something in her wanted to go in and see him, but a hot, angry lump in her chest steeled her against the impulse.

“Papa is still awake, if you want to say good night to him,” she mentioned to her mother when she was in the saloon.

Lady Trevelyn looked up from her embroidery and replied, “I shan’t disturb him, Lydia. He will be busy with his reports.”

“It wouldn’t disturb him to say good night.”

“Why don’t you do that then, dear? I want to finish this tulip.”

Lydia didn’t say good night to him either. She still couldn’t face him. Her sleep was troubled, but she awoke early and had been waiting half an hour before Lord Beaumont’s curricle and team of matched grays drew up to the door. She had already taken leave of her mama, who usually took her breakfast in bed.

“I thought you would be taking your closed carriage,” she said, surprised to see the open sporting rig standing outside. She actually preferred the open carriage, but she knew her mama would dislike it. “Raffish” had been Lady Trevelyn’s pronouncement when Beaumont first appeared in the dashing rig, all shining with yellow varnish and silver mountings.

Beaumont, who felt he was being chivalrous to help a damsel in distress, was miffed that her greeting should be so cool, and when he was wearing his new jacket, too. He noticed that Lydia hadn’t taken any pains with her toilette. A virtual stranger to London, she dressed in the provincial fashion in a low poke bonnet with a few small flowers around the brim. Her mantle was navy worsted with some modest frogging down the front. As to dismissing his blood team with that chiding remark about the closed carriage! Dozens of ladies hinted for the privilege of sitting in his curricle.

“They are all the crack in London. Everyone drives them,” he said.

“Everyone? I doubt the royal family drives such things.”

“I mean everyone who is anyone,” he riposted. He looked up at the blue sky, dappled with a few pearly clouds. “It’s such a fine day, I thought you would enjoy the open carriage.”

“You would enjoy it, you mean,” she replied.

“That, too. It’s a deal faster than a chaise. Sixteen miles an hour.”

“It’s not a race,” she said. Her troubles left her short-tempered.

Beaumont was not pleased to see the small trunk the servants carried down to the carriage. “A good thing,” he muttered. “What the devil are you bringing to London? We’re staying only a day.” He helped her into the passenger’s seat and took up the reins.

“I may have to stay longer. I daresay you have clothes in London. I don’t. I have to bring what I may need.”

He jiggled the reins, and the team set off at a lively gait, despite the trunk. With a two-hour trip to look forward to, Beaumont decided to forget the poor beginning and make some light conversation. “Why didn’t you make your curtsey this past season, Lydia?” he asked.

Her first name slipped out unnoticed by either of them. Beaumont used to call her that before she let her skirts down and pinned her hair up. He had liked her better in those days. She had been just a troublesome youngster, and therefore of no romantic interest to him, but he liked her. He never imagined she would grow up into such a stiff-rumped young lady. She used to pelt through the meadows with that water spaniel trailing at her heels; she used to ride a white cob and climb trees. More than once he had had to rescue her from the old willow by the river.

“I am not on the catch for a husband,” she replied.

“Isn’t it about time you were? You must be—” He peered at her, trying to remember the exact difference in their ages.

“Eighteen. I wouldn’t care if I were twice that. I’m not interested in marriage.”

“You shouldn’t let this little contretemps at home put you off,” he said in an avuncular fashion that got her back up.

“Little contretemps? You call twenty years of a sham marriage a little contretemps? Twenty years of adultery? You are lenient, milord.”

“Who says it was twenty years? The lady in the river is hardly old enough for that.”

“Do you think she is his first mistress?” she asked with a sneer. “I don’t. And anyway,” she added, lifting her chin, “I had decided against marriage before I learned about Papa and Mrs. St. John. Why should I subject myself to a lord and master? Ladies are fools to marry, to hand their dowry over to a man, and to beg pin money from him as if they were children. Sit at home and look after the house and children—and have to bear them as well—while the man rackets around with lightskirts. Marriage is an excellent thing—for men.”

Beaumont looked bored. “I’ve heard all this before. It is all the crack these days for ladies to claim a disinterest in marriage, but it don’t stop them from leaping at the altar at the first opportunity. When it comes down to it, what is the alternative?”

“Remaining free,” she said grandly.

“Remaining spinsters,” he retorted. “Whatever their difficulties, married ladies have a deal more freedom than their unmarried sisters. They may go pretty well where they wish, even have affairs if that is their inclination.”

“It sounds charming,” she said with a withering look, “but I have no taste for lechery. I plan to do something useful with my life.”

“Such as?”

“Such as finding out about this murder, to start with. Later, I shall find some worthy cause and devote myself to it.”

Bored with the conversation, he said, “Did you discover anything from your papa?”

“He is not likely to say anything now, when he has kept his secret from us all these years. Did you find the reticule in the river?”

“No. I dove in a dozen times and searched all along the bank as well. Perhaps the man who searched her room at the inn got it.”

“I plan to search Papa’s desk in London and see if I can find out about that woman—where she lives and so on. Mama and I are seldom in London, so he might have felt free to leave letters from her in his study or bedchamber.”

“If you can find an address, I’ll go to the house and quiz the servants. Find out who her friends were.”

Lydia lifted a well-arched eyebrow and stared at him.
He
would go to her house and quiz her friends. How eager these men were to take over.

“We’ll see,” she said, for she didn’t like to berate him when he was necessary to her trip. “I’ll tell Aunt Nessie he wants me to take some papers home for him, to make an excuse to search his desk.”

He lilted his eyes from the road and said playfully, “Despite your little rant, you are a complete woman, Lydia. Deceit comes naturally to you.”

“You wrong women to claim deceit as a feminine vice, milord. I inherited it from my papa,” she replied in a bitter voice.

“Don’t be too hard on him. He spends much time alone in London.”

“I doubt he spends much time alone.”

“Without his wife and family, was my meaning. A man needs company.”

“He has Nessie. Mama never felt the need of a boyfriend. She is away from him for weeks on end.”

“By choice,” he pointed out. “What is to stop her from going to London with him? Most wives do.”

“Why should she, when he has—had that woman?”

“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

She tossed her curls angrily. “Naturally you would take his side.”

“We men are all alike, you mean?”

“Precisely.”

“I have observed your mama’s experience hasn’t put her off the notion of marriage. She is all in favor of your nabbing a husband. My mama tells me Lady Trevelyn was disappointed when you refused to make your debut.”

“She doesn’t know any better,” Lydia said with a shrug of her shoulders. “It is the only life she can envisage for a lady. I have different plans.”

“London is full of worthy causes. You are no longer a child. You could go to London to provide company for your papa while performing your charitable works.”

“I doubt I would see much of him.”

Beaumont flicked the switch over the team’s head and neatly passed a donkey cart that was blocking his progress. He expected a compliment on his driving and was irritated when she said in a chiding way, “We are not going to a fire, Beaumont. For goodness’ sake, drive more carefully. You’ll run us into a ditch.”

“Would you care to take the reins?”

He meant it as a setdown and was annoyed when she said, “I would be happy to.”

“Over my dead body!”

“I happen to be an excellent fiddler! That is exactly what I mean about you—about men. They think they can do everything better,” she said, and turned her head aside to examine the scenery.

“I disagree, ma’am. No one can sulk like a spoiled beauty.”

Even that charge of beauty didn’t interest her. Her mind was busy wondering how she could keep Beaumont from taking over the investigation when they got to London. He would try, in that odiously masculine way, to protect her. He didn’t used to be so condescending when she was a child. He had treated her like an equal then. She had even got the better of him in a few contests. Skipping flat stones across the river’s surface was her particular skill. Now that she was grown up, he treated her like a child.

It was not yet noon when they reached Trevelyn’s house on Grosvenor Square. The house was similar to its neighbors in this gracious part of London. It was a large, three-story brick building with white pillars and an exquisitely molded door with a shining urn knocker. A lamppost crowned the stone steps leading to the door. Windows gleamed in the sunlight.

“What time will you call this afternoon?” she asked.

Beaumont blinked in surprise. He had been expecting an invitation to lunch. “What time will be convenient?” he asked.

“Give me an hour to search. I’ll have to freshen up and have a bite. Come around two. If that is convenient?” she added, when she noticed his scowl.

“Your hansom cab will be here at two, milady.”

“Don’t be late,” she said, and climbed down from her seat before he could get out to assist her. It required an unladylike leap to descend from the high perch carriage.

Beaumont was in a remarkably black humor by the time he reached his own house on Manchester Square. Rude chit. He ought to teach her a lesson. He had a good mind not to call on her at all, except that she might find Mrs. St. John’s address and go sending Bow Street off to stir up trouble or some such thing. He need not fear she would go alone in any case. Too stiff-rumped for anything so daring. The old Lydia would have done just that. And she would have invited him to join her for lunch, too. He was ravenous. At least he was rid of her for the present. He would ask some questions among his friends and see what he could discover about Sir John and his mistress.

Nessie was surprised to see her niece land in unannounced and unaccompanied by either of her parents. Without knowing it, Nessie had become Lydia’s model and mentor in absentia. She was a spinster who seemed perfectly happy with her lot. She had some money of her own and a busy life spent on a good cause. Her acting as Sir John’s housekeeper was a favor to him. She was actually more hostess and companion for social functions than housekeeper. Her spare time and money were devoted to charitable works.

At forty-five, she had the same elegant good looks as her brother. Tall, dark-haired, with a lively, intelligent face, she wore her hair drawn high on her head in an intricate swirl. Her bronze day gown was stylish and elegant without being fussy.

“Lydia! My dear, what brings you to town? Not a toothache, I hope?”

“No indeed, Auntie,” she said, and gave her aunt a hug. “I have come to hear Mr. Coleridge’s lecture this evening. Beaumont brought me. He will be calling for me this afternoon—for a drive in the park.”

“You should have invited him in!”

Lydia frowned. She had not thought of that. She was ready for a cup of tea herself, and no doubt Beaumont would have appreciated an ale. He had had the job of driving.

“I didn’t think of it. That was remiss of me.”

“No matter. Congratulations on your catch, Lydia. How did you nab him? He has been the despair of the mamas for half a dozen seasons now.”

“You misunderstand the matter,” Lydia said at once. She was disappointed in her aunt. She had thought her mind would be above such mundane concerns. “It is not a match. Merely Beaumont was coming to town and offered to bring me.”

“And take you for a drive this afternoon and to the lecture this evening. I doubt he would do that for—say, a maiden aunt,” Nessie said with a waggish smile.

“No, truly! We are just friends and neighbors. Pray do not give him the absurd notion I am throwing my bonnet at him.”

“Oh indeed, no. I am not a complete flat. We must let the lad think he is doing the courting.”

The ladies settled in for a little chat. As Lydia looked around the room, she was struck by how refined it was compared to her country home. Her mama favored a fussy sort of decor, with many samples of her arts of embroidery and dried flowers from a former craze. The paintings were maudlin narrative scenes, mostly of children and cats or dogs. Here all was classical elegance. The books and journals on the sofa table hinted at more intellectual pursuits than embroidery.

“What news from the Hall?” Nessie asked. “Will John be returning to London soon?”

“He says he is feeling stouter, but he is still in bed,” Lydia said. As the biggest news in the parish was the death of Mrs. St. John, she decided she should mention it. She would watch for Nessie’s reaction to the name.

“We have had a bit of excitement. A dead body was found in the river, just there by the bridge between the Hall and Pontneuf Chase. A Mrs. St. John.”

“Oh dear,” Nessie said, but she didn’t say it as if she recognized the name.

“A redheaded woman. A lightskirt, they are saying. She was not a local woman. No one knows what she was doing there.”

Even this did not rouse Nessie to more than casual interest. “A pity she ended up so close to your home. I daresay it has put Miriam in a pucker.”