Lord Foxbridge Butts In (34 page)

“Locking and barricading this door so no one besides your lordship can escape this way.  Emmanuel from the dining-room is covering the other service door.”

“Well, I’m jiggered,” I gasped with admiration for Pond’s cunning, “Carry on.”

We made our way noisily down an uncarpeted back stair, which led us to a steel-covered door into a long, narrow, amazingly filthy alley.  Pond came through another door further down, half-carrying a shivering and disoriented Claude, who’d been hastily wrapped in a small tablecloth.  The Duchess’s motor was at the end of the alley, as promised, the chauffeur standing at attention with the door open.  We bundled in and started moving, passing the Black Maria in front of the hotel, where a dozen bluebottles were herding auction guests into its maw.

I took a minute to catch my breath, which is harder to do in a corset than one could have thought (no wonder ladies used to faint so much), made sure that Caro, Claude, and Lady Bea were all right, and crawled into the jump-seat beside the window separating the servants from the gentlefolk.

“What the
hell
, Pond?” I posed my hundred questions in a single phrase.

“Your lordship will forgive me, I hope,” Pond replied stiffly, unwilling to let down his professional front before a fellow servant, “I acted in your lordship’s best interest.”

“Of course,” I glanced resentfully at the chauffeur, whose profile I would have quite enjoyed if he weren’t in the way of me getting my answers, “Where are we going?”

“I thought Lady Beatrice’s home would be the best place to change clothes, if your lordship doesn’t mind.  I have Mr.
 Chatroy’s clothes, as well, and I’ve arranged for Lady Caroline’s maid to meet us there.”

“Efficient as always, Pond.  You’re an absolute wonder!” I thanked him effusively, mostly for the benefit of the chauffeur, whose name I had not yet heard, “Carry on.”

“Are you my owner?” Claude asked Lady Bea, against whom he had been snuggling for warmth, still with that goofy dreaming look on his face.

“Actually, Lord Foxbridge has that honour,” Lady Bea answered, running a fingernail along Claude’s chiseled jaw.

“Foxy?” he peered at me through the haze of opium, confused by my disguise, “Is that you in there?”

“In the flesh, old bean,” I replied, bristling a little: he had no right to call me by my school name, even if his cousins did.

“You’ll address Lord Foxbridge correctly, boy,” Lady Bea’s voice changed to one of command as she pinched him on the leg hard enough to make him yelp.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied meekly.

“Yes,
Mistress
,” she corrected him with another cruel pinch, this one in a more sensitive area.

“Yes, Mistress,” he gasped.  Though he’d cried out in genuine pain, I could see enough through his tablecloth that he was enjoying himself immensely. At her command, he knelt on the floor of the car and lifted my left foot, kissing it gently, then repeating with my right foot.

“Lord Foxbridge bought you as a gift for Lady Beatrice,” Caro said to her cousin with a warning glower in my direction; I suppose her open-mindedness didn’t stretch as far as letting her soon-to-be fiancé dally with her cousin, “
She
’s your mistress now.”

“Thank you, Fox — ouch!  I mean, Lord Foxbridge,” he said as politely as a schoolboy receiving a prize, turning and laying his head submissively in Lady Bea’s lap so she could pet him.

Things were getting very hot and uncomfortable in the car, and I was incredibly relieved when we arrived in Park Lane and were bustled into the house as fast as possible.  Lady Bea turned Claude over to her butler, instructing him to put “our new pet” in the kitchen (I had to wonder
what
her cook would think), and then showed Caro and me to her and her husband’s respective dressing-rooms so we could change.

“Not much of a rescue, was it, Pond?” I said when we were alone, after Partridge had unhooked my dress and loosened the corset before seeing to her own charge, “I only saved him from being mauled by that ghastly greasy gangster chap.  It cost me a thousand guineas, and he’s
still
going to get mauled.”

“The cheque I presented to de Mazan’s clerk in exchange for Mr.
 Claude was one of your lordship’s own, but was signed ‘La Pantera,’” he grinned mischievously, “No bank would honour it, so the transaction cost your lordship nothing. And I am sure Mr. Claude will appreciate the difference of situation between Mr. Arnstein and Lady Beatrice Todmore.  Besides, Lady Caroline
did
approve the arrangement.”

“True enough.  Do you know anything about this Arnstein fellow?” I wondered.

“Only that he is not a gentleman,” Pond sniffed haughtily, then dropped into his Reggie voice for a moment, “Those shoes were the
limit
.  Pointed toes and Cuban heels?  Made him look even fatter, like a hot-air balloon.”

“Now tell me everything about this caper of yours,” I demanded jovially after I’d finished giggling over his comment.

“Your lordship isn’t angry?” he asked tentatively.

“Only at myself, for not having thought up the scheme in the first place.”

“Well, after your lordship left for Buckland House this afternoon,” he began, sliding my shirt over my shoulders and going to work on the buttons, “I was putting away your lordship’s notes, and it suddenly struck me that there was a connection between Mr. Chatroy’s case and the kidnapping case on which Sir Oliver is working.  You see, I’d learned from the Buckland House servants that Mr. Chatroy is very good friends with Miss Cumming; there is some talk of an engagement when they come of age; de Mazan may have traded on that friendship and lured the girl away.”

“How did you know Miss
 Cumming was Twister’s kidnapping case?”

“From your lordship’s conversation with Sir Oliver at dinner on Sunday.”

“But
how
?” I persisted, trying to look at him while he knotted my necktie, “I mean first of all, how did you hear our conversation? And second, how did you know her identity?  Twister didn’t tell me her name or anything about her, except that she was a teen-aged girl with a pushy well-connected father.”

“Young ladies disappearing from Members of Parliament’s households get gossiped about.  Every servant in Westminster knows Miss
 Cumming is missing.  Mr. Cumming has bullied Fleet Street to keep it out of the papers, but things get around nonetheless.  The teen-aged girl with a pushy well-connected father, as your lordship puts it, could
only
be Miss Cumming.  And I did
not
hear your lordship’s conversation with Sir Oliver,” he looked just a tiny bit embarrassed as he slid the pin into my tie, “Emmanuel told me about your conversation later the same night when we met at the pub down Bury Street.”

“Oh! Ah!” I nodded my understanding.  I’d known that Pond was well placed in the belowstairs rumour-mills, and should not have been surprised that he already knew so much — after all, it was his fund of information more than his unerring precision with ties that made him most valuable to me.  But I didn’t realize that his gossip network reached so far beyond St.
 James’s: the Cummings lived in Holland Park, if I’d remembered correctly.

“Once I made that connection,” he continued his tale, “I felt duty-bound to report my suspicions to Sir Oliver; so I went to Scotland Yard and told him about it; I was forced to mention the auction, in that I believed the young lady would be presented for sale.  I also told him that your lordship would be there in search of young Mr.
 Chatroy, but did not mention the disguise aspect, nor that Lady Caroline and Lady Beatrice would also be present.  I merely said that you’d obtained an invitation from a friend who must remain nameless.”

“Oh! Thank you!” I
had
been worried about that — though whether it was Twister finding out about the drag that alarmed me most, or him knowing of Lady Bea’s and Caro’s involvement, I couldn’t say.

“I hope I obeyed the spirit of your lordship’s wishes, if not the letter,” he bowed his head in a not-very-convincing display of grief for having risked my ire.

“Oh, absolutely!” I enthused, and then reached out to shake his hand in both of mine, “You deserve a rise in pay.  I’ll tell the bank tomorrow.  But how did you convince Twister to let you spirit me and Claude and everyone out of the building before he crashed the party with his minions of the Law?”

“I did not mention my own intended involvement to Sir
 Oliver,” he let a tiny shadow of a smile flit across his face, “I only hope that my steps to secure the exits will weigh somewhat in my favor when he finds out.”

“You could give van der Swertz lessons on diplomacy,” I marveled at him, “Summing up, you’ve not only helped me save a friend from an unpleasant evening with the odious Arnstein, without it costing me a penny, but you also put the Marquis out of business and out of our lives — I imagine he’ll be deported, rather than sent to Dartmoor for a nice long stretch, though the latter
would
be preferable — without endangering me or my reputation, nor the safety and reputations of my friends.  If I were a king, I’d knight you, right here and now.”

“Your lordship is too kind.”

“No, no,
really
.  You deserve a reward, more than just a rise in pay.  What can I give you?  Demand something really swanky.  Unto half of my kingdom.”

“I wish your lordship would purchase a motorcar,” he said after a long and thoughtful pause.

“You want a motorcar?” I tilted my head with curiosity.  I couldn’t imagine what he’d want it
for
, since he never went farther away from home than Soho Square.

“No, my lord,” he did that tiny-shadow-flitting smile again, “I wish
your lordship
to have a motorcar.”

“Oh!” I saw the light, “I bet there’s a big burly mechanic at a garage nearby, all thews and sinews and grease-stained hands and whatnot.”

“Yes, my lord,” he smiled, a real Reggie smile this time, “A young man such as you describe
does
work at a garage off Ryder Street, and I would not disdain to further the acquaintance.”

“Well certainly.  Is that all you’re going to ask?  That’s nowhere
near
half my kingdom.”

“Perhaps your lordship will allow me to request a further reward at some time in the future?” his eyes gleamed slyly for a moment.

“Not my smoking jacket!” I gasped.

“No, not your lordship’s smoking jacket,” he smiled benignly at me.

“Well, then, that’s fine,” I breathed a sigh of relief, though I was still uneasy about other treasured parts of my wardrobe that he’d scorned, “I owe you one fairly massive favor, to be redeemed at any time you see fit.”

“Thank you, my lord.  The ladies are waiting in the drawing room, if you wish to join them.”

I toddled along down the stairs to the pretty oval drawing-room, where Caro and Lady Bea were already ensconced with a ladylike version of a ploughman’s: a slab of soft Camembert with dainty squares of toast and slices of fruit, accompanied by tea and sherry.

“I am sorry we couldn’t save your friends, Lady Bea,” I apologized after refreshing myself at the board.

“Don’t give it another thought, darling,” she grinned wickedly, “Most of them will find the experience very refreshing, and more than one of them deserve a good deal worse.  Besides, there were
certain
personages present who will prevent any of it getting into the papers, so no lasting harm will attach.  The Marquis won’t escape the kidnapping charge, but I’ll bet ready money you won’t hear a further peep about the auction.”

“I wonder how much goes on in this town that never gets into the papers?” I mused; my own disappearance had not been reported, nor had Miss
 Cumming’s, and now an entire prostitution and slavery ring would be hushed up.  It was amazing that the papers could find enough information to interest their readers, considering how much they left out.

“Much of what
is
in the papers is simply made up,” Caro said authoritatively.  Her uncle (the other one, Lord David, not Claude’s father) published one of the more prestigious dailies, so I suppose she’d know, “It’s quite a sinister cabal they have in Fleet Street.”

We chatted on for another hour about scandals we’d heard tell of that hadn’t been in the papers, and Lady Bea let us in on quite a few more that hadn’t even got into the rumour-mill.  She was an absolutely delightful conversationalist when she wasn’t being shocking, as was Caro when she wasn’t being pushy; it really was a terribly entertaining evening, taken all in all.  I wondered if this is what married life would be like, Caro and I entertaining friends in a sweet little drawing room late at night.

Eventually, though, we all started yawning, and it was time to go.  Lady Bea saw us out, and we found the Duchess’s car and driver waiting for us, with Pond and Partridge crammed into the front with the chauffeur.

“You won’t
really
hurt Claude, will you?” I asked Lady Bea as we were leaving, still concerned for the boy’s safety.