Newt's Emerald (7 page)

“Oh!” cried Truthful, forgetting to be angry, her voice going high. Then, more gruffly, “Please, tell me what it was?”

“I should have recalled it earlier,” mused the Major, stepping back and looking Truthful up and down as she blushed hotly and clenched her fists. “Yes, I should have indeed, with the
evidence in front of me! As I said, Chevalier, I infrequently visit London, and am not sociable at all. But last night I came to town to dine with friends, and I heard a curious story about a heiress who has come to London in search of a lost gem, and since she cannot actively search for it herself, employs her French cousin to so on her behalf. A womanish sort of cousin, I am told, who is excessively quiet and pious. Hardly the sort of fellow one employs in such a serious affair, even if you are due more credit than the tale tells.”

“Lady Troutbridge!” hissed Truthful, wishing that whatever sickness had slowed her gossip would return threefold. Then, louder, she said, “Lady Truthful had no one else to turn to, sir. But it is true that I am not practised in these matters.”

“Have you talked to someone who is?” asked Harnett, and Truthful saw that he was quite serious. He wasn’t mocking her.

“Non,” she replied despondently. “I know so few people in London. My friends are all abroad. It is impossible.”

“There is one man you should definitely consult,” said Harnett. “In fact, I shall be taking supper with him tonight at White’s. I think you should accompany me.”

“White’s!” exclaimed Truthful, thinking of that solid male bastion, its many highly sorcerous members, and the potential fragility of her glamour. “But I am not a member!”

“In that case, we shall both be guests of General Leye,” said Major Harnett. “He is just the man to help you and Lady Truthful find your lost jewel.”

Truthful looked at him cautiously. He seemed friendly enough now, and his air of easy competence was comforting. But he could represent a danger to Lady Truthful, at least. An unknown, sold-out Major who dressed in such a slipshod fashion (even in a back street) might well be a fortune-hunter of some kind. He certainly looked like he needed money. He freely admitted to not going about in society, and he wasn’t a member of White’s. Evidently he was not a man of the first stare. But if he knew General Leye, as he claimed . . .

Truthful had heard a great deal about
him
, for General Leye had been the premier spy-catcher of the long wars against Napoleon, and must certainly have the sort of inquisitive mind and experience that would greatly aid her search for the Emerald.

“I must accept,” she said finally. “Truly, I need help. At what hour, Major?”

“Oh, ten at the club,” replied the Major. “I’d give you my card, but I’ve left my case in my coat. Just ask for General Leye. We’ll be in a private supper room, of course. There’s no need to tell Lady Truthful about this. Best to keep the womenfolk in the dark on the details. Tell ’em you’re out with friends.”

“Of course,” replied Truthful, the faintest smile twitching her lips. They shook hands again, she mounted to ride away, hesitated, and both said, “Directions!”

Harnett gave her the directions she required, without condescension, and watched her walk her horse to the corner and advance into a trot. As she disappeared out of sight, two other men sauntered out of doorways nearby. One was the watchman who’d given Truthful the earlier directions that had led to her to the lane, and the other was a man dressed much like Harnett, if a little more stained with ink.

“An interesting method of introduction,” the latter said as he strolled across. “But I wish you hadn’t used my manuscript.”

“I had to look like I belonged in this inky little street,” replied the ‘Major’. “I’m afraid I’ve had to appropriate your name as well, the Frenchman saw the title page. I’m glad you were here, Harnett. I’ve been following him all morning without the chance of concocting an accidental meeting.”

“Thank you for your part too, Sergeant Ruggins,” he added to the watchman, who was standing at attention next to the real Harnett.

“I don’t know why I oblige you, Charles,” said Harnett, taking his manuscript and looking at it sadly. “Heaven knows why I do, considering the scrapes you’ve got me into.”

“My natural charm,” said Charles, who had turned back to look out the way Truthful departed. “There’s something dashed peculiar about that Frenchman, James. A whiff of sorcery of some kind. I can’t quite fathom it yet, but I’m glad the General asked me to look into the fellow. Boney still has his supporters, both in and out of France and they have not despaired of releasing him from the Rock.”

“Cloak and dagger,” muttered Harnett, shaking his head, though he knew in the case of his old friend that it was not merely the war that had turned him against the French. “You and the
General have been in your twilight world too long, Charles. I’ll wager you haven’t even told your uncle and aunt you’re back in England.”

“True enough,” replied Charles, taking him by the arm and leading him back through the doorway. “But I am planning to retire after this matter of the Frenchman and the Newington Emerald. Now, tell me what you know about Lady Truthful Newington. Is she as beautiful as they say, or merely rich and spoilt?”

“All three, I suspect,” replied Harnett. “Haven’t met her. Duckmanton saw her in the park, and declares her ravishing but over-proud.”

Sergeant Ruggins, closing the door after the two gentleman, heard his superior laugh, and caught the words “Duckmanton . . . aground . . . heiress” and then “mooncalf”, before the door slammed, and their voices were lost in the grinding of the key in the iron lock.

Chapter Six

Supper at White’s

Truthful returned to Lady Badgery’s house in the guise of the Chevalier de Vienne, made a brief re-appearance as herself to announce that she had a sick headache and would not be attending a planned card party that night, then devoted herself to preparing her evening costume for the appearance of de Vienne at White’s.

Fortunately, or perhaps shockingly (though Truthful innocently thought of it as merely another of her great-aunt’s eccentricities), Lady Badgery’s house had numerous secret passages. Truthful’s bedroom had a hidden door in the wardrobe, leading to a passage that communicated with both a lesser saloon and one of the guest bedrooms on the other side of the house, now given over to the Chevalier de Vienne. So it was quite easy for Lady Truthful Newington to enter her room, a cold compress against her forehead, lock the door behind her and reappear as the Chevalier de Vienne an hour later, from an entirely different room.

Contrary to the instructions of the man Truthful knew as Major Harnett, Truthful stopped at Lady Badgery’s parlour before she went out. After knocking and announcing herself in her male identity, she entered to find Lady Badgery examining a music box, cleverly in-laid with mother-of-pearl in the shape of tiny harpsichord keys.

“Ah, my dear boy,” said Lady Badgery. She put the box down as Truthful entered, and tilted her head to listen to the delicate air it slowly picked out, winding its way down to a tuneless murmur. “Or perhaps I should say, young man. You are obviously going out this evening.”

“Yes, cousin,” replied Truthful gruffly, casting a look at one of the maids, who was putting a glass and a bottle of ratifia on the satinwood side table.

“Eliza, please go and fetch some port for the chevalier,” said Lady Badgery, smoothly catching Truthful’s conspiratorial gaze. “Dworkin will instruct you.”

“Yes, milady,” replied the maid, bobbing her head to both Lady Badgery and the elegant young Frenchman as she hurried from the room.

“I take it that you have finally found some clue, some indication of the whereabouts of the Emerald?” asked Lady Badgery, gesturing to Truthful to sit down beside her.

“I’m afraid not,” said Truthful, with a heartfelt sigh. “But I accidentally met a man today, a Major Harnett, who had heard about the loss of the Emerald, probably from—”

“The odious Lady Troutbridge,” interrupted Lady Badgery. She slapped the table, making the music box jump and jangle. “She arrived in town the day before yesterday, and has lost no time in spreading that tale. Parkins told me this afternoon.”

“Major Harnett said he’d heard it last night, but he didn’t say where,” exclaimed Truthful. “Then he suggested that I should consult with someone who is expert in these affairs. General Leye. And he invited me to join them both at White’s tonight for supper.”

“Ned Leye . . .” said Lady Badgery. She frowned and scratched the bridge of her significant nose. “I did consider consulting him. You will have to be careful, my chevalier. He is a very accomplished sorcerer, and has a reputation for seeing through enchantments and glamours. It would mean ruin for Lady Truthful if a certain, albeit necessary deception were to be discovered.”

“I know,” replied Truthful, her elegant white hands briefly clasped in anxiety. “But I really do need help. If General Leye is as clever as everyone thinks he, I’m sure he can help me find the Emerald. My . . . my reputation, or lack of it, is of no consequence.”

“It is of every consequence!” snapped Lady Badgery. “However—”

A knock on the door interrupted any further conversation, but instead of Eliza, Agatha entered, carrying a tray with a decanter of port and several glasses.

“Where is Eliza?” asked Lady Badgery, who was not fond of her great-niece’s cantankerous maid. “And why aren’t you attending Lady Truthful?”

“Eliza was suddenly taken ill, milady,” replied Agatha. “And Lady Truthful has gone to bed with a headache. Will that be all, milady?”

“Yes, Agatha,” said the Dowager Countess, waving her hand to dismiss her. “Please ask Parkins to look after Eliza, and call Doctor Embury if she needs attention.”

Agatha nodded, and mumbled something appropriate as she turned to go. As her head bent, Truthful noticed that her expression was quite twisted, as if a secret, hidden visage of malice had come to the surface for a moment. Then, as she straightened up and went to the door, it was the old Agatha again, grumbling and cantankerous but with no trace of that cold and cunning look that had flashed across her face the moment before. It had happened so quickly that Truthful wondered if she had imagined that sudden grimace.

“You may take my carriage, of course,” said Lady Badgery after Agatha had shut the door. “It wouldn’t do to ride up to White’s. And do come and tell me all about it when you get home. Even if it’s late . . . or early.”

“I will,” said Truthful, smiling.

“Good,” replied the Dowager. “I am sure I will get a much more accurate picture of White’s from you than I ever have had from my, shall we say more masculine friends?”

“You can be certain of an accurate tale, cousin,” laughed Truthful. She sprang out of her chair, and bowed low over her great-aunt’s proffered hand, enjoying the freedom of pantaloons over her usual cumbersome dress, despite a feeling that it was quite improper to do so.

Shortly before ten o’clock she stepped down from her great-aunt’s carriage outside the bow windows of White’s, where the famous glamourists Brummel, Alvanley, Mildmay and Pierrepoint had once lounged and made disparaging comments about passers-by. Truthful didn’t look towards the window, however, in case she saw someone making just such a disparaging comment about her, or rather, the Chevalier de Vienne. Instead, she walked swiftly up the steps, the porter only just opening the door quickly enough.

The major domo inside, seeing a face unknown to him, quickly came forward to ask if he could be of any assistance and to politely eject this young sprig if he was not a member or invited guest.

“I am a guest of General Leye’s, monsieur,” said Truthful, trying to be at her gruffest and most French. “I am the Chevalier de Vienne.”

The major domo smiled, and bowed his head, crooking his finger at the same time to summon a waiting footman to take Truthful’s hat and gloves. “James, the Chevalier will be joining General Leye’s supper party.”

Two minutes later, Truthful was standing outside a heavy door deep inside the club. She had caught a quick glimpse of some sort of gaming room as they had traversed a corridor; heard snatches of laughter, talk and the click of dice and chink of glasses; and several whiffs of smoke from cigars; then they had passed on from the better known parts of the club towards a private dining room.

The door was opened by Major Harnett, and the footman announced, “The Chevalier de Vienne, sir, to dine with the General.”

“Come in, sir!”

Truthful walked in slowly, and saw that the room was quite small, and dark. There were only a half dozen candles burning in a tarnished silver gilt candelabra set on a corner table. In the soft light she saw a portly, balding gentleman, with a prominent nose and bushy eyebrows, his tall form resting in a leather armchair rather like a folded-up vulture. She knew him at once from drawings and the famous caricature by Thomas Rowlandson, published at the height of Leye’s success as a spycatcher in 1815, shortly before Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo and his subsequent immurement in the stone of Gibraltar.

“Bonsoir, Chevalier,” he said. “Je suis heureux que vous ayez pu vous joindre à moi ce soir. Vous avez déjà rencontré . . . Major Harnett, je crois?”

“Oui. Major Harnett et j'ai rencontré ce matin,” replied Truthful carefully, as Harnett stepped towards her from behind the General’s chair and inclined his head. The General’s French was very fast and fluent, but she had managed to follow it without difficulty. She cast a glance at Harnett as she spoke, partly to see if he had understood the General’s French, and partly to admire his dress — although she told herself it was merely for the purpose of furthering her own disguise.

For the ink-stained coatless ruffian of that morning had been replaced by an expensive elegance that stopped short of dandyism. From his astonishingly white knee breeches to his cravat tied in the waterfall mode, he was attired as a man of taste and consequence. Even his
jet-black hair had succumbed to order, swept back in a style Truthful could only admire without recognizing it as being done in the fashion known as à la Brutus.