Sir Philip's Folly (The Poor Relation Series Book 4) (4 page)

“Granted,” said Lady Fortescue. “The woman is a leech. Go on. Ah, tea.”

Arabella waited impatiently until Jack, the footman, had deposited the tea-things on the table, and retired.

“It is like this,” she said eagerly. “You must offer this Mrs. Budge a richer victim.”

“Who?” Lady Fortescue was obviously becoming increasingly impatient.

“You could pay some actor to masquerade as a rich merchant and to court her. That would dislodge her from Sir Philip.”

There was a long, considering silence, broken at last by Miss Tonks. “My dear Arabella,” she said, “I do believe it might work.”

Arabella turned bright eyes on Lady Fortescue.

“It just
might
work,” said that lady consideringly. “What do you think, Colonel?”

“The trouble is that we usually leave that sort of organization to Sir Philip. He would find a suitable actor.”

“I have been thinking,” said Miss Tonks, “that it is time I developed bottom. Perhaps if there were some way I could go to the theatre with Miss Carruthers, then we could survey the cast and pick out someone suitable and approach that gentleman in the Green Room after the performance.”

“Perhaps,” ventured Arabella, “it might be better to find some actor who is not in employ and would do anything for some money. I read an article in the newspapers last year about the coffee-houses of London and it said that the players met in John’s Coffee-House in Drury Lane.

“I shall go there directly,” said the colonel and then they all looked at each other in surprise, surprise that Arabella had hit on a solution to their problem, surprise that the retiring colonel of all people had accepted the idea so readily.

“Two ladies visiting an actor in the Green Room would occasion comment,” added the colonel.

Lady Fortescue dispensed tea and then turned to Arabella. “Now to your problem, Miss Carruthers. Perhaps we must find a way to alter your appearance. I think, were you allowed to look your age, then perhaps Denby would favour you. First things first. Ah, I have it. Miss Tonks, you were saying the other day that you wished to have your hair arranged by Monsieur André.”

Miss Tonks nodded.

“Perhaps if you could wait a little longer. We could summon Monsieur André, making the appointment for mid-afternoon, when Lady Carruthers is out on calls or in the Park. We get him to give Miss Carruthers a fashionable crop—”

“All that beautiful hair!” exclaimed the colonel. “Why not just get it put up?”

“Because put-up hair can be taken down again. We explain that Monsieur André made a terrible mistake and should have done Miss Tonks’ hair instead. Lady Carruthers will be furious, but we will ask why she is so angry that her daughter’s hair has received such an expensive crop and at the hotel’s expense. The lady can hardly say it is because she wishes to appear young herself that she keeps her daughter looking as if she had just come out of the schoolroom.”

“I saw the earl this morning,” said Arabella miserably. “I was chasing a ball which a child had thrown. I ran down the stairs to get it. He picked it up and he… he ruffled my hair.”

“Oh, dear,” said Lady Fortescue. “I think we will send Jack with an order to Monsieur André, but first, Miss Carruthers, you must make sure he calls—or rather, that we arrange for him to call—when Lady Carruthers is guaranteed to be out of the hotel.”

“I will look at her cards,” said Arabella eagerly. “I think she is to attend the Pattersons’ ball tomorrow night.”

“I doubt if such a famous personage as Monsieur André can come at such short notice,” remarked Lady Fortescue, “but we can try.”

The colonel got to his feet. “I will go to John’s Coffee-House. If I find a suitable actor, I will bring him back here directly.”

“No, Sir Philip might see him. Arrange for him to call after dinner, when Sir Philip will have retired with his slut.”

***

The colonel walked to Covent Garden, to Drury Lane. Although not a vain man, he could not help stopping to admire his appearance in a looking-glass in a shop window. He looked so different from the shabby individual who had collapsed from hunger at Lady Fortescue’s feet in Hyde Park. His morning dress of corbeau-coloured coat, striped waistcoat, buff breeches and glistening top-boots had restored his outward appearance to that of a gentleman of fashion. But he could not help wishing he were actually a gentleman again instead of a man in trade. He gave a little sigh and went on his way, his cane tucked under his arm at just the right angle, his new beaver hat tipped rakishly over his pomaded white hair.

When he reached the coffee-house, he hesitated in the doorway, suddenly made timid by the company. Some had come from rehearsals and were highly painted. All appeared to be gesticulating and talking at the tops of their voices. Some brandished tattered scripts.

His blue eyes ranged from one face to another and at last came to rest on the disconsolate figure of a slight middle-aged man who was sitting alone in a corner. He had a thin, sad face and liquid brown eyes and thick brown hair dusted with grey. His clothes were shabby and his shirt-points were frayed.

The colonel made his way over to this individual’s table. “May I sit here, sir?” he asked.

“By all means.” His voice reassured the colonel, who felt it was an actor’s voice, the vowels well-rounded, the tone mellifluous.

The colonel ordered a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Forgive the liberty, sir,” he said, addressing the actor. “I do not care to drink alone. Will you join me?”

“Gladly. I am Jason Davy.”

“Player?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I am Colonel Sandhurst, at your service.”

“And what is Colonel Sandhurst doing in a players’ coffee-house?”

“Mr. Davy, I am looking for an out-of-work and hungry actor.”

Mr. Davy looked at him ruefully. “I am out of work and very hungry.”

The colonel signalled to the waiter and ordered a meat pie and vegetables. “You will feel better when you have eaten something, Mr. Davy. Nothing clouds the judgement more than hunger.”

The actor looked at him consideringly. “You must have been in some hard campaigns in your life, Colonel, to know what hunger is like.”

“It was not in the army that I came to know hunger,” said the colonel quietly. While they drank and waited for Mr. Davy’s food, the actor pointed out various personages and talked about the plays they were appearing in.

The colonel explained he was part-owner of the Poor Relation Hotel in Bond Street and told various harmless but amusing stories about hotel life while the actor ate, cleaning every bit of food from his plate.

“Now, sir,” said Colonel Sandhurst, “I will explain our problem. One of our partners, Sir Philip Sommerville, has fallen in love with a widow, a Mrs. Mary Budge, who is greedy and grasping and brings discredit to our establishment. We do not believe she has one genuine spark of affection for Sir Philip. Accordingly, we hit on this plan. If we could engage the services of an actor to appear in the guise of a wealthy merchant, someone who could court Mrs. Budge and dislodge her from the hotel, we would be free of her.”

The actor’s hands swept down his shabby clothes in an eloquent gesture. “I am hardly in a position to look like a rich merchant.”

“Suitable clothes can be bought for you and you will be given expenses above your fee to woo this creature.”

Mr. Davy leaned back in his chair. “Colonel Sandhurst, if you can see your way to finding me a cheroot, I am your man.”

The colonel took out a squat leather case and laid it on the table. “Take what you want, sir.”

Mr. Davy snapped open the case. He took out six cheroots, five of which he stowed about his person. How wonderful, thought the colonel, to be so unselfconsciously poor. He himself in the days of his poverty had often longed for a cheroot but would never have dared ask for one, let alone help himself to six of them.

The actor lit a cheroot from the candle on the table, puffed out a cloud of smoke and leaned back in his chair.

The colonel smiled at him, his blue eyes twinkling. “Now we will discuss terms, Mr. Davy.”

***

They stayed the rest of the afternoon, drinking coffee, the colonel pointing out that they would need clear heads and that Lady Fortescue did not appreciate the company of bosky men. By early evening, the colonel ordered a substantial dinner for both, and by the time he and Mr. Davy sauntered out into the streets of London, the colonel had the odd feeling that he had known Mr. Davy for quite a long time. Mr. Davy was grateful for the food, the wine, the cheroots and the work and emanated an aura of simple and grateful affection which was most endearing. He appeared to have accepted the new role he was about to play with equanimity.

“I have been thinking,” said the colonel, idly watching a child driving a dogcart down Drury Lane with all the expertise of a member of the Four-in-Hand Club, “that it would be better if you were resident in the hotel. As we only cater for aristocrats, and you in the guise of an aristocrat would be far above Mrs. Budge’s touch, I will describe you as the son of a friend of mine from my regimental days who has made a fortune in the City. Can you talk business matters enough to convince Sir Philip?”

“Oh, I think so.”

“Remember, Sir Philip is a downy one.”

“And the other partners, they know about this masquerade?”

“Yes. Both Lady Fortescue and Miss Tonks have agreed to it.”

“And was it your idea, sir?”

The colonel idly speared a cabbage leaf with his stick as they walked through Covent Garden and then flipped it away. “No, the plan was the idea of a Miss Carruthers, daughter of Lady Carruthers, who is staying at the hotel. Lady Carruthers is a widow. I believe her husband, Sir James, died a year ago on the hunting field. This daughter was befriended by Miss Tonks. Miss Carruthers is forced to dress as a school miss although she is nineteen because her mother is on the hunt for husband number two and wishes to look younger than her years.”

“Like a play,” mused the actor as they strolled amiably together in the failing light under the flickering parish lamps. King Street, New Street, across St. Martin’s Lane, Cecil Court, Bear Street and so to Leicester Square and on to Piccadilly. London was at its best at this time of night, with the still-open shops glittering with treasures from all over the world and with the air full of the smells of fruit and spices. Traffic was quieter in the West End, as the various nobles who owned parts of this quarter of the Town had put posts and barriers at strategic parts so that they would not be disturbed too much by the rumble of any carriages other than their own.

“Bond Street at last,” said the colonel.

“I often come here,” said Mr. Davy. “It is a street of dreams. Here one can imagine one is rich, an adventurer, part of the fashionable throng.”

The colonel led the way into the hotel, handed his hat, gloves and cane to Jack and led the way up the stairs.

The three ladies had been waiting impatiently for his return, that is, Miss Tonks, Lady Fortescue and Arabella, with Lady Fortescue beginning to have serious doubts whether the colonel would succeed in his mission.

They looked up in relief as the colonel entered the sitting-room and then curiously at the shabby actor who followed him.

With an air of triumph, the colonel introduced Mr. Davy, who swept them all a magnificent bow.

“Mr. Davy is prepared to play his part,” said the colonel, explaining that the actor was to masquerade as a rich Cit.

“He will need to stay in his lodgings until suitable clothes are ready for him,” said Lady Fortescue.

“I could rent some suitable clothes,” said the actor.

Lady Fortescue shook her head. “No, Mr. Davy, stage clothes will not fit the part. Sir Philip is very sharp, and there must be no smell of grease-paint about you. Miss Tonks, give this dish of tea to Mr. Davy. A cake, Mr. Davy? They are our chefs best. His choux pastry is a miracle. You seem a kind and amiable man, Mr. Davy. But have you got it in you to woo a gross and vulgar woman such as Mrs. Budge?”

“If Mrs. Budge is as Colonel Sandhurst describes her,” said the actor, “then she is greedy and after money, so my charms will not be much needed.”

Miss Tonks leaned forward, her eyes shining. “The theatre fascinates me. I would love one day to go backstage and to see how all the scenery works.”

Mr. Davy smiled. “I could easily take you any time you want. I may be out of work, but I am still one of
them
and can come and go in the playhouse during rehearsals as I please. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon, if you are not otherwise engaged…?”

“I would love to go as well,” said Arabella.

“Wait a bit,” said the colonel, alarmed. “Mr. Davy is going to have to keep clear of this hotel until his clothes are ready and then he is going to have to pay attention to Mrs. Budge and to no one else.”

“But we could meet him at the theatre,” begged Miss Tonks.

“There is the matter of Miss Carruthers’s hair,” put in Lady Fortescue. “Monsieur André will be here tomorrow evening.”

“That’s tomorrow afternoon then,” said Mr. Davy. “I will meet both of you at the stage door in the Haymarket at two o’clock.”

Arabella’s face fell. “Mama does not rise until two. She does not go out on her calls until three at the earliest.”

“Then we will make it three o’clock,” said Mr. Davy easily, and helped himself to another cake.

“I know who you are,” shrieked Miss Tonks suddenly, making them all jump. “You were Rosencrantz when Kean was playing Hamlet; let me see, that would be in 1802. I was in the gallery, but I marked you particularly. Jason Davy. Yes, and you played Mirabell a year later, in
The Way of the World
.”

Mr. Davy dusted icing sugar from his fingers and grinned. “My greatest moment.” He stood up and took up a position by the fireplace and declaimed, “Her follies are so natural, or so artful, that they become her; and those affectations which in another woman wou’d be odious, serve but to make her more agreeable. I’ll tell thee, Fainall, she once us’d me with that insolence, that in revenge I took her to pieces; sifted her, and separated her failings; I study’d ’em, and got ’em by rote. The catalogue was so large, that I was not without hopes, one day or other to hate her heartily. To which end I so us’d my self to think of ’em, that at length, contrary to my design and expectation, they gave me every hour less and less disturbance; ’till in a few days it became habitual to me, to remember ’em without being displeas’d. They are now grown as familiar to me as my own frailties; and in all probability in a little time longer I shall like ’em as well.”