Suzanne Robinson (14 page)

“You want me to write some letters that can be stolen like poor Juliet Warrender?”

“Not quite,” Tennant said. “All you need is to have in your possession a number of indiscreet letters.”

“You mean letters from a man. But I can’t just suddenly acquire a bunch of letters. This fella knows his business, and he’ll suspect if this correspondence isn’t seen to develop. I’ll have to get me a lover.”

“No!”

Mattie gave him a long-suffering glance. “Not a real one, you simpleton. Everybody knows I’m considering Avery Richmond, so I’m going to have to pretend to lose interest. Then the whole city will start gossiping. If I act a little preoccupied and mope a little, rumors will whip around like cyclones in no time.”

“You have a colorful way of putting it, Miss Bright. And for authenticity’s sake, we must have a real lover. Someone to write letters to you.”

“I could ask Avery.”

“Barmy? Good God, no.”

“I guess I could write them,” she said.

“I shall write them.”

Mattie gave him a skeptical look. “See here, my lord. We don’t even like each other much.”

“If you can act, so can I, Miss Bright.”

“If you say so.” Mattie headed for the bridge. “So what’s his name?”

“Who?”

“My lover,” she said. “You’re going to have to keep up, if this is going to work, my lord.”

“I do wish you’d stop calling me my lord. When I’m not forced to waste my time in Society I go by plain Mr. Tennant.”

“Don’t see why. You still act like a lord. Oh, don’t get all huffy. What about a name for my fictional lover?”

“Michel. Michel Francois Phillipe Chevalier de Lorraine.”

“A Frenchman.”

“All young ladies are susceptible to sophisticated and dashing Frenchmen.”

“They are, are they?”

“You met him on the Continent last year. He’s young, penniless, married, and has two infant sons and a noble, long-suffering wife. Nevertheless, you conceived a violent attachment for young Michel, met him secretly and …”

“And?”

“Were indiscreet.”

“You mean we became lovers,” Mattie said without hesitation.

Tennant appeared rueful. “I forget how different your upbringing was from an English girl’s.”

“We can’t all be born in castles, Mr. Tennant.”

“No.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Such an affair
would ruin any young woman, and an unmarried one in search of a duke’s son for a husband can’t afford even a suspicion.”

“I’m going to be desperate to hide it to keep my reputation.”

“Exactly. So you must behave as thought you can’t help yourself when Michel writes to you to renew your attachment.”

“I’m torn between my ambitions and my desires.”

“Let us hope you’re believed. Now, what about your lady’s maid? Will she succumb to a bribe, or should we provide you with another who’s more susceptible?”

“Better find another. Mademoiselle Elise, whose real name is Tillie Nott, is an upright old stick.”

“I’ll provide a more pliable replacement. Send Tillie home to visit her mother or something.”

They reached the motorcar and Tennant’s horse.

“I’m going to walk home,” Mattie said.

There was nothing that could induce her to climb on a horse with Cheyne Tennant. She watched him ride away in the direction of Hyde Park, then walked toward Lancaster House. Her stride quick, her thoughts racing, she passed St. James’s Palace and Marlborough House, and wound her way over to Spencer House. With each step she scolded herself for falling prey to Tennant’s pretense of goodwill. Things might have been different if she’d been sweet-natured and more like the other young women in Society. But what was the use of wondering? She was better off remembering that her chief attraction was
her fortune. And Mr. Tennant didn’t seem interested in that.

She was going to go home and have one of her mirror sessions. That’s what was wrong. She hadn’t been doing that. Otherwise the lessons of Samuel Pinchot would have been fresh in her mind, and she wouldn’t have let secret hopes impinge upon her.

Of course, she hadn’t realized she’d been harboring any expectations of Cheyne Tennant. They’d been vague, tentative, and uncertain, but they’d been there. No more. Cheyne Tennant was a skunk—a skunk with an honorable purpose, but a skunk nonetheless.

Once back at Spencer House, Mattie ran up the stone staircase, which was housed in a lofty well designed to imitate a Greek temple interior. Her low spirits lifted slightly, for she loved the plasterwork festive garlands threading between Ionic pilasters on the walls. Rather than risk running into Mama, she retreated to the Music Room. There, in front of a pier glass between the windows, she gave herself what she called her Samuel lecture. The only trouble was that this time it ended in tears.

Mattie slumped onto a Chippendale chair and roughly wiped the tears away. “Dang it. You stop that. No varmint like Tennant is going to get the best of you. Besides, you promised to help him. You aiming to blubber every time you seen him?”

Turning her thoughts to the part she must play to catch the blackmailer, Mattie was drumming her fingers on the arm of the Chippendale chair when
Mama came in with a vase brimming with pale pink roses.

“Oh, there you are, dear. I was wondering where you’d got to. It’s almost time to receive callers, so you’d better get dressed.” When Mattie didn’t answer and continued to drum her fingers, Elsa Jane placed the vase on a table and raised her voice. “Mattie!”

Mattie jumped. “What, Mama?”

“What’s got into you? Are you ill?”

“No, Mama.”

“I noticed your room is full of newspapers from home again.”

“I’m keeping up with the government corruption scandals in New York,” Mattie said. “Governor Roosevelt is trying to clean house.” She resumed her contemplation of the task before her.

Mrs. Bright plucked a rose from the vase and stuffed it into a more aesthetically pleasing position. “Hmmm. You haven’t time to worry about politics. Your marquess is coming to call.”

“He’s not my marquess, and Mr. Roosevelt is a sight more interesting than Avery. That darned President McKinley is ignoring all the problems back home, you know. Doesn’t do a thing about corrupt city governments, the giant gulf between rich folks and the poor or the way some of our friends treat their laborers in their factories.” What if she began by confiding in Narcissa about this Chevalier de Lorraine? No, Narcissa didn’t gossip about her.

“I’m not giving up my money just because other
people are poor, Mattie Bright. Now you go get dressed.”

“What?” She would have to confide in someone with a bigger mouth.

“Honestly, Mattie, what’s got into you? It can’t be politics or poor folks that’s got you so frazzled.” Mrs. Bright suddenly became alert. “Is there some gentleman who’s caught your eye? He’s not a duke, is he?”

All at once Mattie woke from her pondering. “Who’s not a duke?”

“This new young man you seem so taken with.”

“What young man?”

Mrs. Bright came over to Mattie and shook a finger. “You listen to me, Mattie. Your father would be so disappointed that you haven’t married a duke by now. You promised you would and you’ve had chances, but you’ve delayed and made excuses.” Elsa Jane pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “When I think of how hard Papa worked to give us this wonderful life we’ve got, and how ungrateful you’re acting …” There was a big sniff.

A boulder slammed into Mattie’s heart. She’d forgotten about Papa for a moment. Then she heard Mama sniff with exaggerated hurt again, and something in her snapped. Wasn’t she twisting herself into unnatural shapes so she could fit into Society? She’d acquired all the right graces; she spoke with the right accent, when she had to. Mama wouldn’t be satisfied
until she could refer to Mattie as “my daughter, Her Grace, the duchess.”

Scowling, Mattie rose and brushed her skirts. “I’m not ungrateful.”

“Then tell me, are you attached to someone else?”

Now was the time to start her pretense. Mattie assumed a guilty expression and turned from her mother.

“No, Mama. There’s no one else. What makes you think there is?”

“Then you’re going to make yourself agreeable to the marquess this afternoon?”

Mattie gave a dramatic sigh. “I suppose so.”

Mrs. Bright watched her daughter closely, but Mattie felt it was too soon to plant more suspicions. She sighed again and wandered toward the door.

“You’ll get dressed, then,” Mrs. Bright called after her.

“Yes, Mama. I’m going to change.” Mattie walked out of the room slowly, as if reluctant to do as she’d been asked.

Three days of this behavior were enough to drive Mrs. Bright into a frenzy. Avery Richmond was annoyed, and Narcissa Potter mystified. On the fourth day Mattie received her first letter from Chevalier by the morning post. The missive was handed to her at the breakfast table by Wynkin the butler. Mattie grabbed it and stuffed it in her pocket, causing her mother to eye her with curiosity. Then she shoveled
her eggs into her mouth, mumbled an excuse, and rushed upstairs to read it.

She and Tennant had agreed that some of his letters should come by regular post. A real victim would trust the efficient British postal system for anonymity. Any real correspondence could be delivered by messenger.

In her room, Mattie settled on a chaise longue and opened the letter. She hoped Tennant had managed to be convincing in spite of his aversion to her, otherwise their whole plan would founder. It wasn’t long, but it began well.

Tennant had enclosed something on a separate sheet. Mattie recognized it from
Romeo and Juliet
:

Mattie folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “I dream of my Lady Midnight. Humph. Wouldn’ta thought he could make up such things, him being an English lord and all.” In Mattie’s experience the English aristocracy were interested in horse racing and card playing, not poetry. And they were more ignorant of their artistic heritage than anyone. They sure didn’t produce letters that contained bits of Shakespeare.

Her thoughts drifted back to the letter, and her expression softened as she murmured, “My Lady Midnight.”

Wouldn’t it have been lovely if he’d really meant the compliment? It would have been even lovelier if he’d meant it and wasn’t a skunk.

 
10
 

From the Music Room floated the exquisite strains of a Chopin sonata. A maid paused by the open doors, closed her eyes, and listened for a few moments before hurrying to her chores. Inside, the music seemed to float on light. Cheyne’s fingers charmed the melody from the grand piano in front of the bow window that looked out on the garden. The semicircular window, divided into five soaring French doors, allowed the outdoors into the room. It was his favorite in the house. When he was troubled Cheyne often came here and played while he allowed his mind to rest.

Peace was elusive this morning because he was worried about Miss Bright. Had she received the letter? What would she think of it? Composing a love letter to a lady he considered a provocative nuisance had been difficult. If he thought about her lovely neck and midnight hair, he became eloquent; if he
remembered what a fool she’d made of him with her assorted tricks, he wanted to strangle her. What man could fall in love with a young woman who acted as if she were still on the prairie among the cowboys and cattle?

He finished the sonata and began an étude. His lip curled in bitter amusement. This piece had been composed by his father. That little discovery had brought some measure of tranquillity to his chaotic world. He’d been fourteen and furious at the duke for selling his favorite gelding. A fight had broken out during which His Grace had become apoplectic.

“You’re a bully, a bloody ignorant bully!” Cheyne had shouted.

The duke roared, yanked him by the collar and backhanded his son. The blow sent Cheyne sprawling on his back. Before the boy could recover, Bracewell pounced on him.

“I curse the day you were born. I should have made your mother get rid of you, you bastard. God, I’ve wanted to say that for fourteen years. You’re a bastard, do you hear? You’re not my son, and I thank God for it!”

The words echoed in Cheyne’s ears even now. Stunned, he’d gone to his mother for the truth. She admitted in her offhand way that there had been a brief liaison with a young French composer, Michel de Lorraine. He’d died of consumption a few years after Cheyne had been born.