The Dreadful Debutante (10 page)

At last he returned, washed and dressed with his white hair tied back with a black ribbon. He was wearing a buff suit of clothes and old-fashioned square-toed shoes.

“How may I be of assistance to you?” he asked.

She took a deep breath and told him about Mira and the marquess—what she had seen and what she suspected. He listened calmly to her, his hands on his knees, his pale eyes fixed on her face.

“Are you not going to take notes?” she demanded when she had finished.

“I may be old,” he said, “but I have a very good memory. We must fix a price, my lady.”

He named a sum that made her blink. She looked contemptuously about the spare room. “Oh, no,” he said, “I am not poor and am constantly kept busy with this and that. I choose to live simply. I am not going to haggle, my lady. Those are my terms.”

“Very well,” she said.

“Half in advance,” said Mr. Diggs. “Do not look offended. I am used to dealing with members of society who never pay their bills. Although I am sure this does not apply to you, my lady.”

“I will return with the money,” she said somewhat huffily. “I do not carry such a sum around with me.”

“As soon as you do,” replied Mr. Diggs equably, “then I can begin work. You must also realize that lack of success does not mean a reduction in my fees. It may be that there is nothing in this.”

“What can you mean? I
saw
them!”

“To put it crudely, my lady, you did not see them in bed together. The marquess was probably telling the truth when he said that Mira Markham had acted as his tiger. He seems to have been amused by the headstrong folly of a young girl, nothing more. But I assure you that if there is any truth in your allegations that they are having an affair, then I will find it.”

“How?”

“By very hard work, watching, questioning, and bribery of the servants.”

“Well… well… I suppose I must be satisfied with that.” She stood up, and he rose as well. “I shall return with your money.”

He walked to the door, bowed, and held it open for her.

When she had left, he sat down at a table in the middle of the room and began to make notes. It was his little vanity to tell clients he remembered everything. A nice little job. He had taken Lady Jansen in dislike, but then he did not often like his clients. They were motivated either by greed or jealousy.

As he expected, she returned quite shortly with the money. “When do I get my first report?” she demanded.

“As soon as I have information for you, my lady.”

“But how will you contact me? I do not want you to come to my home or to be seen with me.”

They never did, he thought cynically. Aloud he said, “I will send you a message by hand in a sealed letter suggesting where we should meet.”

“Very well. Do not fail me.”

“The only reason I can fail you, my lady, is if I find there is nothing in it.”

And with that she had to be content.

As soon as she had left, he pulled a slouch hat down over his eyes, took his silver-knobbed cane in his hand, and set out. He made his way on foot to the West End of London, and by dint of inquiries in the coffeehouses and taverns frequented by servants, he found the addresses of both the Marquess of Grantley and Miss Mira Markham.

The investigation had begun. He cast a fleeting thought to this Miss Mira and wondered if she deserved what was coming to her. But if she proved innocent, then she had nothing to fear.

He had no intention of fabricating evidence to please such as Lady Jansen.

During the next two weeks Mr. Diggs began to think he would never receive the second half of that payment.

There was nothing to report.

The marquess was seen out driving with various ladies, including Lady Jansen. He did not take Mira driving once.

Mira Markham appeared everything that was correct. She went out several times to Hyde Park at the fashionable hour with a young Mr. Danby; she went to balls and parties. Mr. Diggs watched and listened and bribed to no avail. Everyone could tell the story about how she had pushed her sister into that fishpond, but it was repeated in a half-indulgent, half-admiring way, the servants taking their tone from their employers. The weather had turned unseasonably cold, and Mr. Diggs was beginning to feel his age. Nothing was going to happen, and nothing had happened.

But in the heart of Lady Jansen, the Marquess of Grantley and Miss Mira Markham were churning emotions that did not appear on the surface.

Lady Jansen could no longer, on the face of it, blame Mira for holding the marquess’s affections. The marquess did not drive with her, stand up for dances with her, or take her in for supper. So he should have been concentrating on her, Lady Jansen. But although he took her out driving a couple of times and stood up with her for dances, his manner was always polite and not very interested. She sent angry little notes to Mr. Diggs, complaining that the couple must be meeting in secret, although she was beginning to think that, after all, jealousy had made her think she had recognized Mira in a mere boy that the marquess had been talking to in Covent Garden that night.

Mira’s initial happiness that she was doing just as she ought by encouraging the attentions of Mr. Danby faded fast. She was glad she was free of her longing for Charles. But she also felt her feelings for Mr. Danby should be warmer. Her heart did not beat faster when she saw him. He was pleasant, he was kind, he was good—so why did she find him so dull? She could not imagine him going for midnight rides. She was more sharply aware now of the marquess’s good looks than she had been before. She felt sad that he was keeping away from her. Had he been deliberately keeping away from her, then Mira would have found that a comfort, but he seemed uninterested in her, as if he saw her much as he saw the other debutantes, charming but not worth making an effort to court.

The marquess was becoming steadily more bored by the Season. It had seemed at the beginning as if it might be fun, but it had become tedious, and he was tired of empty chatter in overheated rooms. He had stayed away from Mira so that she could concentrate on young Danby. At the end of two weeks, he was asking himself why he had bothered. Mira had ceased even to notice him, or so he thought.

And so at the end of that two weeks, as he set out to a ball given by the Hays, who lived two doors away from him in Grosvenor Square, he had persuaded himself that it would be only polite to talk to her again and see how she went on. He also felt it to be his duty to warn her about her future brother-in-law. The marquess had noticed that Lord Charles always danced twice with Mira, and when he was not dancing with her or dutifully dancing with her sister, he stood around the edges of the ballroom, covertly watching Mira.

She could have had the idiot, he thought angrily, but it was just as well he had proposed to Drusilla, because he was a pompous stick.

And so the ball, which was going to make Mr. Diggs’s job more enjoyable, was about to take place.

Viscount and Viscountess Hay were very rich and had only one daughter, so no expense had been spared on the ball. Neil Gow and his band were to play on the balcony above the ballroom; Gunter’s was to do the catering. Exotic flowers in ceramic pots of wonderful colors and glazes lined the silk-hung walls. Indian servants in turbans and exotic livery formed a guard of honor at the entrance. The ballroom floor was like a carpet under its intricate pattern of colored French chalks, soon to be dispersed by the feet of the dancers. Their daughter, Harriet, was plain but possessed of an enormous dowry, which they knew assured the girl of a certain success.

Mr. Markham was an old friend of Viscount Hay’s, which was why he and his family had been invited. The Hays entertained only the cream of society. Extra special ball gowns had been ordered for Drusilla and Mira. Drusilla, who was becoming increasingly bad-tempered and jealous, found it hard to contain her temper when she saw Mira’s ball gown. It consisted of a white silk underdress with an overdress of silver net embroidered with green sequins in a leaf pattern. Her headdress was a coronet of gold wire and green silk leaves. Mira had called on the dressmaker in person to sketch out what she wanted. Drusilla had left the choice, as usual, to her mother and had a pretty gown of white muslin with bands of white satin. She looked exquisite, but jealousy made her believe that Mira looked the more dramatic of the two. She said nothing, having learned to curb her tongue in front of her father, but she kept darting angry little glances at Mira as they set out.

Charles was in the carriage with them. Mr. Markham asked idly, “Sold out yet, Charles?” and to Drusilla’s surprise she heard her fiancé say, “Not yet.”

“Why not?” she demanded acidly. “I do not want to be married to a soldier.”

“You must give me time, my dear,” said Charles.

“Why?” demanded Drusilla. “Why do you need time? One letter and a draft from your bank are enough, surely?”

“Drusilla,” admonished Mr. Markham.

“You do not seem to realize,” said Charles with an edge to his voice, “that I love my regiment.”

“More than you love me?”

“That is not fair. I said I would sell out.”

“It must be a sad wrench to leave all one’s comrades,” said Mira sympathetically.

Drusilla glared at her. “Who asked you?”

“That was very rude, dear,” said Mrs. Markham.

Drusilla burst into overwrought tears, and it was only Mira’s voice saying in her ear, “We are nearly there, and you will look like a guy with your eyes all red” that made her force herself to dry her tears and compose herself.

As they waited in the hall of the Hays’ mansion for the ladies, Mr. Markham said to Charles, “You must forgive Drusilla. She is good at heart. I blame myself and my wife for spoiling her.”

Charles only nodded. He was thinking sourly that if they had ignored Drusilla during her upbringing in the way they had ignored Mira, then Drusilla might have turned out as charming in soul as she was in appearance.

Mira and Drusilla emerged. Charles, who had only seen Mira cloaked before they left the Markhams’ home, stood for a moment looking at her and then walked forward in a dazed way. Mr. Markham thought dismally that if Drusilla had not quickly stepped forward to take his arm, then Charles would have forgotten about all of them except Mira and would have held out his arm to her.

The marquess watched them enter. He would favor Mira with a dance and take her in to supper, he thought, just to see how she went on. It was only polite. But he left it too late. He had not taken Mira’s ever-increasing popularity into account. She did not have a single dance free. “Who have you honored with the supper dance?” he asked.

“Mr. Danby.”

The marquess bowed and left. Mira watched him go before turning to her next partner and tried to ignore the odd little tug at her heart. The marquess did not feel like dancing. He was aware of Lady Jansen looking hopefully toward him. He went into the card room and joined a group of men watching the play. To his surprise one of the players at a game of hazard dice was young Danby.

He turned to Lord Minster, a tall peer standing next to him, and nodded in Mr. Danby’s direction. “That one never struck me as a gambler.”

“The silly pup plays deep,” said Lord Minster. “He drinks too much and can’t keep a cool head.”

The marquess began to worry. He had encouraged Mira to cast her lot with someone who showed all the hallmarks of a budding hardened gambler. He moved toward the table, and when one of the men got up and said ruefully that he had lost enough, the marquess took his place. He began to win almost immediately and bet more and more until only he and Mr. Danby were left against each other.

When Mr. Danby finally found he had lost over five thousand pounds to the marquess, it seemed to sober him. “I will need to g-give you m-my note of hand,” he stammered. And then almost half to himself, he said wretchedly, “I do not know what my parents will say.”

The marquess quickly looked around. The watchers, now that the play was over, had gone to observe a game of piquet at another table.

“Danby, you can recoup your losses,” he said.

“How, my lord?”

“I will buy your supper dance.”

“For how much?”

“For the sum you owe me.”

Relief and mortification struggled oddly in Mr. Danby’s ingenuous face. “Why do you want to dance with Miss Mira so much?” he demanded.

“I am a friend of the family’s,” said the marquess with seeming indifference. “Furthermore I have never had the reputation of fleecing young men and do not wish to start now. What is it to be?”

“You will not tell anyone? I would feel such a fool.”

“You should feel even more of a fool for losing such a sum to me. But you have my word on it.”

Neither noticed a footman hovering behind them. The footman was well aware that there was an ex-Runner willing to pay for any information about this marquess. The fact that the Marquess of Grantley was willing to pay well over five thousand pounds for a dance with Miss Mira Markham should be worth a good reward.