Thick As Thieves (6 page)

"Then what
is
the trouble?" I inquired.

"I don't think he loves me anymore," she said, and began bawling again. "I met Annabelle Monk in the shops this morning, and she said he had taken her to a picnic at St. Ann's Well yesterday afternoon. I had asked him to take me to the cemetery that afternoon—Mama is buried there, just by St. Nicholas Church, you know—and he told me he had to get his hair cut."

I patted her hand. "Perhaps you are as well off without him, Lady Filmore. He is only a younger son."

"I do not care for that!" she said angrily. "We would have plenty of blunt at least."

"You are fortunate to have been left well off," I said. I naturally assumed the late Lord Filmore had left her wealthy.

"I?" she said, staring with those big blue eyes, misted with tears. "Good gracious, I have not two pennies to rub together. Filmore left me destitute. He was a shocking bad manager. He lost my fortune and his own upon the 'change. I would not be battening myself on Richard if I had any money of my own, for he is very strict, considering I am not a deb. No, Harelson is well to grass, you must know. His papa is a wicked nipcheese, but some aunt left him a fortune."

"Well," I said, racking my brain for something to comfort her. "Gentlemen sometimes like to sow their oats before they settle down. Harelson is young yet, and so are you."

"I am practically twenty, Miss Denver," she said severely. I felt about a hundred and ten. "And Harelson is twenty-seven. I know he means to shab off on me."

This answered one question that had been puzzling me. I no longer thought that Lord Harelson meant to bring Lady Filmore when he called on me. I decided then and there I would not be home whenever he called. I did not care for him, and I certainly did not want to fall into Lady Filmore's bad books.

"Perhaps you have inadvertently offended him, in some manner," I said.

She sat, thinking about this in silence. At length I suggested we go into the garden, hoping the sunshine and flowers might be better for her than the unalleviated gloom of dark oak and dusty windows. I would set the servants to cleaning the windows that afternoon.

Luke had disappeared. I mentioned the strawberries to Lady Filmore, and she smiled her thanks. Unfortunately, Luke had not taken them to Cook, so I told her I would send them over when he returned. I also wondered where he was, when he should have been at work.

We chatted for half an hour, becoming better acquainted. I mentioned my alfresco party, and she smiled. "I shall wear my leghorn bonnet. I cannot wear it in the carriage, for it always blows off, and for walking, it is impossible."

This left me doubting whether I should also wear mine, for it was a dead replica of hers. We set on Saturday afternoon for the alfresco party.

"Be sure you invite Harelson," she said.

We were about to go inside when a gawky-looking face peered over the hedge that shielded us from the street. "There you are!" the man exclaimed. "I have been looking for you next door, Linda."

"Stewart," she said, without either enthusiasm or annoyance.

He found the gate, and a new character entered my story.

Chapter Six

His name was Stewart Grindley, and despite his lack of either looks, talent, a title, or conversation, it seemed he was accepted in society. He was of middle height, somewhat stocky, wearing a blue jacket of good cut, but abominably wrinkled. His hair looked as if it had been hacked off with a carving knife and not seen a brush for twenty-four hours. His cravat had brownish spots on it, as of dropped tea. His rawboned, common face was redeemed from utter ugliness by a rather fine pair of brown eyes.

Yet with all his sins, one sensed the gentleman lurking beneath. It was his utter lack of concern for his appearance that convinced me he was a gentleman. As Lady Filmore presented him to me as her friend, I had fresh tea made and brought out.

"Have you seen Harelson today, Stew?" she inquired, as soon as decently possible.

"Left at ten in his curricle. I was just waking up."

"Are you staying with Lord Harelson?" I asked, surprised that that bored nobleman would harbor Grindley under his roof.

"Hire a suite of rooms. Take breakfast there," Grindley replied. This went from bad to worse. Lord Harelson hiring out rooms? "Mean to say, nothing to let in Brighton. Lucky to get the dungeon, Miss Denver." He flopped his head, in an effort to toss a hank of hair out of his eyes. It tumbled back onto his forehead at once.

His omission of pronouns had a tendency to confuse, but this at least I could figure out. Obviously I was the fortunate one who had hired the dungeon.

"Are you a gambling lady?" was his next sally.

"No, I am not."

"Pity. Could put you on to a sure thing in the hurdle races. Betting a monkey on Blue Boy myself."

"You always lose, Stewart," Lady Filmore chided. "Will Harelson be attending the races with you?"

"Better. Mean to say, how am I to get there?" This time he used his hand to flop the hair back. "Sold up my curricle before leaving London. Came to town on the stage. Nicholson held the ribbons."

"Is Nicholson a friend of yours?" I asked, surprised that a gentleman would be on close terms with a stagecoach driver.

"At Oxford together," he replied, confusing me even further, but some sense eventually emerged. "For a golden boy, the stage driver will let you take the ribbons. Jolly good sport. Hadn't a golden boy to spare myself."

"When, exactly, is this hurdle race?" Lady Filmore asked. I knew why she was curious—Harelson would be there.

"Four o'clock today on the Hove."

"I shall take you in my carriage, Stewart," she said.

"Thankee kindly." Then he turned to me. "Remember, Blue Boy's your nag. Five to one. I'll place your bet, if you like."

"I do not gamble," I reminded him.

He stayed for fifteen minutes, during which time he continued the silent argument with the wayward lock of hair, and revealed that he was wearing one of Harelson's shirts, which was too small and pulled at his arms. Lady Filmore gave him the name of a local laundress to wash his linen.

He seemed eager to avoid Lady Collifer, who I think was his aunt, but perhaps it was some other relationship. He complained of assorted noble relations. He was looking for a rich orphan, as his pockets were to let and he did not wish to acquire any more family.

Just before Lady Filmore removed him, he asked me how my parents were doing. I told him they were fine, thank you. If he had designs on this orphan's fortune, he was out in his luck.

"In Cornwall, are they?" he asked.

"Yes, as I have so many aunts and uncles and cousins in London, my parents trust me to their care."

"Pity."

Hennie sat with us, and if I have omitted her, it is because she did not take much part in the conversation, which left her free to listen with both ears.

"A fortune hunter!" she scoffed, when Grindley and Lady Filmore had left. "Lady Filmore has poor taste in gentlemen friends."

"She has eyes for no one but Lord Harelson. And he, in his own way, is as bad as Grindley. Imagine Harelson charging his friend rent, when he is supposed to be so rich."

"That's how they get rich," Hennie said. "Old Lord Stone in Cranbrook would skin a flea for the hide. They say he even sold his old clothes, and, of course, he sold the extra produce from his home garden, instead of leaving the extra for the servants."

This reminded me of the berries. I went after Luke, and found him in a little shed, counting out cardboard boxes. They were green, and would hold a quart of fruit. I asked him what had happened to the strawberries. He said Lady Grieve always gave the extra to the orphanage, and had instructed him to do likewise during her absence.

"That was before she hired the house out, Luke. For the duration of my tenancy, the fruit from this garden is mine. You will ask me before distributing it."

"You don't want to help out the poor orphans then, miss?" he said boldly.

"If I do, I shall let you know. Please pick another two quarts of berries this afternoon and take them to Mr. Dalton's cook. I have promised Lady Filmore some strawberries."

"There's no more ready to pick, miss. Tomorrow, maybe."

"I am sure you can find two more quarts, if you look."

"If you want to give them white and sour berries, or ones that the birds have got at ..."

"Never mind," I said through tight lips, and went into the house to prepare for lunch. Dessert consisted of an extremely meager serving of strawberries. I hoped the orphans enjoyed their treat. I asked Mary Day to slip out and buy two quarts of strawberries and deliver them to Dalton's cook, as Lady Filmore had seemed pleased with the offer.

This recital of my morning may sound boring, but in fact, I reveled in having visitors, and even more in the prospect of driving out with Mr. Dalton that afternoon. When you have been left to your own devices for months, any little visit or outing assumes great importance. At one point last winter, Hennie had threatened to buy a parrot, just to have a new face to talk to.

I hesitated for ten minutes over what outfit to wear, finally settling on the violet suit, the same one for which I had hoped to find an amethyst brooch at the pawn shop. The breeze from the sea could be chilly, and although Lady Filmore wore sprigged muslin, I feared Dalton might drive his open carriage.

When Mr. Dalton called, he was driving his curricle, so I felt I had dressed wisely. "Hennie is not able to come with us," I said.

Mr. Dalton was too well bred to show his pleasure, but a hint of it peeped out in his smile. We drove first along the seashore, past the fish market to the Hove, while Dalton explained that this was the south boundary of Brighton. Then he headed north and pointed out a few points of interest, ending up at the Prince's pavilion.

That lovely folly is too well known to harp on, but it is just as marvelous as everyone says, with its lovely big dome and all sorts of lesser domes and minarets like something out of an Eastern fable. You half expect to see a flying carpet shoot out of a tower window.

"Lord Harelson offered to show me the pavilion," I mentioned, as I wished to bring this gentleman's name forward.

"His papa, Lord Comstock, used to be one of Prinny's set" was all he said.

"Do you think Lady Filmore will marry him?" was my next effort to draw him out.

"Perhaps, one day. She is young. There is no hurry."

"You would not object to the match?"

"It is hard to object to a gentleman of good birth and fortune and character," he replied. I did not sense any enthusiasm, but no real opposition either. It hardly seemed my place to quiz him further. Lady Filmore would tell him what she wished him to know.

We drove back toward the beach. Dalton suggested we alight for a walk along the shingles to enjoy the sea air. There were bathing machines with ladies and gentlemen taking a dip. I thought I might try it one day, but first I would have to have a proper bathing gown made up. They were exceedingly ugly, like long gray flannelette nightgowns.

Hawkers were selling ices and cold drinks. Dalton bought two ices, and we sat on a bench to enjoy them. "I would like to ask you something, Miss Denver," he said. His face was suddenly serious. Not only serious, but almost sheepish.

I knew this was not going to be a romantic something. That was not the way he looked. I sensed that it had to do with Harelson, and expressed the keenest interest.

"It is about that notice in the journals, of your coming to Brighton," he said.

"I have been wanting to speak to you about that, Mr. Dalton. I fear your friends overestimate my wealth. How did you know about the tin mine, and Cornwall?"

"I took the trouble to find out who you are, after you dropped that stolen ring in my pocket." That took the wind out of my sails entirely. I considered denying it, but his knowing eyes made a mockery of that notion.

"How did you find out about me? I don't know your set."

"Your man of business, Mr. Foster, knows many people. He knows my man of business. That is how I found out. There are not that many heiresses on the town that your secret is safe, no matter how closely you tried to guard it."

I sat like a mute, not disabusing him of the notion that I had voluntarily consigned myself to anonymity. "I see," I said. "I expect you know the extent of my fortune?"

"I do, and it is an impressive size. Too large for you to be stealing rings. I assumed, therefore, that you were telling me the truth about how you came by the emerald."

"Of course I was telling the truth! Do you take me for a common thief?"

"No, a very uncommon one," he said, and laughed. "And if society overestimates your fortune, then you are in vogue with the rest of the heiresses. One automatically cuts every fortune rumor in half, then in half again, to get at an idea of the true size."

"What was it you wished to discuss then? I took the ring in a moment's pique when I discovered Parker's stunt with my diamond. I did drop the ring in your pocket. It was a horrid thing to do, but I was afraid I would be arrested and found with the thing in my pocket. You knew it was there all along?"

"Certainly. I discovered it not ten minutes later, and soon figured out how it had got there. I thought I would have to loiter about at Shepherd's Market to find you again. You may imagine my joy at seeing you in Hyde Park later that day."

"So you lied to me, too," I pointed out.

"One good lie deserves another. I had not yet discovered your identity. I followed you to South Audley Street, and went from there directly to my man of business. When I learned you were a lady of good reputation and considerable property, I felt you would do the proper thing, and return Lady Dormere's ring to her. Which you did—eventually." A mischievous smile reminded me of my reluctance to do so.

"If I hesitated, it is only that I had no reason to trust you. I knew that ring had not fallen out of your pocket. I thought you were planning to keep it."

"I know you did. I should resent it, but as I wronged you, I withhold my resentment. Isn't it nice that we now know we are both above reproach?"