Gather Ye Rosebuds (8 page)

“Ladies, may I compliment you both on looking particularly lovely this evening,” he said, with a bow.

He took my arm as well as Mama’s to lead us to his private parlor. “I have ordered wine and looked over the menu,” he said, “but have waited for you before ordering. The burgundy—or perhaps champagne. Champagne goes with any viands.” His warm gaze suggested the champagne was a complement to my gown.

Mama said, “You are extravagant, milord! Champagne!” as if we had never tasted this rarity. We had an excellent wine cellar when Papa was alive.

Not wishing to ally myself with her provincial sentiment, I examined the menu and chose the sole, with chicken to follow.

Mama said, “That sounds good,” and had the same thing. Lord Weylin urged lobsters and crab and I don’t know what all on us, but eventually settled for the sole and roast beef himself.

When the wine was poured, he raised his glass and said, “To our success. May we all leave here richer.”

Even in that I spied out a compliment. It was the way he said it, with a secret smile at me. That smile suggested there were other sorts of riches than gold and diamonds.

“To our success,” I repeated, and we all drank.

The auspicious beginning made no progress after the first glass of champagne. Once we had our fish before us, we reverted to discussing business.

I said, “I was wondering, Lord Weylin, as you have come to Bishop’s Down, if this is the hotel where your aunt stayed when she was in Tunbridge.”

“Just so. This is where she told Mama she stayed. I made inquiries as soon as I arrived, and was told she had been here several years ago, but she has not been here for five years—about the time the necklace disappeared. Yet she continued coming to Tunbridge often, much oftener than before. She only came once a year for the first five years she was with us. Later on, she came four times a year, at the beginning of January, April, July, and October. She was getting older, of course, and might have had more need of the chalybeate waters. Still, that regular timing is interesting.”

Mama dropped her fork and exclaimed in a loud voice, “It certainly is! Barry used to go to London four times a year, once a season, at about those same dates.”

Weylin stared at her with his jaw hanging slack. “Is that a fact? By God, I think we are on to something here.”

“It is certainly a coincidence,” Mama agreed, “but I doubt it can be more than that, for they scarcely knew each other. There would be no reason to hide it if they were friends. They were both single, and free to do what they wanted, even marry.”

“Barry took the five thousand from his bank on May the fifteenth,” I said. “That date does not coincide with the date of his visits.”

“But he must have spent the money here,” Mama said. “He certainly did not spend it at Hernefield.”

“Does something special occur on those dates?” I asked. “I am thinking of some item of interest that could have taken them both from home. Horse races, or meetings of some kind.”

“There would be no races in the dead of winter,” Weylin said. “We must discover what other treats the area offers. Margaret was fond of the theater, for instance.”

“Surely she would go to London for that,” Mama said. “London is not much farther from Parham than Tunbridge Wells is. Barry’s only interest in the theater was the green room.”

Over our chicken and roast beef I mentioned my idea of visiting the various jewelry stores and pawnshops. Weylin said he had planned to do that. “You must have wondered why I wanted the glass copy of the necklace,” he said.

“Yes; in fact, I went into the hall to ask you for it before you left Hernefield, but when I saw you with Steptoe, I forgot about it.”

“Steptoe,” he said. “He knows something, I think.”

“Did he say anything to you?” I asked at once.

“Nothing of any account, but he wore the same oily look he wore when he told me he hadn’t seen my Tang vase. The dealer he sold it to would not identify him. I suspect they were in collusion.”

“If Steptoe knows anything, what can he hope to gain by not telling us?” Mama asked.

“He is waiting for us to bribe him,” I said.

Weylin shook his head. “I’ve already tried that. If we have no success here, our next move will be to have Steptoe watched, have him followed when he leaves Hernefield.”

Mama said, “You might insert an advertisement in the
Tunbridge Journal,
asking any friends of Lady Margaret to be in touch with you. She must have had friends here, since she came so often, and over such a long period of time.”

“Now, that is an excellent idea!” Lord Weylin exclaimed. Mama blushed and simpered like a Bath miss.

“And her companion, milord—surely she did not come here unaccompanied.”

“Her companion was a Mrs. Riddle, an old family retainer. She returned north when my aunt died. I did write to her before leaving Parham, but I do not expect a reply for some time. I did not have her address, and wrote in care of Angus Macintosh. That is my aunt’s stepson, who inherited his father’s estate. Can you make inquiries of Mr. McShane’s valet, or groom, or—”

Mama shook her head. “Barry used to travel alone, on the stage. He did not have a valet. When he needed a carriage, he used mine, but he did not take it when he left town, of course, for we needed it ourselves.”

“Pity. Had he any close friends...?”

“Not in England,” Mama said. “We are from Ireland, and he went from there to India. He stuck pretty close to home when he came to live at Hernefield, except for his trips to London.”

“Or possibly Tunbridge Wells,” I said. “We shall make inquiries at the desk to see if Uncle stayed here.”

Lord Weylin said, “If he did, he used some other name. I looked over the registers for the past five years. His name is not there, but there are plenty of hotels in the city. We shall ask around while we are here. A pity we hadn’t a picture of him. I brought an ivory miniature of Aunt Margaret.”

He drew it from his pocket and showed it to us. I had not realized Lady Margaret had been a beauty in her youth. I gazed at a blue-eyed blond lady with soft eyes and a charming smile.

“I doubt anyone would recognize her from this,” I said, handing it on to Mama.

“Not at a glance, certainly,” Lord Weylin agreed, “but an old friend would recognize her.”

“Oh yes, I recognize her,” Mama said. “She was certainly a beauty. Unfortunately, I do not have any picture of Barry at all.” Then she gave her cheek a light slap and laughed. “Our wits are gone begging, Zoie. You must have taken Barry’s likeness a dozen times. Did you keep any of those sketches?”

“I have half a dozen of them in one of my old sketchpads. I wish I had thought to bring one with me.”

“You can send to Hernefield and ask the servants to send you one,” Lord Weylin suggested.

“That would take a few days,” Mama said, pursing her lips. “We had not planned to stay so long, milord. And you are in a hurry to get on to London, too.”

Lord Weylin was in no hurry to leave. “I cannot like to leave this mystery unsolved,” he said. “It is not just finding the necklace, though that is worth a few days. It is the uncertainty, the niggling feeling that Aunt Maggie was up to something naughty, that intrigues me. Can you not remain a few days? It might mean the recovery of your brother’s money, Mrs. Barron.”

“Aye, or it might mean finding out he was no better than he should be,” she said uncertainly.

Lord Weylin took it for a great joke, and after a few flattering remarks that she had been extremely helpful, he sweet-talked Mama into sending to Hernefield for my sketch and remaining to continue looking into the mystery.

Between the three of us, we demolished two bottles of champagne and enough food to make us uncomfortable. When dinner was finally over, Mama said, “I feel like a Strasbourg goose. If I can make it up those stairs, I shall go straight to bed.”

“As soon as you have written to Hernefield for the sketch of your brother,” Lord Weylin said, shaking a playful finger at her. “In fact, why waste time with letters? I can hire a mount and have one of my footmen ride there tonight. He can be back before morning.”

“He would have to ride all night!” Mama exclaimed.

“It is only fifty miles. On a good mount, he’ll be there in two or three hours. Why do you not write the note now, ma’am, while I arrange for the mount, and give my footman his instructions?”

Mama looked lost at such a hasty way of carrying on. I confess I was favorably impressed. Weylin had always seemed an idle sort of gentleman, taking life pretty easily, but when he set his mind on something, he threw his whole energy into it.

“I had best write the letter,” I said. “I know which sketchpad is required, and where it is. Brodagan will not like to be disturbed at such a late hour. I shall hint that the sketch might inconvenience Steptoe. That will ensure her compliance.”

Mama agreed to this and we parted, Weylin to speak to his footman, I to write the note, and Mama to sit waiting impatiently for Weylin’s call, so that she might undress and go to bed. Shortly after nine he came tapping at the door.

“There is a band playing on the Pantiles,” he said, pocketing my note. “Would you ladies like to take a stroll and hear it? It is a bit early to turn in.”

“Very kind, Lord Weylin,” Mama said, “but I could not make it down those stairs again. I am a martyr to the rheumatism.”

“I am very sorry to hear it, ma’am.” Then his gray eyes turned to me, with a question. “Miss Barron? Are your joints up to tackling the stairs?”

“I should enjoy a little exercise after that large dinner,” I said, looking to see if Mama objected to being left alone in a strange hotel.

I think she was glad to be rid of me. “Try not to make a racket when you come in, Zoie. I shall be sleeping.”

“I shan’t be late,” I promised.

“Not
very
late,” Lord Weylin said in an undertone. There was laughter in his eyes as he settled my shawl around my shoulders and offered his arm to lead me out.

The idea flashed into my mind that Lady Margaret was not the only one of his family who could be naughty when she felt like it. And Uncle Barry might not be unique in that respect in my own family either. There is some charm in being away from home, some slight relaxing of the social constraints. Perhaps it is no more than the knowledge that friends and neighbors are not watching, and so one can cut loose a little. Was that why Barry and Aunt Margaret came here?

Chapter Nine

Lord Weylin’s footman, rigged out in dark green livery with gold trim, was waiting in the lobby. His eyes opened wide as a barn door to see me there with his master. It would not be long until the whole neighborhood at home heard about it. Weylin gave him the note for Brodagan, and he left.

“You realize that being seen here alone with me puts your reputation in jeopardy,” Weylin said, in a joshing way.

I replied in the same manner, “So I assumed when your servant’s chin hit the floor. This is too dainty a morsel for him to keep to himself.”

“I shall expect you to do the right thing by me if I am cast out of polite society,” he said, and we began walking toward the door.

“Are you referring to a character reference, sir? A sworn affidavit of your unexceptional behavior— or an offer of marriage?”

After the heedless words were out, I feared Weylin might think I was making a premature leap at the altar, but he laughed lightly and changed the subject.

“Lovers would have to be naive indeed to think they could get away with clandestine meetings in a public hotel. A love nest is more usual.” He inclined his head toward mine and added, still in that laughing way, “Or so I am told. Naturally a well-behaved gent like myself has no firsthand knowledge of such carrying on.”

“Of course not. And fish are but inferior swimmers, too, having heard of it only at second hand.”

The doorman held the door for us, and we went out into the warm evening, along the path to the Pantiles. It was a particularly clear night. The moon shone as brightly as a lantern, and a myriad of stars twinkled all across the heavens.

“June is a lovely month, is it not?” Lord Weylin said, in a pensive way. “Summer looms before you, always promising more than it delivers.”

“April is my favorite month. I prefer the coming of spring, after a long, cold winter. If it promises more than it delivers, at least it does deliver summer.”

“Spring is too uncertain. One never knows whether he will awaken to frost or rain or sunshine. Rather like a visit with Miss Barron,” he added mischievously.

This was the nature of our conversation as we continued along to the Pantiles. There was a definite whiff of romance in the air. It seemed strange to see the colonnade lit up as brightly as daytime, with some of the shops still open for business, and the streets full of strollers. We continued along to where a band was playing. A crowd of holidayers had gathered around. Ladies—and I do not mean the word satirically—were flirting quite openly with gentlemen.

I noticed Lord Weylin was looking at them and said, “There is something about being in a strange town that encourages loose behavior.”

One brow lifted and he replied, “I have not observed our little trip having that effect on you, Miss Barron.”

“I daresay if those young ladies were accompanied by their mamas, they would not be working their fans so assiduously.”

“Your mama is not with you now,” he said, while his fingers tightened possessively on my arm.

If his lordship had some notion of instituting a flirtation while away from home, he was out in his reading of my character. I did not want a clandestine romance, carried on behind society’s back.

“Shall we continue our walk?” I said coolly. “The reason we came out was to get a little exercise. We are not making much headway standing here.”

“I noticed the lack of headway,” he murmured, and we continued on toward the church. “How does it come you and I are not better acquainted, Miss Barron, having been neighbors for years?”

“I blame it on the infrequency of elections,” I replied. “The only time I am at Parham is when an election is called.”