A Dangerous Fortune (40 page)

Solly picked up her corset from its frame and helped her into it, then drew the laces tight at the back. Most
women were helped to dress by one or two maids, for it was impossible for a woman to manage the elaborate corset and gown alone. However, Solly had learned to perform these services himself rather than go without the pleasure of watching.

Crinolines and bustles were no longer in fashion, but Maisie put on a cotton petticoat with a flounced train and a ruffled hem to support the train of her gown. The petticoat was fastened at the back with a bow, and Solly tied it.

At last she was ready for the gown. It was of yellow-and-white striped silk taffeta. The bodice was loosely draped, which flattered her large bosom, and caught at the shoulder with a bow. The rest of the garment was similarly swagged and caught at the waist, knee and hem. It took a maid all day to iron it.

She sat on the floor and Solly lifted the dress over her so that she was sitting inside it like a tent. Then she stood up carefully, putting her hands through the armholes and her head through the neck. Together she and Solly arranged the folds of the drapery until they looked right.

She opened her jewelry box and took out a diamond-and-emerald necklace and matching earrings that Solly had given her on their first wedding anniversary. As she was putting them on he said: “We’re going to be seeing a lot more of our old friend Hugh Pilaster from now on.”

Maisie muffled a sigh. Solly’s trusting nature could be tiresome. The normal suspicious-minded husband would have divined the attraction between Maisie and Hugh, and would be bad-tempered every time the other man’s name was mentioned, but Solly was too innocent. He had no idea he was putting temptation in her way. “Why, what’s happened?” she said neutrally.

“He’s coming to work at the bank.”

“Why is he leaving Pilasters? I thought he was doing so well.”

“They refused him a partnership.”

“Oh, no!” She knew Hugh better than anyone did, and she understood how badly he had suffered because of his father’s bankruptcy and suicide. She could guess how broken he was by the refusal of a partnership. “The Pilasters are a mean-spirited family,” she said with feeling.

“It’s because of his wife.”

Maisie nodded. “I’m not surprised.” She had witnessed the incident at the duchess of Tenbigh’s ball. Knowing the Pilasters as she did, she could not help wondering if Augusta had somehow stage-managed the whole incident in order to discredit Hugh.

“You have to feel sorry for Nora.”

“Mmm.” Maisie had met Nora, some weeks before the wedding, and had taken an instant dislike to her. Indeed, she had wounded Hugh by telling him Nora was a heartless gold digger and he should not marry her.

“Anyway, I suggested to Hugh that you might help her.”

“What?” Maisie said sharply. She looked away from her mirror. “Help her?”

“Rehabilitate her. You know what it’s like to be looked down on because of your background. You overcame all that prejudice.”

“And now I’m supposed to work the same transformation on every other guttersnipe who marries into society?” Maisie snapped.

“I’ve obviously done something wrong,” Solly said worriedly. “I thought you’d be glad to help, you’ve always been so fond of Hugh.”

Maisie went to her cupboard for her gloves. “I wish you’d consulted me first.” She opened the cupboard. On the back of the door, framed in wood, hung the old poster she had saved from the circus, showing her in
tights, standing on the back of a white horse, over the legend “The Amazing Maisie.” The picture jerked her out of her tantrum and she suddenly felt ashamed of herself. She ran to Solly and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Solly, how can I be so ungrateful?”

“There, there,” he murmured, stroking her bare shoulders.

“You’ve been so kind and generous to me and my family, of course I’ll do this for you, if you wish.”

“I’d hate to force you into something—”

“No, no, you’re not forcing me. Why shouldn’t I help her get what I got?” She looked at her husband’s chubby face, creased now with lines of anxiety. She stroked his cheek. “Stop worrying. I was being horribly selfish for a minute but it’s over. Go and put your jacket on. I’m ready.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips, then turned away and put on her gloves.

She knew what had really made her cross. The irony of the situation was bitter. She was being asked to train Nora for the role of Mrs. Hugh Pilaster—the position Maisie herself had longed to occupy. In her innermost heart she still wanted to be Hugh’s wife, and she hated Nora for winning what she had lost. All in all it was a shameful attitude and Maisie resolved to drop it. She should be glad Hugh had married. He had been very unhappy, and it was at least partly her fault. Now she could stop worrying about him. She felt a sense of loss, if not grief, but she should keep those feelings locked away in a room no one ever entered. She would throw herself energetically into the task of bringing Nora Pilaster back into the good graces of London’s high society.

Solly came back with his jacket on and they went along to the nursery. Bertie was in his nightshirt, playing with a wooden model of a railway train. He loved to see Maisie in her gowns and would be very disappointed if for some reason she went out in the evening without showing him what she was wearing. He told her what had
happened in the park that afternoon—he had befriended a large dog—and Solly got down on the floor and played trains for a while. Then it was Bertie’s bedtime, and Maisie and Solly went downstairs and got into their carriage.

They were going to a dinner party, then on to a ball afterwards. Both would take place within half a mile of their house in Piccadilly, but Maisie could not walk the streets in such an elaborate gown: the hem and train, and her silk shoes, would be filthy by the time she arrived. All the same she smiled to think that the girl who had once walked for four days to get to Newcastle could not now go half a mile without her carriage.

She was able to begin her campaign for Nora that very night. When they reached their destination and entered the drawing room of the marquis of Hatchford, the first person she saw was Count de Tokoly. She knew him quite well and he always flirted with her, so she felt free to be direct. “I want you to forgive Nora Pilaster for slapping you,” she said.

“Forgive?” he said. “I’m flattered! To think that at my age I can still make a young woman slap my face—it’s a great compliment.”

That wasn’t how you felt at the time, Maisie thought. However, she was glad he had decided to make light of the whole incident.

He went on: “Now, if she had refused to take me seriously—that would have been an insult.”

It was exactly what Nora ought to have done, Maisie reflected. “Tell me something,” she said. “Did Augusta Pilaster encourage you to flirt with her niece?”

“Grisly suggestion!” he replied. “Mrs. Joseph Pilaster as a pander! She did nothing of the kind.”

“Did anyone encourage you?”

He looked at Maisie through narrowed eyes. “You’re clever, Mrs. Greenbourne; I’ve always respected
you for that. Cleverer than Nora Pilaster. She’ll never be what you are.”

“But you haven’t answered my question.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, as I admire you so much. The Cordovan Minister, Señor Miranda, told me that Nora was … what shall we say … susceptible.”

So that was it. “And Micky Miranda was put up to it by Augusta, I’m sure of it. Those two are as thick as thieves.”

De Tokoly was miffed. “I do hope I haven’t been used as a pawn.”

“That’s the danger of being so predictable,” Maisie said waspishly.

Next day she took Nora to her dressmaker.

As Nora tried on styles and fabrics Maisie found out a little more about the incident at the duchess of Tenbigh’s ball. “Did Augusta say anything to you beforehand about the count?” she asked.

“She warned me not to let him take any liberties,” Nora replied.

“So you were ready for him, so to speak.”

“Yes.”

“And if Augusta had said nothing, would you have behaved the same way?”

Nora looked thoughtful. “I probably wouldn’t have slapped him—I wouldn’t have had the nerve. But Augusta made me think it was important to take a stand.”

Maisie nodded. “There you are. She wanted this to happen. She also got someone to tell the count you were easy.”

Nora was amazed. “Are you sure?”

“He told me. She’s a devious bitch and she has no scruples at all.” Maisie realized she was speaking in her Newcastle accent, something that rarely happened nowadays. She reverted to normal. “Never underestimate Augusta’s capacity for treachery.”

“She doesn’t scare me,” Nora said defiantly. “I haven’t got too many scruples myself.”

Maisie believed her—and felt sorry for Hugh.

A polonaise was the perfect dress style for Nora, Maisie thought as the dressmaker pinned a gown around Nora’s generous figure. The fussy details suited her pretty looks: the pleated frills, the front opening decorated with bows, and the tie-back skirt with flounces all looked sweet on her. Perhaps she was a little too voluptuous, but a long corset would restrain her tendency to wobble.

“Looking pretty is half the battle,” she said as Nora admired herself in the mirror. “As far as the men are concerned it’s really all that matters. But you have to do more to get accepted by the women.”

Nora said: “I’ve always got on better with men than women.”

Maisie was not surprised: Nora was that type.

Nora went on: “You must be the same. That’s why we’ve got where we are.”

Are we the same? wondered Maisie.

“Not that I put myself on the same level as you,” Nora added. “Every ambitious girl in London envies you.”

Maisie winced at the thought that she was looked up to as a hero by fortune-hunting women, but she said nothing because she probably deserved it. Nora had married for money, and she was quite happy to admit it to Maisie because she assumed that Maisie had done the same. And she was right.

Nora said: “I’m not complaining, but I did pick the black sheep of the family, the one with no capital. You married one of the richest men in the world.”

How surprised you would be, Maisie thought, if you knew how willingly I’d swap.

She put the thought out of her mind. All right, she and Nora were two of a kind. She would help Nora win
the acceptance of the snobs and shrews who ruled society.

“Never talk about how much anything costs,” she began, remembering her own early mistakes. “Always remain calm and unruffled, no matter what happens. If your coachman has a heart attack, your carriage crashes, your hat blows off and your drawers fall down, just say: ‘Goodness me, such excitement,’ and get in a hansom. Remember that the country is better than the town, idleness is superior to work, old is preferable to new and rank is more important than money. Know a little about everything, but never be an expert. Practice talking without moving your mouth—it will improve your accent. Tell people that your great-grandfather farmed in Yorkshire: Yorkshire is too big for anyone to check, and agriculture is an honorable way to become poor.”

Nora struck a pose, looked vague, and said languidly: “Goodness me,
such
a lot to remember, how shall I
ever
manage?”

“Perfect,” said Maisie. “You’ll do very well indeed.”

2

MICKY MIRANDA STOOD IN A DOORWAY
in Berwick Street, wearing a light overcoat to keep out the chill of a spring evening. He was smoking a cigar and watching the street. There was a gas lamp nearby but he stood in the shadow so that his face could not easily be seen by passersby. He felt anxious, dissatisfied with himself, soiled. He disliked violence. It was Papa’s way, Paulo’s way. For Micky it always seemed such an admission of failure.

Berwick Street was a narrow, filthy passage of cheap pubs and lodging houses. Dogs rummaged in the gutters and small children played in the gaslight. Micky had been there since nightfall and he had not seen a single policeman. Now it was almost midnight.

The Hotel Russe was across the street. It had seen better days, but still it was a cut above its surroundings. There was a light over the door and inside Micky could see a lobby with a reception counter. However, there did not appear to be anyone there.

Two other men loitered on the far pavement, one on either side of the hotel entrance. All three of them were waiting for Antonio Silva.

Micky had pretended to be calm in front of Edward and Augusta but in fact he was desperately worried about Tonio’s article appearing in
The Times
. He had put so much effort into getting Pilasters to launch the Santamaria railroad. He had even married that bitch Rachel for the sake of the damn bonds. His entire career depended on its success. If he let his family down over this, his father would be not only raging but vengeful. Papa had the power to get Micky fired as minister. With no money and no position he could hardly stay in London: he would have to return home and face humiliation and disgrace. Either way, the life he had enjoyed for so many years would be over.

Rachel had demanded to know where he was planning to spend this evening. He had laughed at her. “Never try to question me,” he had said.

She had surprised him by saying: “Then I shall go out for the evening, too.”

“Where?”

“Never try to question me.”

Micky had locked her in the bedroom.

When he got home she would be incandescent with wrath, but that had happened before. On previous occasions when she had raged at him he had thrown her on the bed and torn off her clothes, and she had always submitted to him eagerly. She would do it yet again tonight, he felt sure.

He wished he could feel as sure of Tonio.

He was not even certain the man was still living at
this hotel, but he could not go in and ask without arousing suspicion.

He had moved as quickly as possible, but still it had taken forty-eight hours to locate and hire two ruthless toughs, reconnoiter the location and set up the ambush. In that time Tonio might have moved. Then Micky would be in trouble.

A careful man would move hotels every few days. But a careful man would not use notepaper that bore an address. Tonio was not the cautious type. On the contrary, he had always been reckless. In all probability he was still at this hotel, Micky thought.