A Kiss in the Dark (6 page)

Miss Wantage loved to visit the shops nearly as much as she loved complaining. Her hostess could usually be shamed into buying her some trifle. She was sorely tempted to recover her health when she learned of the projected trip to Beachy Head, but in the end sloth won out and she got no farther than to a chair by the window, where one look at the cold sea sent her back to her nice warm bed. Cressida’s generosity regarding material for a new fall suit could be appealed to another time.

Cressida and Beau were about to leave, when a rattle of the door knocker delayed them.

“I am surprised Lord Dauntry has not posted a Keep Off sign at the gate to protect us from callers,” Cressida snipped.

Before Beau could reply, a young gentleman’s voice was heard in the hallway.

“No need to show me in, my good man. I am no stranger here,” the brash voice said.

Muffet followed behind, wearing a face of deep disapproval. “Mr. Brewster to see your ladyship,” he announced.

Cressida looked at a young whelp rigged out in what perhaps passed for the highest kick of fashion in the provinces. His jacket was not by Weston. Mr. Weston would never have violated an ell of blue Bath cloth by wadding the shoulders out of all proportion as her caller’s tailor had done, nor would he have allowed brass buttons of such an enormous size. The caller’s tawny hair was artfully brushed over his forehead in the Brutus do. A pair of blue eyes darted about the room as if he expected someone to pop out at him.

“I am Allan Brewster,” he said with a jerky bow. “You must be Lady deCourcy. I have been waiting forever to meet you.”

“How do you do. This is my cousin, Mr. Montgomery,” she said, wondering if she should have Muffet eject the man. Muffet stood in the doorway, awaiting missy’s decision. She listened to hear what her caller had to say before giving Muffet the nod.

“I am Lady Dauntry’s godson,” Brewster said, which got him the offer of a chair. Cressida gave an infinitesimal nod of her head, and Muffet retired. “I live at the abbey just three miles down the road,” he added. She waited for an invitation to call on his mama, but she waited in vain. “So, how do you like the place so far, Lady deCourcy?”

“I just arrived yesterday. My cousin and I were about to go to the village,” she said, hoping he could take such a broad hint.

“It is not worth the trip,” he informed her. “Nothing but the hotel, a coastguard station, Mullins’s Drapery Shop, and a run-down old church. And, of course, a few pokey little shops. Nothing to tempt an out and outer. Where you want to go for shopping is Brighton. It is only a minute away.”

“I have just escaped from Brighton,” she replied. “I did not come here to shop, but for peace and quiet. Away from callers, you know,” she added, hoping to get rid of him without resorting to outright rudeness.

“By Jove, you have come to the right place for that. There is never a thing going on here. Dull as ditch water. I say, would you mind terribly if I—er—washed my hands?”

“Certainly. I shall call the butler.”

Brewster was already on his feet. “Not necessary, milady. I have been running tame here since I was in short coats. My old aunt Annie battened herself on Lady Dauntry until she cocked up her toes a few years ago.”

So saying, he fled out the door. “That is one caller I would not have minded Lord Dauntry’s turning off,” she said to Beau.

“The fellow might be anyone, cheeky devil. I mean to see what he is up to,” Beau said, and went out after him.

Mr. Brewster was just talking to Jennet, however. The girl obviously knew him, for she was smiling and chatting. “No, I never seen hide nor hair of her,” she was saying, apparently discussing some mutual acquaintance.

Beau returned to the saloon. “The servants seem to know him, all right. I wonder if he sails. I shall ask him when he returns.”

“He seems a ramshackle fellow,” Cressida said. But then, many of Beau’s friends seemed ramshackle to her. Perhaps she
was
getting old. Dauntry’s little jibe still rankled. Youngish, he had called her.

“I wish he would come back—and leave,” Beau said after a few moments. He paced the saloon twice, stared out the window, then glanced at his watch. “It seems he stopped only to use the necessary. What the deuce is keeping him?”

After ten minutes and several tours of the saloon, it began to seem that Mr. Brewster was indeed up to no good. Cressida went into the hallway to discover him hovering at the top of the stairway to the kitchen with his ears cocked. What was he listening for? At the same moment, Tory was just coming down the front stairs. She looked at Mr. Brewster as if he were a tiger.

“Tory!” he exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing here? Have you been banished from the castle?” Without waiting for a reply, he rushed on. “You will be surprised to see old Allan Brewster here, but here I am. Just dropped in to pay my respects to Lady deCourcy. Well, I must be off. If you happen to run into Lord Harold, give him my respects. And his good wife as well. Be sure to tell Tony I was asking for her. I would not want her to take a pet. Fancy Harold being shackled. I will be next, I daresay. If I don’t watch what I am about, some lady will nab me. Well, I am off.”

He darted to the hall table, retrieved his curled beaver, gave Cressida another jerky bow, and fled out the door as if the law were at his heels.

“What a strange young man,” Cressida said. “And what was he doing at the stairs to the kitchen? Do you know this Allan Brewster, Tory?”

“Allan Brewster?” she said with a shocked face. “Why, I have known him from the egg, milady. A very good fellow.”

“It is odd he did not know of Tony’s wedding trip if he is such a friend of the family.”

“No doubt he thought she had got cold feet and cut the trip short. Lady Antonia is a great stay-at-home, you must know. Mr. Brewster is quite a favorite of the Dauntrys. I fancy her ladyship asked him to drop in to pay his respects. I shall just count the spoons.” On this unsettling speech, she bustled off.

Lady Dauntry
asked
him to call when she was so concerned for her tenant’s privacy? It did not seem at all likely to Cressida.

Beau came into the hallway. “Has he gone?” he asked.

“Yes, he just ran off. Shall we go?”

Muffet had already called the carriage. As it was a short trip, they had elected to take Cressida’s phaeton. They discussed the visit during the short drive. Beachy Head, a chalk headland rising precipitously from the sea, had an impressive air of grandeur. The surrounding village, however, was much as Mr. Brewster had described it.

They looked at the old Norman church and went into Mullins’s Drapery Shop, the busiest spot in town. Cressida found some pretty silk threads and decided to take them home to Miss Wantage, who was a keen needlewoman. While she made her purchase, Beau fell into idle conversation with a young gentleman in the line of customers behind her and introduced himself.

“Ah, you are staying at the Dauntrys’ dower house!” the gentleman exclaimed. “I have been wishing to call, but Lady Dauntry mentioned Lady deCourcy wished for seclusion.”

“Not that much seclusion. Dash it, we are bored to flinders. You must come out for tea one day soon,” Beau said.

Cressida had examined the gentleman and found him to be unexceptionable. He was well if modestly dressed, well spoken, and wore an air of gentility. Of equal importance, Beau was obviously missing his friends.

“I shall introduce you to her now,” Beau said as Cressida turned to them. “Sid, this is—oh, I don’t believe I caught your name, sir.”

“Allan Brewster,” the gentleman said with a very civil bow.

He wondered why his new acquaintances were staring at him as if he had sprouted horns. The busy clerk said, “Ahem—can I help you, Mr. Brewster?”

“Pardon me a moment, ma’am,” he said, and executed his purchase.

When he rejoined them, he said uncertainly, “Is something wrong, Lady deCourcy?”

“But—are there two Allan Brewsters in the neighborhood?” she asked.

“No, my papa is George Brewster. I have an uncle Derwent and three sisters, but I am the only Allan Brewster.”

“Then there is someone impersonating you,” Beau said, “and he called on us not an hour ago. Talk about brass! You ought to have him arrested.”

“He seemed to know the house and servants,” Cressida added in perplexity.

“What did he look like?” Mr. Brewster asked.

“He was about your age and general size, a little taller than average, with light brown hair and blue eyes,” Cressida said.

“That sounds like me,” Brewster said, frowning. Then a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “James Melbury!” he exclaimed. “He is a regular jokesmith. I heard he was off to Bath, but if he caught wind of your visit, milady, he would do anything to meet you. He is fond of the ladies, to tell the truth. But I fancy you know that by now.”

“I did not take him for a flirt,” she said, mentally reviewing his brief visit. “He seemed a brash sort of fellow.”

“He would ask old Queen Charlotte herself to stand up and jig and think nothing of it. He knew he would not be allowed through the door-jamb if he used his own name, so he has used mine, the dastard. I shall ring a peal over Melbury when I catch him. I hope you counted the spoons when he left. He is a famous thief.”

As Tory had implied this same fondness for cutlery in her caller, Cressida assumed the mysterious man was indeed Mr. Melbury.

“Why is he not in jail, if he is a thief?” she asked.

“You must not take me too literally, ma’am. I only meant I would not lend him any money if I were you, or sell him anything on tick. I am still waiting for my two hundred guineas for a horse I sold him a year ago, but I doubt he actually steals from stores or strangers, only from his friends.”

“I shall see that he don’t become a friend of mine,” Beau said.

“Oh, there will be no avoiding him. He is invited everywhere,” Brewster said, shaking his head ruefully. “He is Lady Dauntry's godson, you see, and Dauntry's cousin, so
they always settle up his accounts at the shops eventually. That keeps him out of the roundhouse, and spares the rest of us a rise in the parish rates. They did not repay me for the mount, though. Dauntry said I ought to have known better, and so I ought.”

“You should demand the horse back,” Beau said.

“It was sold and out of the parish before nightfall,” Brewster replied.

“It is odd he would use your name when we shall be meeting him again,” Cressida said, frowning.

“It is not likely you will see him again, ma’am. He was about to leave for Bath last time I spoke to him. I made sure he would be gone by now. He saved one last prank to pull off before leaving. He wanted to meet you first. One can hardly blame him for that,” he added with a shy smile.

“Good riddance, say I,” Beau declared, and began discussing a future meeting with Mr. Brewster.

As she approved of this Mr. Brewster, Cressida invited him to call; Mr. Brewster returned that his mama would be delighted if Lady deCourcy would care to drop in the next time she was in Beachy Head, and they parted on the best of terms.

“I shall roast Dauntry about this the next time we meet,” Cressida said, laughing about the incident.

“All families have their dirty dishes,” Beau reminded her. “I would not want the Dauntrys to meet Gerald Charmsworth.”

This derelict cousin had run off with an actress and was happily living in sin in London, where he and polite society ignored each other.

As the day was fine and the hour early, they elected to walk three-quarters of a mile east to Birling Gap, with the cliffs called the Seven Sisters beyond. The wild scenery and the stretching sea were still a novelty to them.

“One of Devonshire’s seats is nearby,” Cressida mentioned. “Compton Place, but I don’t believe he is in residence. He mentioned going to Chatsworth.”

By the time they had executed the walk back to Beachy Head over rough terrain, they were ready to go home.

Cressida allowed her cousin to take the reins for the return trip, which left her free to think and talk. “You know, Beau,” she said, “Tory knew who our caller was. Why did she let us believe he was Mr. Brewster? Why did she connive with him to fool us?”

“Because he is Dauntry’s cousin, I expect. They seem to dote on the fellow.”

“I must have a word with her when we return. I will not be lied to by my own servants.”

“She lied about the ghost, too, and the gingerbread cake. As I think it over, she has lied a blue streak ever since we got here.”

“I mean serious things. Melbury might have stolen something from the house, and we will be accused of it.”

As soon as she had removed her bonnet, Cressida asked Muffet to send Tory to her in the saloon. Tory’s ruby face wore an air of guilt. “What could I do for you, milady?” she asked in a strained voice.

“Were any spoons missing after our caller’s visit, Tory?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I did a whole inventory. He didn’t pocket a thing, not so much as a salt cellar.”

“You are aware that our caller was not Allan Brewster, but James Melbury, I think?”

“I thought he was looking very like Melbury,” was her foolish reply.

“You knew it was Melbury!” Cressida said crossly.

Tory looked in guilty confusion. “He said he was Allan Brewster. You heard him yourself. I’m sure it is not for me to question my betters. Lord Dauntry's cousin, after all.”

“It is for you to protect your mistress, Tory. You knew that neither Muffet nor I would recognize the man. It was very wrong of you to connive with Melbury in pulling off this impersonation.”

“It was only a joke, milady. We all like a little joke from time to time. Melbury is a famous joke-smith,” she said with a harried frown that spoke of her enjoyment of this prank.

“This is carrying a joke too far,” Beau said sternly.

“Sure and I counted every inch of the silverware as soon as ever he left. And about them noises in the attic,” she added, hoping to alleviate her culpability in the affair of the impersonation, “it was bats. Very likely Jennet’s cat slipped up the stairs while the door was ajar and got to chasing them about.”