Amanda Scott (15 page)

“Well, I should like to take it to London to find out for myself, sir, if you would allow me to do so. Lady Joan has invited me to stay with her so many times, and your only objection in the past has been the expense of such a visit, so I was hoping that perhaps you would not object if I could fund myself with a portion of the proceeds of the book.”

Lord Arthur regarded the book again, more carefully this time. He opened it, flipped through those pages that would separate, scanned a page here and there, and finally handed it back to Sylvia. “I suppose it would not be amiss to discover whether there is any truth to such a rumor. Mind you, Sylvia, I cannot believe it for a minute. Though I can understand his wishing to collect this information in the first place, what would possess a man to pay so much only to destroy a book that ought to be a gift to history if its information is correct?”

She shook her head, not having the slightest idea what might be the answer to such a question. Indeed, she had not the least wish to engage in lengthy discussion of the matter, lest Lord Arthur come to think the book worth keeping. Instead, she let him talk himself into discovering its true worth. He was not a greedy man, by any means, but he was careful with his money, and five thousand pounds was not an amount to be lightly cast to the winds merely for the lack of a little investigation. When he had reached the point of warning her that she could not expect to use the entire amount for her own adornment, Sylvia knew she had won.

“Indeed, I should never think of squandering such a vast sum upon myself, sir. I shall want only enough for some new gowns, enough so that I shall not be ashamed to be seen by Joan’s friends.”

“I should hope you would not be ashamed no matter what you might be wearing, my dear. Your breeding is enough to make your welcome assured wherever you might go.”

“Indeed, it is, sir,” Sylvia assured him, moving to kiss his cheek, “but things go more smoothly when one is properly attired. I promise you I shan’t outrun the constable.”

“How will you travel?”

“I suppose the best way would be by coach from Oxford.”

“Not alone, Sylvia. ’Tis most unbecoming. Take that Sadie woman with you. I daresay I can get on without her well enough, only tell Cook I shan’t want mutton every day while you’re gone. Dashed woman has no imagination.”

Sylvia chuckled. “Mrs. Weatherly is back at the vicarage, sir, and she and Cook are great friends, so Cook would not take it amiss, I think, if I were to ask her to visit during the week to discuss menus with her. And Sadie has mentioned a young niece in service several miles north of Oxford who is looking to change her place in order to be nearer home. She has two years’ experience, so it would not be as though I were leaving you in incapable hands. If you do not dislike it, I will send for her, and Sadie can tell her how to go on.”

“Just so she isn’t as bossy as that Sadie. If she knows her place, we’ll get on famously,” Lord Arthur said magnanimously. “And, look here, Sylvia, you’ll be needing money to get to London. I shall give you fifty pounds.”

Clearly thinking himself a most indulgent parent, Lord Arthur turned back to his books, and Sylvia took herself off to plan her journey. She was not overjoyed by the thought of a long journey on the common stage, nor did the thought of the rackety mail coach appeal, but she could think of no means to avoid either one or the other. It was Lady Greyfalcon, surprisingly, who came to her aid.

“Nonsense, Sylvia, it is not at all suitable for you to travel to town crowded in among the rabble, as you would be on the stage. And I have heard quite dreadful tales from persons—male, every one of them—who have had the misfortune to travel by mail. Drunkards in charge, overturning in ditches, persons falling from the roof and getting killed—”

“Dear ma’am, I promise you I should not ride on the roof.”

“No, of course not, but it is all of a piece, I assure you. You must go post.”

“Well, I cannot. Papa would suffer an apoplexy, and even with the fifty pounds he has promised me, I could not think to travel in such an expensive style. The common stage will do very well for me. Mrs. Weatherly has had occasion more than once to travel to her brother’s by that means when Mr. Mayfield could not spare the old coach, and she assures me that so long as one does not attempt to travel when one knows the coaches will be overcrowded, one may do very well.”

“Well, I am sure I should not know when such times might be,” said the countess tartly. She was engaged upon another piece of fancywork, and she fell silent just then to examine her work rather carefully before rearranging it upon her lap and picking up the needle.

Sylvia kept silent and was awarded when her hostess looked up suddenly and said, “I know the very thing. Treadle shall take you in our old traveling coach. The thing hasn’t been used in years, for when Greyfalcon—Francis’s papa, that is—chose to drive up to town, we always traveled post, and Francis, of course, has never used it at all since the days when it used to carry him and Christopher off to school. But I am sure Treadle has kept it in excellent condition, for that is his way, you know, and he will be glad of an opportunity to drive to London, for his youngest daughter—Milly, that is—went up last autumn to go into service with Lord Cowper. Treadle can spend a night with my brother Yardley or with Francis and come back the following day. It would not answer if you had no maid to accompany you, but since Lord Arthur is very kindly lending you Sadie, it will answer very well indeed. You can stay the one night in Maidstone. My husband was always partial to the Saracen’s Head there. They set an excellent table, and you needn’t worry that the sheets will be damp.”

Sylvia accepted the offer at once, and then it was only a matter of writing to Lady Joan and waiting for Sadie’s niece to arrive, which was only a matter of days, owing to that young woman’s having already given notice to her former employer.

So it was that late afternoon on Tuesday, the seventh of April, Sylvia found herself once again at Reston House, greeting her fond hostess.

“Sylvie, darling, how wonderful to see you again,” cried Lady Joan. “You simply must sit down and tell me everything that has happened, beginning with when you were last here, for I do not believe for one moment that all was as insipid as your letters would have me believe. Harry didn’t believe it either. We have known you too long, dearest. Now, come, tell all.”

Sylvia allowed herself to be pushed into a deep wing chair near the fire, grateful for its warmth, for the day was a damp and chilly one, and the final hours of the journey, despite thick lap rugs, had not been particularly pleasant. She had already divested herself of her heavy traveling cloak, so now she pulled off her hat and gloves, flung them onto a nearby table, and grinned at her hostess.

“Only wait until you see what I have brought to town with me, Joan.”

“Never mind that,” said Lady Reston, taking her own seat in a matching chair on the opposite side of the marble hearth. “I want to hear about your meeting with Greyfalcon and all about what transpired afterward. Had I known his reputation then as well as I do now, I promise you, Sylvie, I should never have allowed you to go to him as you did. Did you truly emerge unscathed?”

“Not altogether,” Sylvia admitted, “but that is of little consequence now. Joan, I have a copy of
The Delicate Investigation
!”

Lady Joan’s memory was not so tenacious as Sylvia’s. She received this momentous information with a blank stare.

“Joan, really, the book Mr. Perceval paid five thousand pounds to recover. You told me about it yourself.”

“But we agreed that there could be no such book,” Lady Joan protested. “You cannot have found it.”

“But I did. My Uncle Lechlade sent it to Papa. He is one of Perceval’s cronies, you know, and must have been given it when it was first printed. He never read it, that much I can tell you, and nor did Papa, for the pages were quite uncut. But it is the same book, for I read it myself in the coach, and Joan, you would not credit the things they tried to prove against the poor Princess of Wales.”

“Gracious, Sylvia, is it true they said she had a baby?”

“The accusation was made,” Sylvia told her, “but the evidence showed clearly that she did no more than befriend the child of one of her servants. They tried to accuse her of having other illicit relationships, too, with such well-known persons as Mr. Canning and Admiral Sir Sydney Smith.”

Lady Joan was thrilled to discuss the matter and asked many questions. It was not until one of the servants came in to light more candles that either lady realized how much time had passed, but then Lady Joan exclaimed in dismay, “Goodness, how fortunate that Aunt Ermintrude has gone to my sister’s for the week and that it was only Edmund and not Reston who came in upon our discussion. Sylvia, surely Lord Arthur does not know that you read that dreadful book.”

Sylvia grinned at her. “Much he would care. Even if he had read it himself, I doubt that it would occur to him that I ought not to do so. Perhaps it would be as well, however, if you do not tell Reston we have been discussing such stuff.”

Lady Joan bit her lip. “I should say I won’t! Gracious, Sylvie, he would be shocked. Angry, too, I daresay. But surely he ought to be the one to approach Mr. Perceval for you. How will we tell him?”

“We won’t,” Sylvia said flatly. “I intend to approach Mr. Perceval on my own behalf. No, no, Joan, do not protest. My mind is quite made up. Papa has given me permission to write to him, telling him I have the book in my possession, so there can be nothing wrong in my doing so. It is not the same as writing to Greyfalcon, after all, for not only is the prime minister a married man, but he has twelve children, for heaven’s sake. He has been called many things, but no one has ever suggested that he is a rake.”

Lady Joan could not dispute the last fact, but she could and did argue the propriety of Sylvia’s handling the affair herself. Nevertheless, Sylvia waited only until the following day to pen her missive to Perceval. Then it was only a matter of sitting back patiently and waiting for his reply, hoping that she would not be thrown on her hostess’s charity before she could collect her five thousand pounds.

T
HOUGH SYLVIA WROTE HER
letter the very next day, not until the following Monday did she receive a reply of any sort. In the meantime, she and Lady Joan did what they could to improve her wardrobe. Wednesday morning found them in her bedchamber with Sadie, looking over a pile of gowns that Lady Joan’s tirewoman had brought to them.

“Ellen says several of these ought to fit you, dearest,” Lady Joan said, picking up the first, a simple light-blue morning gown. “You left one of your own frocks here, you know, and my sewing woman was able to use it to alter these. They are all simple. She did not alter any evening gowns, insisting that they would be better done once you had arrived.”

The rest of the morning was agreeably spent sorting through those gowns that had been altered and choosing three others, evening gowns, that might be quickly fitted to her shorter, more slender form, and by midafternoon, Lady Joan pronounced her guest ready to pay formal calls.

“No one will suspect for a moment that you are wearing my dresses,” she told Sylvia, “for Harry is so generous that I have many more than I am ever able to wear. Not one of the gowns you chose has been seen by anyone other than my seamstress, I promise you.”

“You are too kind, Joan, but whatever would Harry say to such generosity on his behalf?”

“Silly, he won’t know, that’s all.”

The rest of the week was spent enjoyably, paying calls and attending rout parties and a supper party on Saturday evening. At this last affair, Sylvia was pleased to encounter Miss Mayfield and her mama and to learn that the former had been doing her utmost to attach Greyfalcon’s interest.

“It is very sad, is it not,” that young lady said, “that the poor man is in mourning and does not attend social gatherings. He would not even accept an invitation from Mama to have dinner with us and make one of a party to the opera, although I cannot think that anyone would think such an outing at all disrespectful to his papa’s memory, for we selected a tragic opera on his behalf.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Sylvia said sweetly. “One would not expect him to attend a ball, and a play might be considered frivolous, but there can be nothing amiss in a visit to the opera, especially a tragic opera.”

“Well, that is what Mama thought, but he sent a refusal.”

“At least he responded,” Sylvia said dryly.

“Oh, but he is quite the gentleman,” Lavender protested. “Whenever we chance to meet in Hyde Park, he puts himself out to be most affable and charming. I have formed the habit of riding nearly every morning,” she added with a blush, “but I have not seen him for several days now.”

She went on to describe her life in London, and Sylvia was given a clear impression that Miss Mayfield had not given up her attempt to bring Greyfalcon to kneel at her feet. Had Sylvia not had her own reasons for being in town, she might well have been content to sit back and await the outcome of her small piece of mischief. As it was, however, impatience overrode her other emotions. When the reply to her missive arrived on Monday, it did so in a manner unlike any she had imagined.

She was seated with Lady Joan in the little first-floor drawing room, happily engaged in discussing town gossip, when a footman announced Major Teufel.

“He requests a private meeting with Miss Jensen-Graham, my lady,” the tall young man said quietly.

“Out of the question,” said Lady Joan firmly. “Miss Jensen-Graham cannot be expected to entertain unknown gentlemen without a proper chaperon. Pray show this Major Teufel in at once, Alfred.”

“Wait, Alfred,” Sylvia said quickly. “Joan, since I do not know this man—”

“Begging your pardon, miss,” interjected the footman, “but my father is in service at Carlton House, as my lady can tell you, and I have heard him mention the major’s name from time to time. I believe he is one of the Regent’s minions, if I may be so bold as to say so.”

Sylvia looked at Lady Joan. “Goodness, I was persuaded he must be Mr. Perceval’s man.”