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Authors: Pamela Christie

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“Why
does Madame Zhenay have your new letters?”
“Because I gave them to her to give to Harry.”
“Costanze,” said Arabella slowly. “If you had been born a rabbit, or a pig, or any type of animal other than a human being, your mother would have eaten you at birth.”
“That is not a nice thing to say!”
“You are not a nice thing to
be
. You are quite simply too stupid to live.”
“So what? I can be stupid if I like. That’s my right.”
“Not when it impacts me, it isn’t! Now listen carefully, Costanze. Because I am going to kill you if you fail to do exactly as I say.”
“Tsk!
Oh, very well then.”
“You are going to make Pigeon take you to the seashore. You will leave London tomorrow morning for Brighton, and you will stay there until I write and tell you that it is safe to come back.”
“I can’t. I’m in a play, remember?
The Bird?
Opening night?”
“They’ll have to get along without you.”
“But it’s my debut! Besides, Pigeon is coming and he will be frantic if he doesn’t see me in the cream puff chorus!”
“Pigeon is going
with
you, Costanze. I want you to stay in Brighton, where you’ll be out of harm’s way.”
“Oh, all right, Bell, seeing as how you’re going to kill me if I don’t. But why will I be out of harm’s way in Brighton?”
“Because Harry won’t be there.”
“Oh. Does that mean I cannot invite him to visit me?”
“Yes. That is what it means.”
Chapter 13
C
ecil Elliot had not been able to keep his midnight assignation, after all. But the following night, he arrived at Lustings at half seven on the dot. And when Arabella made her entrance at Grillon’s upon his arm, she was gratified by the awed hush—to which she had long been accustomed and yet had never taken for granted—that fell over the restaurant. She was looking her best, in a rich gown of cobalt velvet with flame-colored gloves, and a rather famous sapphire necklace. The first time Belinda had seen her in this ensemble, she had remarked on Arabella’s resemblance to a sea slug, but she had meant it kindly. The Beaumont sisters were well-versed in matters of natural history, and knew nudibranchs to be among the most beautiful, colorfully diverse creatures in all creation.
Arabella seldom wore bright colors. That she had elected to do so tonight was a gesture of defiance, for she had not been out since the attempted assault two days ago, and that, coupled with the warnings she’d received from Frank and Lady Ribbonhat, had prompted her to make a public showing of herself. Here I am, she seemed to be saying. Come get me, if you dare!
“You are without doubt the loveliest creature ever to grace this establishment,” said Elliot, holding her chair for her. “And I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me for engaging this private dining chamber.”
“But why should you apologize?”
“Because, in that gown you should expect to be widely admired all evening, and here there is no one but myself to pay you homage.”
“No woman could wish for a better audience,” said Arabella graciously. “Besides, I presume you have a good reason for bringing me here.”
He smiled. “I have, as a matter of fact. What I am going to say must not leave this room. I know I may trust you, my dear, as your tact and discretion are legendary.”
She bowed her head in acknowledgment of his approbation. “But if it’s so secret, why tell me at all?” she asked. “You don’t have to, you know.”
“Yes, I do. For I would seek your permission for something, and I doubt you would grant it without an explanation.”
“I am all agog.”
Elliot lifted the lid of the soup tureen and inhaled the aroma wafting up therefrom. “I have heard,” said he, ladling the contents into their bowls, “that you have been conducting an investigation of one Madame Zhenay.”
“I
was
, yes. And the woman was duly arrested. But now she has been released from prison, and is apparently trying to have me killed.”
If Arabella expected Elliot to be outraged by this—and she probably did—she was sorely disappointed, for he casually spooned up his broth as though he were more interested in whether it contained sufficient saffron than in her safety.
“Hmm,” he said at last. “I presume you are taking prudent precautions.”
“Well, there is really not much I
can
do, you know,” she replied, “other than maintain vigilance at all times.”
“Quite right. I certainly hope that your adversary fails in her purpose.” He smiled, and moved his foot to touch her own beneath the table, but Arabella did not care for his attitude and moved hers away.
“She nearly succeeded! When I encountered you beneath the street, I had just escaped her hired ruffian, who chased me down the road, with a club!”
“How terrible for you. Speaking of clubs, I shall be requiring access to the tunnels directly beneath yours. Have I your permission to search the area?”
Arabella was really annoyed now. Elliot seemed indifferent to her assault, and oblivious of the dangers that lay before her. This was not like him; he was extremely attentive, as a rule.
“You don’t need my permission,” she snapped. “Surely the streets and whatever lies beneath them are city property.”
“One might think so. But a peculiar charter, drawn up in 1324, grants the rights to that particular stretch of tunnel to the owner of the property above it. One of my investigators informed me of this yesterday, shortly before you appeared out of nowhere and fainted in my arms. Was not that an extraordinary coincidence?”
Then he caught sight of her expression and chuckled, tenderly taking her hand.
“Now, now, Miss Beaumont,” said he. “I detect that you are hurt over my apparent indifference to your plight. But let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth.”
“Couldn’t it?”
“No. And I hope you will forgive me for not devoting more conversational time to your personal safety, but you see, I prefer action to words.”
“I don’t follow you, Elliot.”
“I intend to see to it that you are protected whenever you go out.”
“You do?”
“Indeed. Nevertheless, I should advise you to be especially careful at your theater opening. The henchman has failed in his purpose, and your Madame Zhenay strikes me as the sort of woman who is accustomed to doing things herself, in order to be certain that they are done properly.”
“Do you really think she would risk coming out into the open?”
“There
is
no risk, so far as Zhenay is concerned. That woman has the city of London by the short hairs. The law cannot reach her.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about Madame Zhenay,” said Arabella. And after a pause, she added, “I still don’t know what it is that you do, exactly.”
“That is as it should be,” he replied gently. “I am not at liberty to discuss my occupation, but I
will
tell you that I, too, am conducting an investigation, just now.”
“Beneath my club?”
“In part, although the scope of our search is much wider. Are you aware that the prime minister was assassinated last year?”
Arabella raised an eyebrow. “Do you take me for a simpleton?”
“Hardly. But I know how you loathe politics, and that you go to great lengths to avoid the subject.”
“Well, I could hardly have missed hearing of
that.”
“True. At present I am . . . looking into the matter.”
“Then you’re a little late, I fear. The assassin has already been apprehended and executed.”
“Ah! How readily you take my point, dear lady!” (Arabella, ever attentive to double meanings, actually blushed.) “You are quite right. And this selfsame John Bellingham was hiding out in the tunnels for some days prior to committing the crime. My team has discovered certain ambiguous articles at a couple of his camps, which may indicate the involvement of Irish radicals. Their main bivouac appears to have been located directly beneath your club, so we simply must search that area. Will you grant us permission to do so?”
“Of course,” said Arabella. “And who are ‘we’?”
“Why, thou and I, Miss Beaumont!” he said, kissing her hand, and ringing for the waiter. “Do you still have those enchanting blue bed curtains with the golden pineapples?”
“Pray, do not insult my intelligence, Mr. Elliot. If you cannot name the agency for which you work, just tell me so.”
“Very well, then. I cannot name it.”
“Then can you tell me what it is that you are seeking in my tunnel?”
Here he gave her a look so salacious, so unmistakably ribald, that she actually blushed again!
“No,” she faltered, in pretty confusion. “I meant the one beneath the CS.” A waiter appeared, and was dispatched for a quill, a bottle of ink, and a rolling blotter. But the instant he left, Elliot seized Arabella’s hand again, and began planting kisses along her arm as he spoke.
“We are trying to ascertain the identities of these other parties,” he murmured. “Bellingham burned some papers in the tunnel, but left certain others behind. The bits we have managed to piece together so far form a tantalizing puzzle. And while my team searches for the co-conspirators, I shall endeavor to discover who paid Bellingham and the others to commit the assassination—the mastermind behind the grand plan.”
Writing implements were produced at this juncture, and Elliot paused in his amorous activities whilst Arabella read and signed the writ.
“Now,” he said when she had finished. “I am free to devote the rest of this evening exclusively to your pleasure.”
And Arabella was happy at last.
“Listen, my dove,” said Elliot, “would you mind terribly much if we didn’t attend the opera tonight? I have a sudden desire to see your bed curtains again.”
“Why, no; I should not mind in the least,” said Arabella, smiling. “After all, it is only Gluck. And I have seen it before.”
Chapter 14
“Y
ou have
not
seen it before,” Mrs. Anybody admonished her grumbling husband, as their carriage pulled up to the theater. “Nobody has! It is Sheridan’s newest play, which was only finished early this morning!”
“Well, then, I daresay I’ve seen somethin’ just like it! Plays are all the same: just a bunch of silly, conceited actors struttin’ about the stage sayin’ God knows what to each other, and ladies flutterin’ their fans. That’s all it is, just a lot of struttin’ and flutterin,’ with an occasional bellow whenever somebody tries to sing!”
The Bird o’ Paradise’s opening night was a brilliant event, in every sense of the term, but not all the attendees were sensible of its allures.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Anybody!” said his wife, as he helped her out. “Why, the costumes alone are worth double the admission price! All those feathers and furs and whatnots!”
“By Jove!” cried he. “If it’s feathers and furs you wanted, an’ flutterin’ and bellowin’, I should have taken you to the zoological gardens! Though I don’t imagine it will be open at this hour. Sorry, my love, but I simply didn’t realize where it was you wanted to go. There’s nothing to be done now. I suppose we shall have to go home again.”
His spouse regarded him with icy hauteur. “As you are not to be reasoned with in this mood, Mr. Anybody, I shall not deign to answer you,” said she, taking his arm.
“No, of course not,” he grumbled. “And quite right, too. After all, there is nothing you
can
say, as I have seen it all before.”
His mate was on the brink of responding, despite her resolution not to, when she passed through the doors of the Bird o’ Paradise, and her tongue quite froze in astonishment. She was right, though, and her husband was wrong, for he had
not
seen anything like this before.
The Morning Post
would later describe the scene as:
. . . a sensual feast, from the lobby’s thick carpets to the international scent of the spectacular floral arrangements: Dutch tulips, English roses, French lavender, Chinese chrysanthemums. Here and there, one might also have caught the elusive scent of cigar smoke, which is rather exciting at a distance. The chandeliers sparkled with golden light, reflected in the gilt-framed pier glasses, and a kind of informal musical arrangement was effected from the combination of cultivated voices in the lobby, snapping fans keeping time to the nodding of ostrich plumes, the sneezing of snuff takers and fluting of champagne glasses. Here and there, one encountered people horning in on conversations, fiddling with their opera glasses, drumming up support for the Cyprian Society, harping on the lack of police protection within city limits and chiming in with opinions upon the economic prospects of Puffing Billy, the new steam locomotive. Laughter was widespread, though subdued, and some of it was probably genuine.
The heavy window curtains had been pulled back to display the opulence within to the common without. Not that they weren’t welcome, too: The theater was open to all humanity, from the grand persons who would shortly be holding court in the private boxes, to the cheerful rowdies who would pack the pit. In the theater proper, the seats were cushioned and comfortable. New gas lighting had been installed for the wall sconces, and the ceiling was painted with classical scenes. (Isn’t it odd how readily the art patron accepts nudity, provided it is confined to ancient Greece? If, instead of olive groves and classical temples, the same naked nymphs and youths had been depicted chasing each other in and out of parliament or the Bank of England, there would have been a general outcry.) As it was, the patrons were charmed to a man, and Arabella was satisfied that all had been done in the best of taste.
Everyone had come, from aristocrats, war heroes, and foreign dignitaries, right down to the painters, playwrights, poets, and politicians. More significantly, at least as far as Arabella was concerned, they had brought their wives. She had expected this, of course, for a theater was one of the few places where courtesans and society’s leading ladies might freely mingle without fear of damaging one another, but it still gave her a thrill to find them here, at
her
place.
In the back of her mind, though, she remembered Cecil Elliot’s warning, and her eyes searched the crowd for Madame Zhenay. But there was no sign of her so far, and Arabella felt a little rush as her confidence returned.
I should think so, too! She was truly resplendent this evening, in an off-the-shoulder gown of white silk, with a froth of satin roses clustered at the top and spilling down one side to the hip. An ombre effect (the color technique, not the card game) had been achieved here—the roses passing from purest white down to palest green. To complete her ensemble, Arabella had chosen pale green satin slippers, a shawl of white silk velvet trimmed in pale green braid, a silver fan, and a reticule of emerald-green velvet. Her throat, bosom, arms, and slender fingers were all bare of decoration. Whilst the other ladies blazed with jewels, their hostess preferred to let her silk roses do for the main adornment—there was, besides, a set of silver combs, set with moonstones, in her rich auburn hair—and the effect was exactly what she wished it to be: In all that flashing, shining, diamond-studded crowd, Arabella stood out as the elegant focal point.
Now the outer doors were closed, the bell was rung, and the audience surged up the staircase in a body, like the restless tide of civilization assaulting the hillsides of a new continent. Seats were procured, the company settled itself, and then . . . out of the wings walked the legendary Sarah Siddons herself; retired, now, but briefly back onstage for this one special occasion.
She did not say much, nor remain upon the stage for very long, but the audience, in its enthusiasm, stood and clapped and clapped its elegant gloves, and some of the ha’penny stalls cheered out loud, for she had been a very great actress.
Arabella was extremely gratified by the general enthusiasm. Observing the scene from her box, she reflected on her supreme satisfaction with the evening thus far. As usual, after having made her entrance, London’s premier courtesan had been mobbed by elegant gentlemen who knew her well, knew her slightly, or wished, ardently,
to
know her, and they had swum after her up the grand staircase (for those who credit Leeuwenhoek’s astounding hypothesis) like so many spermatozoa after an egg cell. Her box could only accommodate six persons at a time, however, so each group was allowed just ten minutes in which to see their idol and attempt to fix assignations for later dates, before being obliged to make room for the next lot. The initial five aspirants had enjoyed a slightly longer audience, since no interruptions were allowed during Mrs. Siddons’s dedication. But now that it was finished, gentlemen were once again thronging the passage outside Arabella’s box, and striving for admittance to the inner sanctum.
Pierce Eagan, the celebrated sportswriter, was passed by the ushers.
“I have a young American friend outside,” said Pierce, after kissing Arabella’s hand, “actually, he’s my second cousin, though I have only just met him—who urgently wishes to make your acquaintance.”
“Americans tend to be badly brought up. Has he nice manners, Eagan?”
“Exceedin’ nice.”
“Is he good-looking?”
“I should say he was your ideal type.”
“Oh, very well. Please inform him that my price for an introduction is one hundred pounds.”
“One hundred pounds? Wasn’t it fifty, only last Tuesday?”
“It has gone up. If your kinsman wishes to be presented now, he may jump the queue and come in at once. Otherwise, there is a host of others waiting their chance for admission.”
“Oh, he’ll want to come in, of course! Meeting you will be the pinnacle of achievement in his life so far!”
“You exaggerate, sir! After all, the Yankee will no doubt have fought wild Indians, and skinned grizzly bears with his teeth.”
Arabella shooed her visitors out of the box as a baker shoos flies from a confectionery window. All obeyed her, albeit with greater or lesser shows of reluctance, until she was alone at last. And into this sudden void stepped the man who had ogled her through her window as she was preparing to bathe! He was even younger and more handsome up close, but how changed! (Evening clothes do, indeed, make the man, but they
also
make the woman.) Arabella could never resist a male in formal attire, and her heart seemed to flutter in her throat.
“Miss Beaumont,” he murmured, with an elegant bow. “Or, as I should say, ‘Miss Beau-
mound!”
It was very much the wrong remark to make, and Arabella took exception to his insolence. Such vulgar familiarity presumed on so short an acquaintance was not to be borne, even if they
were
alone. And then he said, with a sheepish grin, “I’m afraid I can’t afford your price, ma’m. Y’ see, I only just got to England, and all I had in the world was my letter of introduction to Eagan.”
“Then what are you doing in my box?” she demanded. “Mr. Jones, please show this ‘gentleman’ out immediately!”
The usher entered and took hold of the American’s arm.
“Wait . . . I can explain . . .”
But Arabella had turned again to face the stage, covering her ear with her folded fan.
“I will
not
listen!” she replied. “Go!”
The fellow shook off the usher, straightened his waistcoat with both hands, bowed, and withdrew. Under the circumstances, he could scarcely have done otherwise, and yet, Arabella owned that the manner in which he took his leave was not without dash.
The reader may wonder at all this drama occurring off the stage and yet during the performance, but the fact is, other than the audience in the pit, and possibly one or two patrons in the stalls, few people attended the theater in order to actually see plays. Those up in the boxes could not hear the actors, in any case. But they liked it that way; audible dialogue would have interrupted their conversations. And this play was fairly stupid, anyhow—it seemed to consist of a lot of pies standing about, taking it in turns to disparage a theater critic who had panned Sheridan’s last production. However, the fact that the
actual
critic was in attendance lent a certain frisson to the evening, and the audience hoped to see a dustup between critic and playwright during the coming interval. Someone had already shouted to Sheridan, offering to hold his coat for him.
“Hmm,” said Lord Foley, who had entered Arabella’s box and was settling himself with a printed program. “
Pride and Pastry: A Short History of Eggles the Baker.
What is it about?”
“For heaven’s sake, Foley,” said Arabella. “If your intention in coming here was to watch the
play
, you should’ve stayed in the pit!”
Foley apologized, and said that he was only asking in a nominal sort of way.
“Well,” said Arabella, relenting, “as I make it out, that man there, Mr. Puff-Pastry, is a playwright who is having a dream about a bake shop. Only, because it is a dream, you see, the pastries stand up and walk about, expressing indignation over the hero’s ill-treatment at the hands of that man in the second row. Can you see him? In the bottle-green jacket? That’s Mr. Mock. Sheridan has portrayed him as a butcher. He’ll make his entrance in a minute—the butcher, I mean—and when he does, I would have you note the blood upon his apron.”
“Why?”
“Because it is actual blood—human, not bovine. Sheridan had it sent over from a hospital this afternoon. It is meant to be symbolic, in a realistic sort of way.”
“Sounds perfectly awful,” said Richard Sharp, who was seated behind Foley. “Not to mention, derivative. Hasn’t Sheridan any
new
ideas?”
“As the play’s importance
as
a play is
not
important,” said Arabella, “I don’t care whether he has or not. Mrs. Siddons was here, the cream of society is in attendance, and the venue itself is a wonder to behold. Never you fear; the Bird o’ Paradise has been well and truly fledged!”
“But what of the playwright?”
“Foley,” said Poodle Byng. “You’re snuffing the mood, old man.”
“Snuff, did someone say? What a cracking wheeze!”
Then there was nothing for it but the snuff boxes all had to come out, and Poodle, who had purposely engineered the conversation to flow in this direction, was able to shew off his new carnelian-and-onyx-snuffbox-featuring-miniature-portraits-of-his-unmarried-sisters-framed-in-gold-beading- with-names-engraved-upon-inlaid-ivory-cartouches-and-having-open-spaces-adorned-in-brightly-enameled-flowers. His presentation was greeted by a chorus of appreciative sneezing, even though everyone knew it was only a ploy to try to get his sisters married off.
“Still,” Lord Foley persisted, “I cannot help feeling sorry for Sheridan. He was ‘all the go’ only last year!”
“Sheridan is having the satisfaction of expressing his displeasure to an influential audience,” said Sharp.
“Yes, but after tonight, everyone is going to be on the side of the critic, and I doubt that was his intention. Poor chap! I warned him about his excessive drinking, but I fear that the fellow has quite drowned his talent.”
“Perhaps,” said Arabella. “And I am afraid that your time is up, Foley. Make way for the next man, if you please.”
“Beg pardon, Miss Beaumont,” said one of the Wellesley brothers, leaning across from the neighboring box. “But did Foley just ask you what the play was
about?”
“Indeed he did, sir.”
“Good God! Now I’ve heard everything!”
Wellesley turned and repeated the story to Colonel Hangar, who guffawed in surprise. “D’you mean to say the fellow dressed in his evening clothes and rousted out his coachman to bring him here . . . actually paid for tickets even, just to watch the play?”

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