Letters to a Lady (3 page)

Miss Peabody marched straight off to the constable’s office to lay a charge. Constable Shackley agreed to take a ride down the London road, but by then the ladies knew they would never see the purse again, and Constable Shackley knew Miss Peabody’s opinion of his sitting on his haunches while decent ladies were robbed of ten guineas.

“All our money gone,” Diana moaned. What fun was London without money? “How shall we pay for our hotel? It nearly cleaned me out, paying for lunch and the change of team.”

“That is not the worst of it,” Peabody said. Her face was pinched with chagrin and her voice weak with guilt. “Harrup’s letters were in my reticule. I have failed him.”

“The letters! That’s it!” Diana squealed. “You remember the clerk said someone was asking for our parlor. We thought it very odd at the time. He was after Harrup’s billets-doux.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. How could anyone possibly know I had them in my reticule? It was our money he was after. I never can step foot outside the house without something dreadful happening. Ten guineas gone. How can I tell your papa?”

“Mrs. Whitby knew you had them,” Diana countered, and stared at her chaperon with a sapient eye.

It did not take Peabody long to agree with this delightful conclusion. Any possibility that the affair was still in progress was ended now. “I never did trust that sly blue eye in her head. But why would she agree to return Harrup’s letters if she only meant to have them back?”

“She wouldn’t incur his anger by refusing,” Diana suggested. “But Mrs. Whitby has decided she shall be paid when she blackmails him with them.”

Miss Peabody thought she was up to all the rigs, but the blackest idea that had occurred to her was that Mrs. Whitby wished to keep the letters for sentimental reasons, despite her sly blue eyes. A look of surprised admiration lit her face. “I believe you have hit on it, Di. Was there ever such a piece of wickedness in Christendom? And how am I to tell Harrup about it?”

Diana patted her arm consolingly. “Don’t worry about it, Peabody. I shall tell him,” she said with quiet satisfaction. Peabody was groaning into her handkerchief and missed the expression that Diana wore. Had she seen it, she would no doubt have recognized it as being similar to Mrs. Whitby’s conniving face.

Chapter Two

The fates conspired to heap more misery on Miss Peabody’s trip. Roads were full of potholes that delayed their time abominably. A violent megrim took possession of her head, and just outside of London a buck forced their rig off the road in a game of hunt-the-squirrel. It took John Groom half an hour to haul the team out the ditch and make sure the carriage was sound enough to continue their journey.

Informing Harrup of the loss of his letters was so urgent that she had the carriage driven straight to his house in Belgrave Square. In the lengthening shadows of twilight, stately brick homes glared down at their passing, like dowagers at a ball, stiffly disapproving of parvenues.

It was with a tremor of apprehension that Peabody lifted her hand and sounded the brass knocker. She didn’t recognize Harrup’s butler, who looked as imposing as a duke as he stared down his Turkish nose at them and announced in lofty accents that his lordship was not at home.

Peabody cast a stymied frown at Diana, who edged forward and said in a loud, clear voice, “We shall wait for him,” and barged in.

“His lordship has left for the evening,” Stoker informed her.

“I shall fall in a heap if I have to walk another step this night,” Peabody moaned, and sank on to a chair in the hallway. While the butler looked on doubtfully, Diana took charge.

“Please prepare a chamber for Miss Peabody and myself,” she said. “We shall spend the night here.”

“But his lordship—” the butler began, and stopped uncertainly. His lordship had strong views on country cousins battening themselves on him uninvited. On the other hand, there was a certain fiery disdain in the young lady’s eyes that Stoker knew did not glow in the eyes of commoners.

“Pray hurry,” Diana said coolly. “Lord Harrup will not be happy to hear his cousin was kept cooling her heels when she came here at his express request.”

“Yes, ma’am.” This eased Stoker’s mind, and he called for the housekeeper.

Mrs. Dunaway was only five feet tall, but she made up in bulk what she lacked in height. Plump and florid, she ruled the house with an iron fist. As the ladies were being shown upstairs by Mrs. Dunaway, Diana took a peek around her.

The London house was, of course, smaller than Harrup Hall, but in elegance it was equally overpowering. Her eyes scanned the broad expanse of marble hallway leading to a gold saloon. Beyond a wide arch, lamps shone on polished mahogany surfaces and glowed dully on satin-covered sofas. The downstairs maid was just whisking the draperies closed.

Mrs. Dunaway, a cousin of Miss Peabody and a friend, chatted amiably as they ascended. Less charitable persons than Peabody said that Harrup demanded services of all his pensioners.

“His lordship will want you to have one of our good guest rooms, Hattie,” Mrs. Dunaway said as she led Peabody down a carpeted hallway to a door eight feet high. When the tapers had been lit, the room was seen to be fit for a queen. Green velvet hangings at windows and on the canopied bed lent an air of being in a forest. The theme was picked up in the hand-blocked wall covering, where branches and leaves were intertwined against a cream background.

“Oh, my! I hardly think—” Peabody said, and glanced doubtfully at Diana. “But perhaps with Miss Beecham along to share the room with me—Harrup could not put her up in the servants’ quarters.”

“There’s not another guest in the house at the moment,” Mrs. Dunaway said. “We shall put Miss Beecham in the adjoining room. The beds are made up fresh, for we just this day got his maiden aunts from Bath bounced off. What a troublesome pair of barnacles they were. Methodists,” she explained. “Now, will you ladies have a bite of dinner downstairs or shall I have it brought up here to you?”

“We would not want to inconvenience the servants. A cup of tea in our rooms will be fine,” Peabody said modestly.

Diana remembered the countless times her papa’s servants had been sent bustling when Harrup accepted a last-minute invitation to dinner. She was ready for more than a cup of tea. “When is Lord Harrup expected back?” she asked.

“He’s dining with the lord chancellor, so should be home by ten. The Eldons, you know. Very dull little parties Old Bags gives. I know his lordship turned down all his invitations to routs later this evening. He is very busy in Parliament at the moment.”

Diana considered this and took her decision. “You have your tea and go to bed, Peabody. I shall have a bite downstairs and wait for Harrup. I’ll tell him what happened.”

Peabody’s face eased in relief at avoiding her unpleasant duty, and Mrs. Dunaway’s eyes lit up like a pair of lamps at this tantalizing hint of trouble. As soon as she had Miss Beecham settled in the morning parlor with her cold mutton and bread, Mrs. Dunaway jiggled back upstairs to learn the details from Hattie Peabody.

“Mrs. Whitby, you say?” she asked, creasing her pink brow. “No, she’s not one of his city light-o’-loves. He’s been carrying on with an opera dancer—nothing serious—but even that has dropped off. Now don’t poker up, Hattie. He is a bachelor—and his females are all high-stepping dashers, nothing low class about them, I promise you. Lately it’s all come to a halt. You’d think he was up for canonization the way he’s burning the midnight oil. Work, work, work. You’d be proud of your Chuggie, Hattie.”

“I was not proud of him this day, Agnes. To have such unsavory goings-on in front of Miss Beecham.”

Mrs. Dunaway bit her lip and said, “The chit didn’t seem overwhelmed by it all. She’s not what you’d call a deb, I think? Older than seven.”

“Older than that, but as green as grass. She’s never been outside of the county, except for a few days in London with the family.”

“Ah, well,” Mrs. Dunaway replied, “country gels don’t shock easy, as we well know, eh, Hattie?” On this comforting speech she trundled from the room to try her luck with Miss Beecham below. Two minutes in that young lady’s company told her nothing but that—yes, it was unfortunate about the letters, and Miss Beecham would like to be informed the instant Harrup arrived. In the meanwhile she would like a pen and paper. Very cool was Miss Beecham for a chit who was supposed to be a provincial green-head.

Over her coffee Diana wrote a note to Ronald, explaining that she had been delayed and would call on him tomorrow at his hotel. She then rang for a servant to deliver the message and resumed her wait.

What she had seen of the house and servants impressed her. Harrup’s dining with the lord chancellor impressed her. Her courage was beginning to fail, and she took herself firmly by the scruff of the neck. She would not apologize for barging in uninvited. It was Harrup’s fault that they were in this pickle in the first place.

At ten-thirty Harrup’s tread was heard in the hallway. Diana hastened to the door of the morning parlor but decided to wait and let Harrup come to her there. She listened impatiently as he handed his coat and hat to the butler.

“Anything happen while I was away?” Harrup asked. “I trust you got
Tantes
Gertrude and Millicent blasted off.”

“Yes, milord.”

“Good! Thank God for large favors. Bring me a very large brandy and my slippers to the study.”

“You have company, milord,” the butler murmured apologetically.

“At this hour of the night? Hell and damnation,  who did you let in behind my back, Stoker?”

“A Miss Beecham and Miss Peabody.”

“You know my views on harboring country neighbors.”

“They said they were your cousins, sir. Here at your express request, the young lady said.”

“She always was a forward wench, but this goes beyond anything. Why didn’t they go to a hotel? Very well, where are they?” he demanded in a gruff voice.

“The young one’s waiting for you in the morning parlor.’’

“Send for her. I’ll be in my study. And bring the bottle of brandy, Stoker.”

“Perhaps wine for the young lady, sir?”

“No, don’t encourage them.”

Upon hearing this rude speech and demeaning description of herself, Miss Beecham returned to the table. With a hand trembling in anger she poured herself an unwanted cup of coffee. When she was requested to follow Stoker, she smiled coolly. “Please send Lord Harrup to me. As you can see, I am not quite finished dinner. Thank you, Stoker.”

“His lordship—”

“Immediately, if you please,” she said, and speared him with a shot from her sharp eyes.

“Yes, Miss Beecham.” Stoker bowed and returned to the study.

For some five minutes Diana waited, trying to catch a few words of the raised voice that shouted from the study. She was unconcernedly stirring her coffee when a stiff-legged Harrup finally entered the room. She had not often seen her country neighbor rigged out in city evening wear. He was an impressive sight. A tall gentleman, well built, with a crown of dark hair and dark eyes. Diana had no objection to a rugged face and weathered complexion. Were it not for the sardonic set of his mouth and the arrogant stride, one would have called him handsome.

Harrup looked as if he wanted to wring her neck, but he made the effort to appear civil. “Good evening, missie. What brings you to London?” he asked.

“Harrup.” She nodded. “Pray join me and have some coffee. And don’t feel obliged to apologize for not realizing I was still at the table,” she added, meeting his glare with one of her own.

He strolled in and sat across from her. Lamplight flickered on his swarthy cheeks. “I didn’t even realize you were in London. How should I have known you did me the honor of visiting me?” he asked.

Diana read the glint of anger in his eyes and prepared to set him down. “No doubt you are a little curious to learn why Peabody and I are here,” she said.

“I am extremely curious.”

“Curiosity has always been associated with cats—it seems it afflicts tomcats as well as females. Our visit has to do with your
chère amie
, Mrs. Whitby.”

A spasm quivered at the back of his jaw. “I beg your pardon?” he asked haughtily.

“Well you might, when you hear what Peabody and I have been through this day. As if wandering into your ladybird’s nest were not bad enough!”

Harrup jumped up from his seat. His eyes wore the look of a man who is guilty all right, but hopes he might wiggle out unscathed. “What, if anything, are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Mrs. Whitby. It is for you to decide what, if anything, the name denotes.”

Harrup stuck out his chin, straightened his cravat, and finally fell into a pelter, despite these delaying tactics. “Good God, you shouldn’t have gone yourselves! I expressly told Peabody to send a footman.”

“Yes,” Diana snapped back. “And you expressly told us it was important documents that were to be picked up as well. What were we to think? We thought it had something to do with your work, and here it was only love letters to a lightskirt.”

Harrup eased back onto his chair, considering whether he ought to be angry or apologetic. “A regrettable incident,” he said, but his tone was not apologetic. “May I have the letters, please?”

“No, Harrup, you may not,” Diana said, and stared at him with an expression he couldn’t read, though he detected a trace of satisfaction in those bold, slanted eyes.

“Now see here, missie! I want those letters, and I want them now, with no tricks, or I’ll turn you over my knee and give you a thrashing.”

“Is that how a privy councillor treats a forward wench?” She smiled boldly. “I made sure more forceful measures were at your disposal—arrest, incarceration, deportation.”

“Eavesdropping on top of it all! A thrashing is no more than you deserve, missie.” Yet he felt foolish. The young lady before him, speaking adult English and looking at him with a woman’s knowing eyes, was obviously too old to thrash.

“Very likely, but it wouldn’t do you a bit of good. I don’t have the letters.”

Harrup frowned in confusion. “But I’ve already discussed it with Laura. She agreed that five hundred pounds—” He came to a self-conscious halt.