Letters to a Lady (7 page)

“I found the address list,” she said.

Harrup looked at the drawer and then looked a question at Diana. “What else? You aren’t breathing through your nose for sheer joy.”

She tossed her head. “If you have to come down too heavy for Whitby’s letters, you might recoup the loss by blackmailing Mrs. Somers,” she snipped. “I notice you kept her billets-doux.”

He went to the drawer, took the packet of letters, and dropped them into the wastebasket.

“It would be more to the point to burn them,” she said. “Does Mrs. Somers also have a packet of your maudlin ramblings?”

“No, it is the custom to exchange letters when the affair is over. That ensures their safety. It happened that Mrs. Somers went abroad without retrieving hers, though I had the foresight to recover mine.”

“Did you return Mrs. Whitby’s?”

“Of course.”

Diana sniffed and tossed her shoulders.

“As all this is so distasteful to you, why do you persist in helping me?” he asked.

“I told you, I have a favor to ask. But Lady Selena will be here shortly, and besides, I want you in a good mood, so I shall wait till tomorrow. Another little worry for you, wondering what you will be dunned for,” she quizzed.

“I have enough worries, thank you. The attorney generalship hanging in the balance, the stolen letters, and Lady Selena.”

“Lady Selena! I didn’t realize she rated as a problem.”

Harrup looked conscious and spoke quickly. “Marriage is always a problem. It’s an institution designed by ladies to make slaves of men.”

“It has often occurred to me that it is quite the reverse. It is the ladies who take on the responsibility of running the house and servants and making sure the husband isn’t bothered by the children or any domestic problem. You cannot even complain of the expense. I expect you’ll be getting a fat dowry with your bride.”

“Naturally I was not speaking about Selena, but about marriage in general,” he said stiffly.

She gave him a look that went right through him. “Naturally,” she said. “Why are you really getting shackled, Harrup? Is it a prerequisite to the appointment you’re hoping for?”

“Certainly not, though Liverpool did drop me the hint a married man is considered more stable, less likely to be running wild.”

“I doubt if it will stop you. I suggest you take the precaution of keeping your desk drawer locked after the nuptials.”

The sound of carriage wheels was heard on the street, and Diana left. She went after Ronald, and rather than interrupt the arrival of Harrup’s guests by going out the front door, they left by the servants’ entrance.

“Ronald,” Diana said when they were seated in the carriage, “we aren’t going to Drury Lane, after all.”

“I’m sure we can get a ticket. It may not be a very good seat, but—would you rather go to Covent Garden?”

“No, I would rather recover Harrup’s letters. I have got Lord Markwell’s address. Evening is the perfect time to sneak into his apartment and steal them.”

Ronald turned and laughed lightly. “You are always joking. Di. What the deuce are you talking about, breaking into a gentleman’s home?”

“Lord Markwell is not a gentleman. He is a thief.”

Ronald realized by the timbre of his sister’s voice that she was serious. A cold sweat broke out across his shoulders and along his forehead. A quotation drifted through his mind—he couldn’t remember the author. “There is no animal more invincible than woman.” “Oh, dear,” he said softly. “Must we?”

“Yes, we must, for Harrup has taken the perfectly cork-brained idea of beating Markwell up, and that won’t do his chances of being appointed the attorney general much good. If, on the other hand, you pull him out of the suds, he might just appoint you his special assistant.”

“Aristophanes,” Ronald murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing. Special assistant, did you say?” Ronald asked joyfully. “By jove, that’d be something like. Cuthbert got himself taken on as Lord Worth’s assistant, and Worth is just a plain M.P., not even a privy councillor.”

“It’s just an idea,” Diana warned him, “but this is very important to Harrup, and he can be generous when he wants.”

“Let’s see the address,” Ronald said eagerly.

“Let us have dinner first. We must lay plans.”

Chapter Four

“How many servants is a man like Markwell apt to have?” Diana asked her brother as they ate dinner. It was only an indifferent meal. Neither was in the mood for a lingering repast in some fine dining spot. They wanted to get on with the job at hand, so settled for Ronald’s former hotel, Ibbetson’s.

“A gentleman in his position would have to keep up a good front. He’d have about two thousand a year from his papa. I’d say two or three servants: a valet and butler, or a valet who also buttles and a female to look after his rooms and do a bit of cooking. As he has only hired rooms, his female servant may sleep elsewhere, like my Rankin.”

“If Markwell makes do with one man, then we should have no trouble,” Diana ventured. “I’ll knock on the door and distract him while you rifle the office. I shall say I felt faint and ask for a glass of wine. Perhaps I should send him for a doctor,” she mused, thinking aloud.

“What if Markwell is at home himself?” Ronald asked.

“Then we shall have to wait till he leaves. Surely he won’t be home at this hour. I’ve heard Harrup say a bachelor in London can eat out every night of the week if he possesses an impeccable jacket and a passable reputation.”

Ronald nodded his agreement. “Even I have had several invitations already,” he mentioned.

“Why do you say even you, Ronald?” she asked angrily. “You speak as though there were something the matter with you.”

“I ain’t exactly a catch,” he mumbled.

“Why, you’re handsome, well educated, wellborn, and have an unsullied character. You have good prospects—you’ll be the owner of the Willows one day. And soon Harrup will be your patron,” she added, smiling.

Ronald look mystified at his lack of social success. “I don’t seem to add much to a party,” he said.

“You must learn to put yourself forward more forcefully. Keep your eyes open for any chance of advancement. And when you begin looking about for a wife, Ronald, you should bear in mind your own reticence and seek someone who is outgoing, who will be a help to your social life.”

“That sounds like you, Di,” he pointed out.

“I should be very happy to play your hostess till you marry,” she agreed.

“That might be forever. I turn into a blanc-manger when confronted with a bold woman,” he said, and mildly ate up his meat.

When the carriage delivered them to Glasshouse Street, Ronald looked around with interest. “That’s the place,” Diana said, pointing to a mansion halfway between Old Bond and Swallow that had been turned into four bachelor flats.

“I thought it might be,” he said. “I was with Cuthbert when he was looking at one of those flats, but they were too steep for him.”

“You wouldn’t know which one was Markwell’s?” Di asked.

“No, but the two on the top floor were still to let last week, so he must be on the ground floor. They’re dandy rooms, light and airy. Cuthbert was going to try to raise the wind to hire one.”

“Excellent! If Markwell is on the ground floor, we can peek in the windows and see if he’s home. I’ll recognize him and know if it is the right flat.”

This subterfuge proved unnecessary, though a few other precautions were taken. Diana had Harrup’s carriage wait in the shadows a block away, lest anyone recognize the crest blazoned on the panel. She and Ronald walked past the building twice, then went to the front door. In the entranceway, they found a small white card had been posted listing the occupants. Lord Markwell occupied the set of rooms to the left of the entrance passage.

“There were no lights burning in those rooms,” Diana whispered. “Do you think you could pry the lock open?”

Ronald looked lost. “How?” he asked blankly.

“I don’t know. With a clasp knife or whatever men carry.”

“I don’t carry a clasp knife. I have a patent pen, and a small magnifying glass—for looking at old books at the stalls, you know. Sometimes the print is blurred and rather hard to read. I’ll just knock at the door—in case someone is in there resting, we don’t want to go barging in.”

As he spoke, he tapped on the door. Diana grabbed his arm and pulled him back behind the staircase. “We cannot be seen, Ronald,” she warned. They listened, but no one came to the door.

Diana realized by this time that her helper was incompetent, and she tried to pry open the lock with a hairpin and later a nail file. When neither worked, she suggested they go outside and try to get in by a window. Ronald promptly walked to the largest window facing the street and began hauling it.

“The back window, Ron,” she said, pointing to a few people on the street who had already stopped to stare at them. They slipped through a narrow alley and found themselves in a small, dark yard with pale windows gleaming in the moonlight.

“I can’t reach them,” Ronald said. “There’s no way in, Di. We might as well go home!”

“The letters that will save Harrup’s reputation and secure you a good future are in those empty rooms. Are you going to let a quarter of an inch of glass stop you?” she demanded.

“It’s not the glass. It’s the height.”

Diana looked all around the yard. “What’s that dark lump over there?” she asked.

Ronald walked toward it and said, “A rain barrel, but I can’t move it. It’s full.”

“We shall empty it,” his sister informed him through thin lips, and strode purposefully toward it.

“Damme, you’ve got water all over my shoes,” Ronald complained as the sluggish water splashed to the ground.

“Never mind your shoes. I’ve destroyed my second-best gown and probably my good cape as well. I’m going to take it off.” She tossed her sable-trimmed cape aside and helped her brother roll the barrel to the window. “I’ll steady it while you climb up,” she said.

Ronald, with many slips and tumbles, was finally at the proper height. “The window’s locked inside,” he said. There was a noticeable accent of relief in his voice.

“I’ll find a rock,” Diana replied promptly, and scrabbled around at the edge of the garden till she had one so heavy she could hardly lift it. Her gloves, she knew, were a shambles, and her coiffure had long since lost its style. “Break it softly,” she advised.

Ronald tapped gently at the pane. “Harder than that,” she said, becoming impatient with him.

Ronald swung his arm back and heaved. The ear-splitting noise was by no means the worst of it. Slivers of glass flew in all directions. Ronald howled and fell to the ground, clutching his eyes.

“Oh, my God!” Diana rushed forward. “Are you all right? Ronald, you didn’t cut your eyes?”

His hands came down slowly. He blinked and sat up. “I can see,” he breathed. Then he glanced at his fingers, where a dab of blood was visible in the moonlight. “I’m wounded,” he moaned, and lay down on the cold, damp ground. “Steeped in my own blood.”

“Where are you hurt?” A close examination showed a cut a quarter of an inch long on one finger. “Why didn’t you wear your gloves?” she asked.

“I didn’t want to destroy them.”

Diana’s attention was divided between her brother and the house. A head came to the window on the lower right-side apartment. She held Ronald still, hoping the shadows would conceal them. In a moment, the head receded and all was quiet. “I didn’t mean break it that hard,” she said, fear turning to anger now that the danger had passed.

“Well, if that ain’t—just how hard should I have broken it? Tell me that.”

“You should have protected your face, at least. Never mind, we must get inside while we have the chance. That would be the kitchen window you broke, I think. You go in first and give me a hand.”

“Can you staunch this wound first?” he asked ironically, when another drop of blood oozed from his finger.

“I can’t even find it.”

Ronald returned to the barrel, where he leisurely pulled shards of glass from the frame to permit himself to enter unscathed. Diana waited below, fuming impotently. At last the entry was deemed safe, and Ronald crawled in headfirst, his legs sticking out the window and wiggling till finally they disappeared and his head popped out.

“It’s the pantry,” he whispered.

Diana was already balanced on the barrel. Ronald’s help proved so bothersome that she finally told him to stand back while she hoisted herself up to the window ledge and squirmed her way in. Soon they stood together in a small pantry, listening to make sure they were alone. When all remained quiet beyond, they ventured forth into the dining room and on to the saloon.

“There must be a study,” Diana said, looking around in the shadowed room.

“What we need is a light,” Ronald decided, and began knocking over tables and chairs till he found a flint box. After much fumbling, the lamp was lit. Diana cautioned him to dim the flame by holding a paper in front of it, and they went forward looking for Markwell’s office.

“Here it is,” Ronald said, and darted in, straight to the bookshelves. “What a paltry collection,” he scoffed. “No Virgil, no Cicero, not even Homer. I could forgive the rest, for Homer is all a man truly needs. Imagine an illiterate like that being a member of Parliament! All his books are in English.”

Diana decided the bookshelf was as good a place as any to keep Ronald out of mischief. She closed the door, took the lamp, and headed straight to the desk. The top drawer was locked, the others unlocked. She quickly rifled the open ones, knowing in her heart that if the letters were there, they would be under lock and key. “We’ve got to break into this drawer,” she told her brother.

Over his shoulder Ronald said, “Yes, go ahead, Di. I’m just looking at this copy of
Waverley
. I haven’t read Scott, but the chaps say he’s very good. I wonder if Markwell would mind if I borrowed it.”

With a resigned shake of her head, Diana reached for a brass letter opener and pried the lock till she had broken it. The drawer slid open, and at the back she spotted a corner of pink satin ribbon. She reached in and pulled out the familiar billets-doux.