Red Jack's Daughter (19 page)

“No, only a part of it. He still travels to the Continent for your father’s treasure. But, it appears, part of it has come to you already,” he answered, closely watching her expression.

“Really, it has been such a
tr
ying day, I fear I’m not thinking clearly,” Jessica said, passing a hand over her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

Lord Leith returned to her side and sat again. There was nothing but gentleness in his gaze. “No, how should you think clearly?” he asked softly. “But it really is great fortune. It seems that Mr. Jeffers came along with only a small part of your inheritance. But a charming, concern part at that. He came up with your cousin, Anton,” he said with the air of a man presenting a gift.

“My what?” Jessica asked stupidly.

“Your cousin, Anton von Keller,” Lord Leith repeated, noting the stunned disbelief in her eyes.

“But there is no such person,” Jessica stammered, “or at least there was never such.”

The tall gentleman looked deep into her wide and amaz
ed
eyes and then said gently, “But there is, Jessica, or at leas
t
there is now.”

1
1

When Jessica went to bed that night, she closed her lids only as a gesture to convention, for she knew she would not have a moment’s sleep. Thus, when she opened her eyes what seemed to be only a second later, she was stunned to see her room flooded with broad daylight. Sitting up quickly, she noted from the clock upon the mantel that she had slept the dial around in deep and dreamless slumber. It could have been that she had taken refuge from all her confusion in the sound way of any healthy young animal, but Jessica thought it had more to do with the brimming glass of evil-tasting restorative that Lord Leith had pressed upon her. She had grimaced, for a vagrant memory of the concoction that Mother Carey was said to use crossed her mind. But Alex had claimed the brown stuff was only “Cognac,” so she soon downed it all.

She sat up in bed and drew her knees up to her chest, crossed her arms about her knees, and pondered. For once Miss Eastwood was in no great haste to greet the day. Too much had happened too quickly and she felt the need for some quiet reflection before plunging back into the wakeful, worrisome world again.

There was no sense, she told herself, in going over the events of yesterday. She fully accepted whatever blame there was, and only made a sour face at the thought of what a donkey she had been. And since the mere thought of what might have happened if she had not been so lucky as to pause outside of Maria Dunstable’s window was so fearful, she quickly cast the thought aside for reference on some less-demanding day.

The thought of
the
nightlife of her male companions was not so readily shoved away, and Jessica spent some moments pondering the duplicity of the masculine gender. But as those thoughts quite naturally led her again to th
ou
ghts of her father and his secret life, she soon gave up those ruminations as well. It was the present, she decided, not the irreparable past, that needed her fullest attention now. And the most pressing of those matters was the appearances of this spurious cousin that Alex had been on about.

For that this Anton was some impostor, she had no doubt. The only cousin of hers that she knew of was the odious Cribb, and if he had any relatives without scales, she could not think of them. And surely, she thought, Cribb would have told her of any, for he would have been fearful of anyone who might lay claim to Oak Hill in his stead. No, she thought, this “cousin” simply does not exist. Alex and Lady Grantham may have been cozened into thinking so, for they had both been full of smiles and charity for the fellow’s manners and graces. But more than likely, she thought, narrowing her eyes against the bright sunlight, he was just a scrambler who had heard of her legacy and was in hopes of claiming part of it. As far as that goes, Miss Eastwood thought, tossing back her tousled, gleaming mane, he shall find I am not such an easy bird to pluck. And, much heartened, she pulled the bell cord to summon her maid to help her dress for battle.

A charming Nile-green frock was her uniform, a burnished coronet of braids became her war bonnet. Taking a serious peek at herself in the looking glass, Miss Eastwood was satisfied and told herself grimly that her native wit would have to be her ammunition and her ready tongue her only firearm. She would, however, she decided as she went to join her hostess, have to be wily as well, and she vowed to send a note around to Thomas Preston, requesting his presence when the impostor arrived, for even the boldest soldier requires reinforcements.

She slid into her seat at the dining table, head down and silent save for a muted good-morning to her hostess, for she did not wish to have to defend herself so early in the day. But Lady Grantham, instead of being angry, hurt, or offended at Jessica’s activities of the previous day, as might have been expected, instead lay down her newspaper and smiled in the friendliest fashion at her guest.

Lady Grantham waited until Jessica took the first sip at her coffee. Then, she leaned over and lowered her voice so
that the hovering footman could not hear her. “You must,” she whispered urgently, “tell me all about it.”

When Jessica turned a puzzled face toward her and wondered whatever her oddly animated hostess was on about, Lady Grantham sighed in exasperation. As soon as all the breakfast dishes were arranged to the footman’s satisfaction, Lady Grantham sent the fellow away, telling him airily that she would ring when she required further service.

The moment he disappeared through the door, Lady Grantham inched her chair closer to Jessica and leaned so far forward that the younger woman feared the Lady would submerge her sleeve in the dish of porridge.

“Alex said you ran across Mother Carey, not to mention that you spent part of the afternoon and evening in the sole company of a low courtesan.”

Jessica bowed her head unhappily and stammered out her carefully rehearsed apology again. Lady Grantham frowned and waved away her words, brushing the lace of her sleeve across a plate of kippers in her impatience.

“No, no,” she said, “I know that. You had the most harrowing time, I’m sure, and I quite understand that you regret it. Well, it was a buffleheaded thing to do, but as you’ve come to no harm, there’s no need to keep abasing yourself. But tell me, what was she like? Mother Carey, that is. Does she truly look just like any Society dame? And Maria Dunstable, whatever did you talk about all that time?”

Jessica began to slowly tell her hostess all that had transpired, and as she did, she noted with amazement that Lady Grantham hung upon her every word and attended her sordid tale with great fascination, interrupting every so often to ask pertinent questions. Heartened by such uncritical interest, Jessica unburdened herself almost completely, for she thought it best to leave out the part about what Maria had said about Alex.

“Well,” Lady Grantham said with a satisfied sigh when Jessica had done, “what an adventure! Of course, I have heard about Mother Carey forever but never thought to actually speak to someone who had dealt with her. She never appears in public, you know, and one must depend upon rumor.”

“You have?” Jessica asked in confusion. “Then you mean that such activities are known to decent females in London?”

“Of course,” Lady Grantham said, carefully applying jelly to her slice of toast.

“Then why is nothing done about it?” Jessica demanded.

“What is to be done?” Lady Grantham answered. “The woman is famous for her depravity. Imagine, recruiting her unfortunate victims from among the most unwary, those poor young things who come to London to seek their fortune. How simply dreadful,” Lady Grantham said, but with something of relish in her tone.

“I think,” Jessica said with some heat, “that she should be stopped, that there should be some sort of law against what she does.”

“Oh, there is,” her hostess said through a quantity of toast, “but there’s the proving of it, you see. And anyway, most of the drabs in her employ are there willingly. It is those few that she gets by more unorthodox means that have given her a reputation.

“At any rate,” Lady Grantham continued as she disposed of her egg, eyeing her guest’s horrified countenance, “all decent females go in pairs in the street and only a simpleton would speak to strangers. Why, the lowliest parlor maid knows better than to strike up an acquaintance with any chance-met female.”

Seeing the guilty start that Jessica gave at those words, Lady Grantham hurried on, “But imagine, Maria Dunstable living in a mean flat like any ordinary slattern. She was a dazzling creature in her day. How time passes. I was used to see her decked in jewels at the opera, with the likes of Torquay and Bessacarr. Lord, I am getting old.” She chuckled with a reminiscent smile.

Jessica put down her fork. “You mean that respectable females know all about such liaisons?” she gasped.

“Certainly,” Lady Grantham said, looking at Jessica curiously, “we are respectable, not deaf nor blind, you know.”

“But then,” Jessica rushed on, aghast, “you know of Lord Leith and
...”
But then she realized to whom she was speaking and let her words trail off, trying to disguise her speech by taking a large gulp of coffee.

“Lucille LaPoire?” Lady Grantham answered so calmly that Jessica almost drowned in her cup. “Of course. It’s quite a famous arrangement. But I cannot see why you are so shocked. He isn’t married, you know. And one can hardly expect such a man to be satisfied with composing sonnets or dreaming about his future wife like some raw schoolboy. Now, Lord Wycliffe and that Turner woman, that is shocking! And he with five in his nursery and another on the way.” Jessica sat still and began to form an argument of the unfairness of gentleman being able to squire about legions of fallen females, while the young unattached females of their own class were considered fast if they entertained even respectable young men alone in their own parlors, but Lady Grantham put a stop to her high reasonings with a few careless, but artful words.

“But then,” she sighed, watching Jessica’s heightened color, “it has always been thus. And always will be, I expect. For a gentleman has to be sure that his heir is his own and none other’s. And nature has seen to it that his lady must be the one to produce the heirs. But now, if a lady produces the requisite number and her husband is complaisant, why, then, the tables are turned right enough.”

And for the remainder of Jessica’s uneaten breakfast, Lady Grantham told her stories of the peccadilloes of the fashionable females in London, that not only matched Maria Dunstable’s tales, but in some cases overshadowed them.

She spoke of the infamous Kitty, Countess of Auden, whose shocking indiscretions lived on long after she herself had gone; and of the aristocratic Countess of Oxford, whose children were called the Miscellany because of the assortment of fathers they were assumed to have; and of a score of other ladies of high degree and low sensibility.

By the time Lady Grantham had done and had rung for the footman to clear, Jessica was quite subdued. She waited for the visit from Mr. Jeffers and her false cousin dejectedly. For she had begun to think that she was, indeed, only a simpleton from the provinces.

For it was not that she had never known of such goings-on. Didn’t she know of Thomas Preston and his dalliances with the slattern at the inn? And hadn’t she heard the rumors about Mrs. White in town? But she never refined upon such matters at home. Either people in the country are far more moral, she thought miserably, or people in the city are far more honest. Or, she decided with as much honesty as she herself could summon forth, I have left far more than Yorkshire behind me in these past weeks.

But she soon left off her unhappy ruminations when Thomas Preston was announced. Jessica was so anxious for a private word with him that she scarcely noted that Lady Grantham was more stiffly correct with him than she had been in the recent past. When at last Lady Grantham turned to direct her butler as to the number of people who were to have tea with them, Tom had a moment to speak to Jessica alone. His face, she saw, was filled with concern.

“I could bite my tongue out,” he said without preamble, “for having said anything that might have caused you to act so rashly. No wonder Lady Grantham is so angry with me,” he sighed. “But Jess, why didn’t you contact me? Why, I was mad with worry as I searched for you. Lord, Jess, never do that again. You know you have only to send me a note and I will act for you.”

Jessica knew that time was short, and so she cut him off with a frantic whisper. “Never mind that, it’s done, Tom. But what of this fellow who claims to be my cousin? I don’t believe it, Tom. I believe he wants Red Jack’s treasure and has made up the whole. I haven’t any cousin, Tom.”

A look of speculation crept into his light eyes, and his long face set in intense thought. “Then we’ll have to watch him closely, won’t we, Jess?” he answered as Lady Grantham turned toward them again.

“Oh, yes, Tom,” Jessica breathed, feeling a little more secure now that she knew she had a concerned ally. While they seated themselves and made poor stilted work of a conversation about the weather, Jessica kept her gaze upon his determined face.

When Lord Leith was announced, Jessica performed the correct social amenities, but she could not bring herself to easy conversation with him. Rather, she kept her attention upon her one old friend, Tom, and discouraged any eye contact with Alex. Somehow, she felt uneasy in his presence, and even his puzzled expression as he noted her coolness did not change her affect.