The Dorset House Affair (2 page)

Etienne Delagardie was younger than his friend Alain de Bellefort, but he shared his aristocratic view of the world. Both were expert swordsmen, and once or twice in the weeks when the
chevalier
was home, they would indulge in a fierce mock duel with jousting swords, that would take them skipping and slithering across the terraces of the
manoir.
These friendly fights always ended in a draw, as neither man was the other’s superior in sword-play.

What would Delagardie think if he knew that his friend supplemented his meagre income by trading in stolen secrets in return for gold?

Thrusting and parrying, the friends traversed the length of the terrace, their blades flashing in the morning sun. The air echoed with the ring of steel.

‘Are you still determined to accept this invitation, Chevalier?’ asked Delagardie, knocking his opponent’s sword aside as he spoke. ‘How can Elizabeth bear to set foot in that place after what happened to her?’

‘She will do as her sense of obligation directs, my friend, and I shall be there to second her. There is to be a
feu
d’artifice
,
you understand – what the English call a firework display. It will be a pleasant interlude, no doubt. What could be more convenient? Keep your guard up, you fool! Look, I have scratched your cheek.’

The two men paused in their sword-play, and Delagardie ruefully wiped away the blood on his face.

They resumed their coats, which they had removed for the fencing match. De Bellefort looked at his friend and thought what a fine young fellow he was. It would do no harm to ask him a straightforward question.

‘You once began to pay court to my sister,’ he said, ‘when we were all a little younger and perhaps a little more innocent. Would you marry her now, knowing what happened to her in England, and what followed?’

He saw the younger man blush, as though in shame, but knew at once that the blush was caused by anger at having his constancy called in question.

‘Of course I would marry her,’ he replied. ‘Is she to be condemned for what that animal did to her?’

‘I wonder,’ said De Bellefort, half to himself. Etienne pretended not to hear.

‘As always, De Bellefort,’ he said, ‘Elizabeth will submit herself entirely to your will. God knows what will happen to her when
she sets foot in that cursed house again. You should not let her take the risk. Sometimes, De Bellefort, I think you are mad.’

‘Sometimes, Delagardie,’ said the Chevalier de Bellefort, gravely, ‘
I
think I’m mad myself.’

1

The Man Who Drank Too Much

I
n the smoke-filled upstairs gaming-room of the Cockade Club in Pall Mall, a group of fashionable young men lounged at a round baize-covered table, waiting for one of their number to throw down his hand of cards. They were too flushed with drink to remain silent, and tried to relieve the tension by directing various barbed comments at the man concerned.

‘I say, Moggie, when are you going to show your hand? We can’t wait all night. It’s nearly two o’clock now.’

‘In that case, it’s Sunday morning,’ volunteered another player, a man who seemed to be lying back in his chair in order to save himself the effort of sitting upright.

‘Moggie knows that Miss Julia Maltravers won’t let him play the tables once they’re married,’ said someone else, ‘so he’s making the most of tonight.’

Maurice Claygate treated his companions to an amiable smile, and threw his cards down on the table. To the accompaniment of groans and ironic cheers he swept the pile of sovereigns and notes of hand from the centre of the table, at the same time tossing back the remains of a glass of claret. He groped for his lighted cigar, but failed to prevent it falling to the floor. Decidedly, he had had too much to drink, but befuddled or not, his ability to win at cards remained as finely honed as ever.

‘What will you do with all that money, Moggie?’ asked the man
who was reclining in his chair. ‘I don’t suppose you’d send down now for a dozen of claret?’

‘You suppose rightly, Williams,’ said Maurice, laughing. ‘I shall go home now, and lock this filthy lucre in my pa’s safe. Good night, all – damn it, why can’t I get up from this damned chair? Bobby, give me a cigar, I’ve lost mine. Perhaps I’ll treat you all to a bottle of brandy as a nightcap. Savage! Come here.’

‘Yes, sir?’ A middle-aged man in evening dress approached the table.

‘Savage,’ said Maurice, ‘bring up a bottle of brandy and some clean glasses. You can put it on the slate.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said the man called Savage. ‘Or, if you like, you can give me the four pounds you owe us from your winnings: it will save you having to bother yourself paying the month’s bill on the twenty-eighth.’

‘What? Ain’t he a Shylock, you fellows? Yes, all right. Take it, will you? Have you got a match? This cigar that Bobby gave me doesn’t seem to be lit. By Bobby, of course, I should have said Mr Saunders. God, must you wave that match in front of me like a torch? Oh, thank you. Now a fellow can smoke his cigar in peace.’

‘The trouble with you, Moggie,’ said Bobby Saunders, ‘is that you’re half seas over. You don’t know what you’re doing. Incidentally, I don’t know why your pa’s throwing that grand party for you on your birthday. You seem to be at a different revelry every night. What’s the difference?’

‘Well, yes, I do get about, I must admit…. People seem to like me, you see, and keep inviting me to their parties. And ever since I started making little trips abroad, I’ve had quite a few young ladies taking an interest in me. It’s not my fault, you know. I can’t help being liked. Ah! Here’s Savage with the brandy. Pour out will you, Savage? You’re better at that kind of thing than I am.’

‘The future Mrs Claygate won’t let you romp around with chorus girls and the like, you know,’ someone else observed. ‘You’ll have to stop all that when you’re married, unless you want
a scandal.’ There was something rather minatory behind the banter that made Maurice flush to the roots of his hair with embarrassment.

‘Damn you, Brasher,’ he cried, ‘what gives you the right to preach to me? Do you think I can’t behave like a gentleman?’

‘I think you’re behaving like a drunk,’ said Brasher. ‘Try to sober up, will you? There are a lot of things that you’ll have to stop once your married. You’ll have to stop coming here, for one thing. This place was raided last March, and it wouldn’t do for you to be taken up by the law. Your pa wouldn’t like it.’

‘Shut your mouth, won’t you?’

‘No, I won’t. I don’t like your tone, Claygate. Your pa is one of Britain’s national heroes. He deserves not to be disgraced by his son’s behaviour. What about that foreign girl last year? The Frenchwoman with the ludicrous brother? What about—?’

Maurice Claygate staggered to his feet, upsetting his brandy as he did so.

‘That’s enough!’ he cried. ‘Don’t you dare mention that
business
. I’ve a mind to punch your head, you thick lout.’

As he lurched over the table with some vague intention of doing an injury to Brasher, the man who was sitting beside him pushed him roughly back into his chair, where he slumped forward over the pile of money that he had won. Maudlin tears sprang to his eyes.

‘I’ve sworn to Julia that I’ll mend my ways,’ he sobbed, ‘and I will. You swine, Brasher…. Elizabeth de Bellefort and I parted by mutual consent. Yes, that’s what we did. It was all very … What’s the word I want?’

‘Convenient.’

‘No, damn you! Civilized. That was the word. All very civilized. Everybody likes me except you, Brasher. I’m giving all this up, I tell you.’

The man who had pushed him back in his chair, a pleasant,
fair-haired
giant, stood up and addressed the company.

‘Drink up, you fellows,’ he said, ‘and go to your homes. I’ll apologize on Moggie’s behalf, if you like. No offence taken, I hope, Brasher?’

‘None at all. That was too
much claret and brandy speaking. Never mix the grain and the grape. Come on, you fellows, let’s go. You’ll see he’s all right, won’t you, Morton?’

‘Yes, I’ll put him in a cab and send him back, fare paid, to Dorset House – no, on second thoughts I’ll go with him. I think he’s gone to sleep. I’ll get Savage to help me bring him downstairs. Incidentally, weren’t you a bit hard on him, Brasher? You know: old friends, and all that.’

‘You’re a decent fellow, Teddy,’ said Brasher, ‘so I’ll take you into my confidence about this business. That French girl –
something
very dreadful happened to her as a result of getting herself mixed up with Moggie. My father knows a French gentleman from Rouen – a business acquaintance – who told him all the details. Moggie sometimes stays in Rouen, you know. Our friend Claygate keeps on telling us how nice he is, but I’m not too sure about that. Keep that under your hat, you know. Good night to you.’

Some minutes later, Maurice Claygate and his friend Teddy Morton were sitting in a hansom cab, moving slowly out of Pall Mall and into St James’s Street. It was cold, and rather bleak, even though they were travelling through one of the most favoured districts of the West End.

Morton stole a glance at his companion. Poor Moggie! He was a handsome fellow enough, with appealing eyes and a permanent air of genial apology for his many faults. No wonder girls fell for him. But his chin was weak, and he found it well-nigh impossible to resist the crudest of temptations.

‘I really will, you know,’ said Maurice, waking up from a fitful doze. ‘Reform myself, I mean. Julia is a marvellous kind of girl, just right for the likes of me. I met her, you know, when Father dragged me up to Uncle Hereward’s grouse moor in Yorkshire for
the shooting. Ghastly, cold place, and deadly dull, you know. But Julia was there, and – well, that was it. Where are we? It’s dashed dark outside.’

‘We’re just at the Berkeley Square end of Bruton Street. We’ll be at Dorset Gardens in no time.’

Maurice Claygate looked at his companion as though he had just become aware of his presence in the cab.

‘You’re bringing me home, aren’t you? How dashed civil of you, Teddy. Did I make a show of myself back there?’

‘You were very uncivil to Cedric Brasher, but he’s forgiven you.’

Maurice relapsed into gloomy silence. A few minutes later, the cab turned into Dorset Gardens, and Morton looked across the expanse of grass enclosed in railings to the great mansion known as Dorset House, the residence of Field Marshal Sir John Claygate, Moggie’s father. The long stucco frontage was brilliantly lit by rows of gas lights, each in its glass globe, rising behind gilded
railings
.

‘Elizabeth de Bellefort,’ said Maurice Claygate, ‘was what I’d call a clinging kind of girl: she was all over a fellow, you know. She was certainly a stunner, but I don’t think I could have stood all that devotion for long.’

‘She’s here in England, now, isn’t she?’

‘Yes. She and her fantastical brother. They arrived from France yesterday. They’re staying in the house with us, which is one reason why I’ve stayed so late at the Cockade. Difficult to talk to a girl as though the past had never existed. Very embarrassing for all parties, you know. What day is it today?’

‘It’s Sunday, now, the second of September.’

‘Is it really? The wedding’s on the fifteenth, so I’ve plenty of time to reform. And my birthday do is next Thursday. So I’ve less than a week to endure before the brother and sister return to Normandy. Yes, Elizabeth’s one of those clinging type of girls, all devotion, you know. A bit much for a fellow in the end. Pity, but there it is. Now Julia—’

‘Here we are, Moggie,’ said Teddy Morton. ‘The cabbie’s stopped right outside the front door. There’s an ancient man in capes approaching from a kind of sentry box. I think he’s going to help you out.’

‘Good evening, Beadle,’ said Moggie, stumbling out of the cab on to the curving carriage drive. ‘Morning, I should say. Very civil of you to stay up for me. What time is it? Three o’clock? Good Lord. Thanks for seeing me home, Teddy, you’re a sound fellow. Come on, Beadle, help me inside. See if you can find a glass of whisky. Hair of the dog that bit him, you know.’

Teddy Morton watched his friend as he was helped up the steps of Dorset House by the night-watchman. Poor Moggie! Would he really change his ways? No, of course he wouldn’t. People never really changed.

‘Cabbie,’ he said, ‘could you see your way to taking me as far as Portman Square? I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘My pleasure, sir,’ the cabbie replied, and turned the horse’s head in the general direction of Oxford Street.

Alain de Bellefort turned out of a busy Soho street, walked down a narrow alley, and emerged into a little secluded court. He mounted the front steps of a respectable three-storey brick house, one of several forming a terrace on the north side, and rang the bell. The door was opened almost immediately by a sour-faced woman in a grey smock, who was holding a dustpan and brush.

‘Yes?’ said the woman, giving him a baleful look, as though he was trying to sell her unwanted goods.

‘Monsieur de Bellefort to see Miss Sophie Lénart.’ What animals these people were!

‘You’d better come in,’ said the woman. ‘Miss Lénart’s expecting you.’

The house was dark and airless, and the small rooms
over-furnished
. The hallway was papered in a heavy crimson flock, and
was almost filled by a massive coat stand. The woman opened a door to the right of the hall, which led into a sitting-room, its walls clothed with the same heavy crimson paper. Obscure, ugly paintings in heavy gilt frames all but covered the walls.

A young woman, who had been sitting at an open roll-top desk engaged in writing, rose as De Bellefort was ushered into the room. She smiled a greeting, but there was no real welcome in the smile. Miss Lénart was well and fashionably dressed, and her blonde hair was carefully brushed and arranged. Her features were pleasing and regular, but there was a cynical twist to her mouth that made her look older and harder than her years.

‘So, Monsieur de Bellefort,’ she said, ‘you have decided to answer my summons. I think you were wise to do so. Sit down, and let me talk to you about a matter of business.’

De Bellefort did as he was bidden. Sophie Lénart was another collector of secrets that could be sold for gain. They sometimes shared information, and occasionally co-operated on a project, but there was no love lost between them. Alain dealt in small matters of indiscretion; Sophie worked on a vast canvas, and her name was a matter of fear to many high-placed officials in the chancelleries of Europe.

‘I should be interested,
mademoiselle
, to hear what you have to tell me. I arrived in England only on Friday, and your note came to me on Saturday morning. It is Monday today. Whatever you want to discuss with me must be a matter of some urgency.’