The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy

The window slid up without a sound, with not a rattle nor squeak to break the silence of early morning. Alethea hitched a leg over the sill, leant down to pick up her bundle of clothes, and swung the other leg over to perch some fifteen feet above the ground. She glanced back into the bedchamber. The motionless figure on the bed was snoring quietly, an arm flung out over the covers, his hair ruffled. The remnants of a fire crackled as a burnt log broke and fell apart in a shower of sparks.

She eased herself down from the sill on to the branch of the magnolia tree espaliered against the red bricks of the house. The huge creamy flowers showed pale in the greyness of the early morning. She shut the window by tugging on the glazing bars, dropped the bundle, and began her descent.

A gentle scrunch on gravel as her feet touched the ground. A pounding heart, a catching of breath. Fear mingled with elation as she smelt the misty morning air and tasted the scent of freedom. She didn't pause to catch her breath or to think about what she was doing. Time pressed, there was not a moment to lose. She picked up her bundle and edged round the corner of the house.

No one stirred. No dog barked, no early-wakening servant called out to ask who was there. With swift, silent steps, she crossed the sweep, on to the lawn, running now alongside the driveway, visible to anyone who looked out from behind the rows of windows of the great house. No challenge rang out, no shouted demands for her to stop broke the dawn peace. The only sound was of birdsong, and, then, in a distant farmyard, a cock crowed.

Figgins was waiting beside the gate, her face tight with anxiety.

“What's there in that bundle, Miss Alethea? I thought you wasn't bringing anything with you.”

“Some clothes, and pray remember I'm no longer Miss, nor Alethea. Mr. Hawkins, if you please. Mr. Aloysius Hawkins, gentleman.”

They were walking briskly along the lane, now, the huge wrought iron gates behind them, the stately line of limes hiding them from any watching eyes. Only why should there be any watching eyes? How could anyone suspect that the dutiful, obedient Mrs. Napier should abscond before dawn, leaving husband, house, and all behind her?

“I thought you didn't want to bring anything from there.”

“It's best that I'm thought to have left the house as a woman. If a set of clothes are gone, a blue gown, that is what they will search for. How suspicious it would be if I had appeared to set out stark naked.”

Figgins let out a snort of mirth at this fanciful notion.

“How far is it to the carriage?” Alethea went on.

“I told them to wait at the corner, where this lane runs into the bigger road.”

Alethea was striding along, relishing the freedom of trousers and boots, of stretching her legs instead of taking ladylike steps. She slowed as Figgins stumbled against a large stone.

“I can't be doing with these country lanes,” Figgins said. “I don't know how folk put up with living in the wilds like this. It isn't natural; people were meant to live in cities.”

“This is hardly the wilds; we are a mere twenty-one miles from London.”

“Might as well be on the moon, for it's a different world out here and not one I fancy. Give me cobbles and paving stones and a bit of noise and bustle. It was so quiet waiting here for you, it fair gave me the creeps. And there was something up in the tree above my head making a dreadful hooting, whooping sound.”

“An owl.”

“Owls is unlucky.”

“Not this one.”

They were at the end of the lane. There, standing in the mist rising from the warming ground, was a coach, with a postboy waiting by the two horses. As they approached, he went to the door of the carriage and let down the step.

Alethea gave him a quick good morning and then jumped in, followed by Figgins. Up went the step, the door was closed, the postboy swung himself into the saddle and clicked the horses into movement.

She had escaped.

“Do not trouble to deny that my brother is in,” said Lady Jerrold as she stepped over the threshold of her brother's house in Milburn Street. “This is not a social call, so if he is still abed, I will wait for him in the breakfast parlour. Tell him I am here, and you may bring me a cup of coffee.”

The butler had no choice but to obey, and Lady Jerrold sat down to wait for Titus. It was so like him not to be up and about, it was all part and parcel of a life that lacked direction. Titus Manningtree, in his sister's opinion, was a fortunate man. He was clever, well-born, rich, and handsome, had a splendid seat in the country, a fine house in town, numerous acquaintance, and several close friends.

Yet there was no man more bitter in all London. A fine military career—promotion, mentioned in despatches, trusted by the Duke of Wellington—lay behind him, as did a political career—trust Titus to have been outspoken in the House upon matters that were much better left undisturbed. His mistress had abandoned him, and he had managed to alienate the king. It was time, Lady Jerrold felt, that he took himself in hand.

Lost in thought, she didn't hear his footsteps, and she looked up, startled, to see him frowning at her from the doorway.

“What are you doing here?”

Her eyebrows rose, and she mockingly advised him to pour himself a cup of coffee and carve himself a slice of ham. “For I am persuaded that this shortness of temper must be due to lack of sustenance, and that you will be restored to your usual sweet nature upon eating.”

He laughed. “Cora, you've still got a tongue on you that would make a viper weep. I don't know how Jerrold puts up with you, indeed I don't.”

“Jerrold loves me dearly, as you very well know, and he doesn't feel the sharp edge of my tongue since he genuinely does have sweetness of nature. Unlike you, Titus. Now, sit down, and I shall tell you why I have come and then I shall remove myself and you can finish your breakfast in peace. Meanwhile, you may pour me a cup of coffee.”

He felt the pot and rang the bell with angry vigour. “It's stone cold. I keep a pack of servants in this house, eating their heads off, and the coffee's cold.”

“What this house needs is a mistress.”

“Oh, are you on that again? Well, I tell you, it needs no such thing.”

“Yes, it does. And I am sure that with Emily married to her Italian, you very much feel an emptiness in your life, a lack of congenial female company.”

“Mind your own affairs, Cora, and leave me to mind mine. And keep Emily out of this.”

“No, for it is Emily herself who asked me to help you.”

“Emily asked you? Emily? How dare she!”

“Emily is exceedingly fond of you, as you must know, close as you have been these five years or more.”

“Not fond enough to accept my hand when she was widowed.”

“She felt you would not suit, and that you were not the kind of man to make her a good husband. You are too restless, unsettled, angry with life.”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “And that prinking musician is going to make her a good husband?”

His sister heard the bitter hurt under his angry words. A severe, shuttered look came over his face, a look that she knew all too well.

“Never mind Emily,” she said hastily. “That is all in the past now, and you must consider the future. You grow no younger, and—”

“Thank you, I am not in my dotage, I believe, and I do not think five and thirty any great age.”

“Indeed, it is not. It is the age of maturity, when a man is at ease with himself, and has more than at any other age to offer to a woman. To a wife.”

“The devil with your wives.” He brushed aside her protest at the strength of his language. “Don't be missish, Cora, and don't pretend you don't hear a great deal worse any day of the week.”

“Not in the circles in which I move.”

“Then you're in dull company. I've no thought of a wife just at present, so you may save your breath. I have got a woman in my eye and my mind, though, and she is going to take up all my time and energy these next weeks and months. I shan't be satisfied until I have her home, where she belongs.”

“You're bringing a woman home? Here? In the house? A mistress? You cannot, it would never do.”

“Don't see why not; I could name you dozens of men who've done just that. Don't need to, in fact, you know them as well as I do. Besides, she isn't that kind of a woman. You've got a vulgar mind, Cora, that's what it is, harping on mistresses and liaisons. What I'm talking about is beauty, a beauty the like of which you'll never find gracing your balls and routs and drums.”

“Who is she?” Lady Jerrold was all curiosity now, perched on the edge of her seat, leaning forward eagerly.

“Do you remember my going abroad with our father, years ago, you'd have been in the schoolroom? In the year two, during the Peace of Amiens?”

“I remember Papa going off to France, and Mama being in a dreadful state, for she insisted that Napoleon would start fighting again at any moment, and he would be swept away into a prison and never seen again, that was, if he didn't have his head lopped off. I don't recall that you went with him, however. I thought you were up at Oxford then.”

“I did go with him. He took me with him before I started at Oxford. He had no more expectation than Mama did of the peace holding, and he reckoned it might scupper any chance I might have of touring on the Continent. He was right, too; it was several years before I was able to visit France again.”

“What has this to do with your beauty?”

“Only this, that while we were in Italy, our father bought a great many paintings. One of them was a Titian. Oh, it's a superb painting, one of his redheaded beauties, the most voluptuous creature.”

“One with no clothes on, I suppose, from your raptures.”

“There is that, and her form is exquisite, but it is the face that enchants. Such eyes, such an expression, such a mouth.”

She was disconcerted by his enthusiasm. “You speak like a lover.”

“Don't be a fool. This isn't some poetic nonsense about mooning over a picture. This is a missing painting, and it's mine, and I want it—her—back in my possession. Hanging on my wall. Over the fireplace in the red drawing room at Beaumont. Or possibly on the stairs here. She's the only female I'm interested in right now, and pursuing her is going to take up all my time and energy. So if you've got a line of eligible females lined up for me to do the pretty to, you may dismiss them.”

Lady Jerrold flashed back at him: “Eligible females, is it? The way you've been carrying on with Emily these five years, there isn't a respectable mama in the town who'd let you anywhere near her daughter. You're dangerous, Titus. The best you can hope for now is a rich widow, and it so happens—”

“No.”

She knew that tone of voice. She rose to take her leave. “I wish you joy of your picture hunt,” she said in a cold voice.

“Liar. You wish I may catch cold over it, and end up with lighter pockets and no picture.”

“Your pockets are quite deep enough to buy a Titian on your own account. I don't see why you have to make such a song and dance about this particular one.”

“Because it's my picture, it belonged to our father, it now belongs to me, and I want it back. And, moreover, it transpires that the king has wind of it, wishes to add it to his collection, and I'm damned if I'll put up with his getting his fat hands on it.”

Cora had reached the door, but the savagery in his voice made her pause and turn round. She came back into the room and sat down by the window. “Calm down, Titus, be rational; you are always telling me to be rational, now it is your turn. Why, if Papa bought this painting, is it not already at Beaumont?”

“The war intervened. Napoleon raised his ugly head above the parapet, and we were all at it again, up and down the countries of Europe, watering the fields with blood. It was impossible for our father to bring back many of the purchases he had made on that trip; it was a matter of getting ourselves back across the Channel without being thrown into a French prison for the duration.”

“So there were other works of art that went missing.”

“Yes, but none so fine as the Titian.”

“Come 1812, why did Papa not go back to Italy and find the painting?”

“I have no idea.”

“And now it's reappeared, is that it? Have you papers to prove ownership? You may ask a good price, you know, from the king.”

“You don't understand. I, the owner of the painting, don't enter into these negotiations at all. George Warren has found out where it is, the dog, and intends to do a deal with whoever it is that has my painting in his possession. On the king's behalf. He will pocket a handsome commission from our fat monarch and walk away so much the richer.”

“Does he know the painting is yours?”

“Yes. It is well documented; the description he has given to the king matches in every detail.”

“If you are sure of your ground, then make the affair public; show how shabby Warren's behaviour is.”

“Much good that will do; the whole of London is used to Warren's shabby behaviour. And Warren's not the only one to behave shabbily, for I swear that the king himself knows that the painting belonged to my father.”

“Have you not antagonised the king enough?”

“It would give me great pleasure to annoy him further, and if I can do it by depriving him of a Titian for the royal collection, so much the better. It will be a good revenge to lay my hands on this Venus before Warren does, and bring it back to Beaumont, where it belongs.”

Lady Jerrold was somewhat relieved that her brother was not suffering from any Pygmalion tendencies, but she was alarmed to find him expressing such outright hostility to the king. However, it would never do to say so; once Titus had an idea fixed in his head, there was never any turning him away from his purpose.

“Do you know where it is?”

“No, but I'm damn well going to find out, if I have to put a posse of spies on Warren.”

“Just Bootle will do, I imagine; the man's a born intelligence agent, and knows everything that goes on in London.”

Bootle was Titus's valet, a man of whom Cora heartily disapproved. She had to admit that he never gossiped about his master, but that was, in her eyes, his one redeeming feature.

She drew on her gloves. “I imagine this means that you will be off abroad, or is the Titian perhaps hidden in some lonely castle in Scotland?”

“I tell you what it is, Cora; you read too many novels of the more sensational kind.”

“And you, my dear brother, are determined to live a life of the more sensational kind. You'll tweak the royal lion's nose once too often, and then you'll have to flee these shores for good.”

He bent his head to kiss her cheek. “I hope my wicked nephews and nieces are in good health and spirits?”

“They are indeed, and wanting Uncle Titus to come and play bears with them again. I told them that you are presently a bear with a sore head, and not in the mood for games.”

 

Bootle had known how it would be when he brought his master the news that George Warren was on his way to Paris.

“The devil take him,” said Titus. “He's off to get the picture; well, he isn't going to find it as easy as he thinks. Bootle, get packing.”

Which Bootle already had, and he was quite pleased to do so. Maybe a journey abroad, for all its inconveniences, would shake some of the fidgets out of his master. He'd never known him to be so out of sorts for so long; Mrs. Thruxton might have a lot to do with it, but there was more to it than that. Mr. Manningtree was the kind of man who needed a purpose in life. His estates were in excellent order, and he wasn't one of your gentlemen farmers, happy to look after his crops and land. London society bored him, and Bootle knew that his long sessions at Angelo's with the foils and his habit of walking wherever he went in town were merely a way of working off some of his energy.

Politics had seemed likely to take up a lot of his time and attention, but that hadn't worked out; that was the trouble with a man like Mr. Manningtree; he was too clever and had too many ideas for those old dozers in the House of Commons. Yes, a trip abroad, sea air, the discomforts of travel, that would calm him down—if only for a while.

It might even rid him of this obsession with an old painting; whatever had got into his master to put him in such a passion about a picture? It was as though all his disappointment and rage had focused on the Titian, not to mention on Mr. Warren—such a fuss about an Italian painting, it made no sense.