The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (10 page)

Bootle was waiting in the yard of the inn and ushered him in through the door, relieving him of his coat and advising him to put off his shoes. “Lord Lucius was enquiring as to your whereabouts, sir. I believe he wants to make up a table for cards.”

“He can want away. I have letters to write, and besides, no one rises from a game with that man a winner. Let the others lose in his company, I will not play. You may tell him so.”

“Very good, sir.”

By the afternoon, Alethea was heartily bored. She had kept to her room for most of the day, aware that too much time spent in company as sharp-eyed and -witted as this collection of fellow guests might well lead to exposure. She had found a shelf of tattered books in the corner of what served as a writing room by virtue of two tables, one empty inkstand, and a broken quill left in a drawer. She had no wish to write to anyone, but she was glad to find that there were books in French and English, and she carried away a lurid tale in marbled covers and a volume of Montaigne's essays.

Since the lurid tale was set in this part of the world, she opened that first. It was a fantastic account of abductions, incarcerations in wolf-bound forests, of wicked stepfathers and lost heiresses. Just the kind of story she liked, except that she found the hair-raising description of a crossing of the Alps at exactly this time of the year didn't appeal as it might have done in the comfort of an English sitting room or library, with no more dangerous journey in mind than a carriage ride to a party or the theatre.

She yawned and cast the book aside. Figgins appeared at the door, looking lean and mean.

“What a set of scoundrels; well, I'm used enough to the ways of servants, being one of them, and familiar with indoors and outdoors staff, but I never met anything to equal this. They speak more free and easy with taking me for a man, and it fair makes your ears sting the way they go on, that Bootle and Mr. Warren's man, Nyers. There isn't a scandal from one end of the town to the other, no, indeed, not a scandal in the whole kingdom they don't have at their fingertips. Let them but fall to discussing your situation, your situation that is as they imagine it to be, and I shall put them right.”

“Oh Lord,” said Alethea. “A pack of gossiping servants, that's all we need, and if they talk about me, let them.”

“All servants gossip, just the same as their betters,” Figgins said with asperity. “Bootle, though, he's Mr. Manningtree's man, he's a more subtle one, not so free with his words but he's got his ears pricked up right enough. I shall have to guard my tongue and watch every word I utter.”

“Mind you do,” said Alethea.

“If ever they get hold of the merest glimmer of the truth about this escapade of yours, there won't be a soul in Europe that won't know about it, I tell you that straight.”

“Only they won't get even a glimmer if you keep your wits about you.” Alethea pulled her shoulders back and glared at her reflection in the rather green glass set on the table in her chamber. It sent back an eerie likeness, all too feminine, she decided, trying to curl her lip in the way that Warren did.

“Have you got the toothache?” Figgins asked, staring at her.

“Maybe if I rub a little dirt into my cheek, just a touch of shadow, what do you think?”

“I think you'd best leave well alone and look like what you can well pretend to be, a callow youth who's hardly begun to use a razor.”

“Just the sort that Lord Lucius likes, I fancy.” Alethea let Figgins brush her short locks into a Brutus. A few snips of the scissors improved it, and Alethea turned her head from side to side to admire the effect.

“It's not as though you haven't been out in company all this time,” Figgins pointed out. “In inns and in Paris and so on.”

“Yes, but never with people of this sort, who will quiz me as to who my father is and what his income and estate amounts to, and where I had my schooling and did I ever meet such and such.”

The best thing was, she decided, to stick as closely to the truth as she could manage. She could talk enough of Derbyshire and somewhat of London. Although her two Londons, that of the ballroom and polite society, and that of the much more lowly, if more interesting, world of the musician she had passed as, were not the London that these men were familiar with. They frequented sporting taverns, no doubt, and gaming clubs, not to mention the gentleman's clubs that any well-connected young sprig come to London belonged to. She'd never set foot in any such places; one inch into any of those male bastions in St. James's and the whole sacred edifice would probably collapse about her ears. Sacrilege would be nothing in comparison.

Naïveté, then, and inexperience, and say as little as possible, and avoid the wine; she simply did not have the head for it. She closed her eyes and thought herself into the skin of the various boys and young men of her acquaintance. Ever the tomboy, she thanked God for the years of friendship with Giles, a neighbouring squire's son, who had been like a brother to her, included her in many of his youthful pranks and adventures about their two estates and confided endless tales of the brutality and inequity of schoolmasters and tutors. As to a boy's life on a country estate, she could hold her own. The awkwardness regarding any questions about her schooldays? She dismissed the problem. None of those present at the inn were interested in schoolboy doings.

No, it was London life where she could be found at fault. Very well, she would skate over it. Aloysius Hawkins had merely passed through on his way to stay with a cousin in Italy. She would pass as a milk-and-water youth, uninterested in the wildnesses of town that attracted every young man she'd ever been acquainted with. She could hint at religious principles, an interest in natural philosophy, perhaps, ancient music; dull concerns that stigmatised Mr. Hawkins as a namby-pamby young gentleman, wet behind the ears, a bore to anyone who moved in lively London circles.

She smoothed out her shirtsleeves and cuffs, donned her coat, slid her feet into a pair of buckled shoes. Fanny had bewailed the size of Alethea's feet, just as she had fretted about her height; Alethea was thankful for them now. A ladylike frame and neat, delicate feet were exactly what she didn't need now. Her months with Norris had killed her appetite, so that she was far too thin for any feminine ideal of beauty. The leanness and the sharpness of cheek and jawbone was an advantage now, making her look much more boyish than she could have done a year previously.

Figgins anxiously opened the door for her, bidding her to be mighty wary; she was fallen among wicked people and must not forget it. Alethea strode along the gallery, imagining herself to be the seventeen- or eighteen-year-old brother she didn't have.

Lord Lucius's door was ajar. A glimpse into the brightly lit interior, a blaze of candles burning within, showed her his lordship seated in front of his glass. He had a kind of white sock drawn over his hair, to leave his face free of hair, and his valet was engaged in patting rouge on to his cheeks.

For a moment, her eyes met the knowing ones of the valet, and she drew hastily away from the door, annoyed to find herself flushing at the sight of a man prinking himself so and at the naked lasciviousness of the valet's glance. Lascivious on his own account, or on account of his master's predilections? It didn't matter, either possibility was disturbing and distasteful and made Alethea even more determined to keep well out of reach of the dandified, effeminate Lord Lucius.

 

The landlord had laid dinner for his English guests in a private parlour which boasted a large round table. “You will all be such good company for one another,” he said, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. “All noblemen and gentlemen and ladies together, so fortunate that you are here together, to eat and make merry, it will be quite a party.”

It took some adroitness on Alethea's part to avoid having to sit next to Lord Lucius, which was what he had clearly intended. His red mouth pursed up in a moue of discontent as he seated himself beside Titus. At least his hand wouldn't stray on to Mr. Manningtree's knee during the meal, Alethea told herself, suppressing a laugh. Titus Manningtree would have more congenial company on his other side, where Mrs. Vineham, looking very elegant, was sitting. This left Alethea with Signore Lessini on one side and Mr. Warren on the other. Informality was the order of the day, so she could devote herself to talking about music and Venice and Rome with the signore, and leave Mr. Warren to talk across the table to whom he chose.

It was an uneasy gathering, with too many cross-currents for comfort. To the landlord they might appear to be of one kind, with interests and connections in common, but among themselves there was too much history of one sort or another to ensure ease of conversation. Warren, urbane this evening, at once assessed the mood of the party and began to talk about painting. It seemed an innocuous enough subject, and showed him to be, in outward manners at least, a well-bred man. So why, Alethea wondered, was Titus Manningtree looking so vexed?

“I am a great admirer of the Italian masters,” Warren said. “You have a fine collection, Manningtree, do you not agree with me? Perhaps that is why you travel to Italy, to snap up some canvases, so many possibilities now that the war has ended and the spoils of that war are spread across Europe.”

“Unlike some men, I have no desire to profit by what others have lost. Those who have had paintings or any work of art stolen or looted are entitled to have them restored if ever they are found.”

“Ah, in a perfect world that would be the case. Unhappily, we live in a very imperfect world, and therefore it is a case of finders keepers, do you not agree?”

“I do not.”

The soup was cleared away and the table spread with a collection of covers, with delicious aromas wafting out from beneath each one. Alethea, who was extremely hungry, applied herself to her food. Let the others jostle and gibe. She would keep her head down, her mouth shut except for the food, and then it would soon be over and she could retire.

“Have you attended one of the universities?” It took her a moment to realise that the question was addressed to her. It was Lord Lucius who had spoken, and his eyes rested on her face with a look containing too much warmth for her liking.

“No. That is, I may go up next year. To Cambridge,” she added, improvising freely.

“Is that your father's university? Is it the custom for your family to go there?” said Mrs. Vineham in silken tones. “Or perhaps your father's education was of a different kind; is he more a product of the school of life?”

“My father was at Cambridge,” she said briefly and truthfully.

Mrs. Vineham allowed a tiny frown to wrinkle her smooth brow. “Indeed? You surprise me. And where did you have your schooling?”

Drat the woman. What did it matter to her what Mr. Hawkins's background was? Alethea knew the answer to that. Since the end of the war, the people of good family, as they thought of themselves, had seen influence and status decline. The world was full of new men, mushrooms as they saw them, with wealth far greater than old estates and land could possibly yield. A corn chandler's income might amount to fifty times that of a country landowner, with the money counting for far more than an ancient name and ancestors who had hobnobbed with the Conqueror. The part of society in which the likes of Mrs. Vineham moved had drawn in on itself, excluding from its hallowed ranks anyone with the taint of commerce or new money.

If Alethea claimed to have been educated at Eton or Harrow or Westminster or another of the handful of schools to which the upper classes entrusted their sons, there would follow an interrogation; Mr. Hawkins must be acquainted with such and such, he must know this fellow, have come across that man's son. “I was educated privately, at home,” she said. “I was somewhat sickly as a boy.”

Mr. Warren's face showed that he thought Mr. Hawkins was still a weakling. Lord Lucius smiled across the table. “I trust, however, that you now enjoy good health. Indeed, you must do so to be allowed by your doubtless loving parents to make a long and arduous journey. Tell me, why do you undertake it?”

“I am paying a visit to a cousin,” Alethea said. Couldn't someone else say something, why should her concerns be of interest to the rest of the table?

“In Venice, you travel to Venice, I believe?”

Alethea gave a slight bow of her head in agreement.