Joan Smith Page 11

  “A lucky guess. I don’t understand why you don’t just ask my aunt why she is doing this.”

  “Do you take St. Regis for a fool?”

  “No, an interfering busybody, but probably not a fool.”

  “He wrote her several times when first she began trying to raise mortgages. She explained to him the necessity of lending or giving large sums to your father to help him raise his family. It was regrettable it should be necessary, but ...”

  “I beg your pardon!” I exclaimed.

  “For what?”

  “She never gave Papa a single sou! She didn’t even give Marie and Elleri and me the usual guinea last trip. She has never helped to support us. Oh, how dare you say such a thing!”

  He blinked in surprise. The green glasses had come off when the taper was lit. “It is what she told us. She mentioned several thousand pounds annually.”

  “It’s a lie! She didn’t, ever.”

  “How do you know? It is possible your father did not see fit to mention his private financial doings to his children, especially doings of such a nature.”

  “I am privy to all financial doings in our family. I know to a penny how much we spend on everything. We discuss it all the time. That is—well, we are not rich, and have to make some economies, but we do not borrow or just plain take money from relatives, I assure you.”

  “What the devil has she been doing with it, then?”

  “She’s being blackmailed by that little buzzard of a Pierre, that is what.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He could buy and sell her.”

  “How could he? He lost all his estates in the revolution.”

  “Only the French estates. The St. Clairs were far-seeing, and had bundled oodles of money out of the country long before the revolution broke. St. Regis himself, the old earl, arranged it all for them. He personally brought back a trunkful of beautiful, priceless art objects when he was visiting, and brought a good deal of gold coin as well.”

  “Why doesn’t Pierre stay with this marvelous St. Regis clan, then, instead of sponging off Aunt Loo?”

  “She is a member of the St. Regis clan. Pierre chanced to call on her first when he came to England, and he feels sorry for her, living all alone, so he decided to remain here. As to sponges, I don’t believe you have got that quite accurate.”

  “Neither do I. Sponge was not the proper word for him. He is a blackmailer, I overheard him demanding a thousand pounds—same as the last time, he said.”

  “Yes, she is cutting pretty deep into him. You cannot have heard aright. It is Loo who is ‘borrowing’ from Peter. Whether she will ever be able to repay him is a moot point. I have arranged a few sales of articles for Peter, some jewelry and a few paintings he wished to be rid of, to get ready cash. I don’t mean to let him beggar himself for the lady, however.”

  I sat silent, trying to remember the precise words spoken by Pierre and my aunt. I could not do it but did remember his saying families had to stick together, help each other, and had more than once heard my aunt call him extremely generous.

  “Convinced?” he asked.

  “I’ll ask my aunt.”

  “You do that. While you are about it see if you can find out what the hell she is doing with all the cash that passes through her fingers.”

  “She won’t tell me. She only says she does not like prying youngsters. Welland, if this is true, what you are saying ... It’s even worse than I thought.”

  “It is true,” he said simply.

  “How could anyone spend such sums? She has nothing to show for it. All that money gone. She is being swindled by someone.”

  “It looks that way.”

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  I have not mentioned it, but it must be clear to you that I believed his story. It made sense to me. Aunt Loo, Dr. Hill, Pierre, and now Welland had told me Pierre was astronomically rich. He did not seem like a blackmailer, and it was logical that St. Regis would have sent someone to investigate matters here, considering the mess they were in. All details were accounted for, so far as I could tell. I would face Auntie, brave up, and ask about the loans from Pierre and the paste jewels, but in my heart, I had already accepted that it was true.

  “St. Regis will handle it,” was Sinclair’s highly unsatisfactory reply.

  “I’d like to give that gentleman a piece of my mind. Thinking Papa was the one bilking her.”

  “Lady Sinclair told him so,” he replied patiently.

  “I’ll give her a blast as well. She didn’t even give us our guinea last trip.”

  “That sits as ill as all the rest, I see. I shall personally filch a guinea for you from St. Regis’s stacks of blunt, Valerie, but Elleri and Marie must shift for themselves. Even St. Regis is not made of money.”

  “It is not a joking matter. Who can be doing it? I think it is the Franconis, with their painted sheets and tarot cards. She keeps muttering about justice and deceit, and there was something about a lady too, at that one séance I attended. She mentioned Edward as well. You don’t suppose ...”

  “What, that Edward had a ladybird on the side who is now demanding justice? A bit late for that. He’s been dead over a decade. Of course ladybirds have been known to lay eggs. A byblow, a child born on the wrong side of the blanket... But a Sinclair would not behave so badly,” he decided, after a moment’s haughty reflection.

  “Would he not? Odd they had that secret passage built on to the master bedroom, then. My aunt intimated it was used to smuggle a girl in and out during the night, without the wife’s knowledge.”

  “What an intriguing idea,” he said, with a whimsical smile. “St. Regis will be excited when I tell him about the secret passage. I made sure, when you mentioned it, that it would lead to the feather room. There must be one there too, to have allowed the manipulation of the shade of dear old Sir Edward.”

  “I wonder if the Franconis are not working with someone else, they softening Auntie up with these dancing sheets and tales of justice and a lady and discretion, while the mysterious lady bilks her dry, leaning on her guilty feelings and good nature to cadge huge sums of money from her.”

  “Guilty feelings about what? It is Sir Edward who is guilty in this imaginary synopsis you have been expounding. The silly old lady herself is more victim that guilty.”

  “The silly old lady, as you so kindly describe my aunt, is not the one who did it, but naturally any person with proper feelings would want to atone for her husband’s victims as well as her own. She said she would like to crown Sir Edward, and I come to realize exactly how she must feel,” I said, with a measuring glare at my companion.

  “Very likely,” was his appeasing answer. “My association (I snorted at the word) with Madame has revealed that she and the insignificant husband are from Blaxhall, in Suffolk. There is a strain of dark people there, like Madame, believed to be descended from gypsies. Those tales of traveling through Europe are apocryphal. She doesn’t know a word of any language save English, and was not even aware, in fact, that Italy is a peninsula. She has the notion it lies between England and France. You see the nature of our ‘association.’ It is all talk of a cultural nature. If, and it is a big if, they are connected with the business, it is possible she was brought forth from Blaxhall to play her part. I wonder if Edward or Lady Sinclair were ever in Blaxhall, or thereabouts.”

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “If the Franconis were lifted up out of Suffolk, someone from around there must be associated with them, and with Edward or Loo. They would not have heard of the Sinclairs by themselves. Someone put them on to this rig. Someone who knew them, and knew the Sinclairs. Know anyone from Suffolk?”

  “I have never been there in my life.”

  “Neither have I. I think it is time that situation was rectified. You can help from this end. Get into Auntie’s scriptorium, where she scribbles up those great secret volumes of gothic stories, and go through the family records. See if you can
find any reference to Suffolk, specifically the Blaxhall area.”

  “How did you know about the books?”

  “Her brain is twisted, like the plot of a bad novel. Besides, I peeked when she was not looking. I rather liked the Search for the Unknown, but I prefer Gloria to Debora. I wonder Loo did not give her those Titian curls, in lieu of the insipid ones. I thought the lady too large for beauty, till ...”

  I clamped my lips shut and stared him into silence. “I should have thought you would prefer raven tresses and insipid—shy smiles.”

  “No, why should I?”

  “Because you are engaged to a reasonable facsimile of them, to judge by the picture in your locket.”

  He looked thoroughly chastened, and thoroughly sly. “We are not all in a position to marry for love. St. Regis arranged the match for me. Mary is a family connection, a well-bred, well-dowered lady.”

  “Whom you can hardly wait to marry, according to your own account.”

  “Mary is a nice girl, and she does have all that lovely money.”

  “You parasite! You should be ashamed of admitting it.”

  “I am dependent on my uncle. I must do as he wishes.”

  “Why must a strong, educated young man be dependent on anyone but himself? If you would get a position instead of wasting your time on that stupid treatise about ghosts …. Oh, never mind. It is nothing to me what you do with your life.”

  “Your opinion of me could hardly be lower, could it?”

  “No, it couldn’t,” I answered, without hesitation.

  “Nothing to lose, then,” he said in a businesslike way, and arose up suddenly. I thought he was leaving. I also arose, to be snatched into his arms for a quick, hard, impatient kiss.

  I was going to slap him but decided to be dignified instead. “I was wrong. I could have a lower opinion of you. You are not even man enough to know how to kiss properly,” I said airily.

  He was not man enough to take offense either. He smiled a heart-destroying smile, while those chocolate eyes laughed in amusement. “Shall we see if I can do better?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he went straight ahead to do much better. He folded me tightly in his arms, smiled softly, then lowered his lips to mine for the best kiss I have ever enjoyed. I am not the missish sort who has felt no lips but Arthur Crombie’s moustached ones, at my advanced years. I was tingling from my scalp to my fingertips, while a herd of butterflies rampaged in my bowels. As we eased from passion back to rationality, I prepared my setdown.

  “I am vastly relieved to learn the Sinclairs never behave badly,” I said, destroying the thing by my breathless voice.

  “I didn’t think it was too bad for a start,” he replied, with no loss of breath at all, but only a devastating smile.

  Oh, lord, he was too good for Mary Milne, whoever she might be! He had to be mine. Some things you want to try more than once. Being kissed by this man was one of them. “I have experienced worse efforts. And better,” I added, as he took a possessive grip on my fingers.

  “I cannot cavil with that. You could not have become so expert without some practice. Good God!” he exclaimed suddenly. “You don’t mean, Pierre!”

  “I am seed!” Pierre said, jumping out from behind the door. “What very excellent good watching I am having,” He was appareled in a silk gown of bright blue, with gold piping and fringed sash.

  “Pierre!” I exclaimed, starting up a foot from the floor in my astonishment. “How long have you been there?”

  “Since many seconds now. I hear everythings. You do not pulling the woolens over my eyes. I am come downstairs for the sherries, for I am not sleeping. You will have with me the sherries?”

  “An excellent good notion,” Welland said, walking nonchalantly toward him, while I experienced a burst of outraged anger with the intruder. “Coming, Val?” he asked over his shoulder as a mere afterthought.

  We took up the taper and went to the saloon, where a decanter and glasses usually rested on a side table. The host poured wine, then took up a stand before the sherry table. “I am thinking this is not correct, what I am seeing,” he announced in lofty accents, while the pair of us miscreants were subjected to a stern scowl. “Welland has already the fiancées.”

  “Just the one, Peter,” Welland corrected.

  “Me, I am having the none,” Pierre pointed out. His excitement that night made him even more difficult to understand than usual.

  “Shame on you,” Welland answered. “I should think nuns of all ladies were safe from such as we.”

  “I too am liking very much the girls,” Pierre continued undaunted, and uncomprehending. “You have got the Mary fiancée. Me, I shall be having the Valerie. This is understood.” The last speech had no tone of a question at all. It was all settled unanimously by Pierre. He glared hard first at his cousin, then at me, the beloved.

  “Don’t make such a cake of yourself, Peter,” I suggested.

  “You are kissing of Welland. I see this. Now you must be kissing me.”

  “I am going to my room while you restrain this Bedlamite,” I told Welland. “I have no intention of being wrestled to the ground by him after you leave.”

  “There’s just one thing I wanted to ask you, before you leave.”

  I looked hopefully, though my happiest imagining could hardly read any hint of a proposal into the “one thing,” since he already had one fiancée.

  “I too shall be hearing this question,” Pierre warned us.

  “No, you will wait for me here,” he was told, and accepted it sulkily, like a child.

  I said good-night to Peter, and received a pouting, “Very much not a good night,” in reply. Welland did not even bother stepping outside of the door with me, but stopped a foot from it.

  “What was it you wanted?” I asked, feeling the flush stain my cheeks at the closeness of him, and his eyes lingering on my face.

  “How did you know where to look for the black box?” he asked.

  “I flew up past the window and peeked in,” I answered angrily. I assure you that was not the question I hoped for.

  “Part bird, or part witch? You are looking part cat, ready to spit, at the moment. I think I have figured it out all by my lonesome. Part Gloria. Take care, or she’ll have you toting Dr. Hill across the park. I read the outline. But when did Gloria make the ascent?”

  “The night you took off all your clothes, Mr. Sinclair. What shocking things the ladies of England will be reading soon, if Loo decides to use all my observations. Good night, sir.” I made a curtsy and let myself out.

  “Very much not a good night to you, Miss Ford,” he called out after me, laughing. “Better lock your door,” he added as I set my foot on the stairs.

  I did just that, and was soon sleeping like a baby. I have no idea how long the gentlemen remained below drinking, nor what plans were made for the disposition of my body. I knew pretty well which one of the cousins I meant to have though.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was anxious to escape my French suitor in the morning. To this end, I asked Pinny to bring me breakfast to my room, and tell Pierre, if he inquired, that I was sleeping in late. When she brought the tray up, there was a very satisfying note on it from Welland. “Dear Heart: A thousand apologies for last night. I must see you as soon as possible, alone. Meet me in the feather room when you can evade our French cousin. I prefer to search for secret passages in English, and while Loo is composing. May I please have my gun and keys back? I promise to behave, if you don’t tempt me past resisting.” It was signed, “the Parasite,” I was happy to see my jibe had not run off his back, as I feared.

  Any self-respecting man must be ashamed of laying himself open to such a charge. I had high hopes he would discover some other career than marrying Mary Milne. Half a dozen had already occurred to me on his behalf.

  When I glanced up from reading, Pinny was squinting in horror at the pistol that had been left overnight on the dresser. “Oh, miss, what in the world are you doin
g with this wicked thing?” she gasped.

  “Shooting birds, Pinny. Give it to me, please, and those keys.”

  “You got to bed awful late last night, miss,” she admonished gently, handing me the things. “You should have woke me up. I just dozed off, but I meant to do for you, as usual.”

  “That is all right. You got my bronze gown?”

  “I did, miss, and it smells of the stables. Washing crepe is next to impossible, but I’ll hang it in the sun.”

  “Wash it. You have to press it with a flannel cloth on top.”

  “I know that, miss,” she said, offended. “It hasn’t got no marks, just the smell.”

  “Is Welland—Mr. Sinclair downstairs now?”

  “Yes, talking to Mr. St. Clair. He’s trying to convince him that nag he lent him needs exercise. I fancy he don’t know it got exercise last night.” This was a hint to discover if I had been out with Pierre the night before. I failed to recognize it, or at least to acknowledge it.

  “Let me know at once if St. Clair leaves, will you?”

  “Yes, miss. Will there be an answer to the note?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Come back in ten minutes and help me with my hair, Pinny. I want to look especially well today.”

  “You always look grand, miss. Like a queen. I don’t mean poor old Queen Charlotte either, the quiz. Isn’t it a wonder how the likes of her ever got her body on to a throne?”

  “Yes, and our next promises to be even worse, but we must remember we have a farmer for a king, and he would not want too stylish a lady.”

  I sipped my chocolate, devoured two eggs and gammon, demolished the couple of bits of toast and was satisfied. Pinny came in just as I finished. “He’s gone, Mr. St. Clair, muttering off a string of French that was oaths, or I ain’t a Christian. I was looking at the pictures in her ladyship’s magazines last night while I was trying to keep awake, and know just the rig for you. Ringlets, miss.”

  “Do be serious, Pinny. Ringlets on me! Leave them for the dainty girls. I shall have it brushed back today, with my tortoise shell hair band. I hadn’t time to put it in papers last night.”