A Sister's Secret (14 page)

‘I am not distressed, sir. I have qualms. However, if you can procure that letter by the weekend, then I shall try not to speak as many hard words to you as I do. And I must at least thank you for sending those brutes packing today.’

‘A small service, marm. And I shall always recollect with admiration the fearsome right-hander you delivered to one of them.’

Just for a brief moment, there was a reminiscent gleam in her eyes, much as if the memory of the blow she had struck was very self-satisfying. Then she said, ‘It is not something I wish to remember myself.’

Annabelle entered, gowned in pale blue, her pearly bosom lightly powdered, her hair a crown of fair ringlets. ‘Charles, why, how handsome you look,’ she said.

The captain took her extended hand and raised it to his lips. ‘I fancy I ain’t as pretty as you, Annabelle,’ he said, and she laughed and fluttered her fan at him, giving Caroline the impression that her affections were positively engaged. The supper gong sounded.

Conscious of no real satisfaction, Caroline said, ‘Shall we go in? And perhaps after supper we might play whist, for Mr Gerald Wingrove will be joining us to make four.’

‘Alas, do forgive me,’ said Captain Burnside, ‘but I have to go out this evening. Ah, on business. Concerning a suitable apartment, d’you see.’

‘A suitable apartment?’ said Caroline, having forgotten he was supposed to be looking for one.

‘I’ve an appointment with the owner.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Annabelle, sighing, ‘how mortifying, Caroline, that you and I don’t own as much appeal as a whiskery landlord.’

Caroline, recollecting, said, ‘Naturally, Captain Burnside, Annabelle and I would not want whist to stand in your way.’

Mercy me, thought Annabelle, my dear sister seems oddly prickly at times in the way she reacts to her old friend. Perhaps he is more than an old friend; perhaps he was once her ardent admirer, and perhaps she dislikes him conducting business when he might be partnering her at whist.

Mr Gerald Wingrove proved a most agreeable after-supper guest, as Caroline had known he would. He was knowledgeable and informative on a variety of subjects, including the health of the King, which he described as erratic, but not so erratic at the moment as to require the Prince of Wales to act as Regent again. Mr Wingrove informed Annabelle that the prince had served as Regent
for a short time several years ago. Annabelle could not resist suggesting that the King, having lost his American colonies, had subsequently lost his mind as well, and that it was not surprising. Mr Wingrove replied gravely that he did not think that was the case.

Annabelle began to feel Mr Wingrove was rather boring, although he seemed to appeal to Caroline – perhaps because he had an air of sobriety and respectability. Lord Clarence had lacked both these virtues.

In truth, Mr Wingrove was not holding Caroline’s interest as much as he appeared to be. Certainly, she smiled and nodded, and occasionally responded, but much of what he said did not register too precisely, for she was pestered by thoughts of what her wretched hireling was up to. It was vexing that his absence should distract her attention, that he should be all too often on her mind. She supposed she had a guilty conscience about what his presence in her house stood for. But there it was, she was committed and so was he; and he should have been here, partnering Annabelle and fascinating her, for that was what he was to be paid for. How dared he go out, and on what business, pray? He knew, and she knew, that it was not to see the owner of an apartment.

She concluded he was spending the evening in deceitful pursuit of some innocent young lady who owned a few jewels. Wretched, wretched man.

The evening twilight was warmly caressing as Captain Burnside took up his station at a spot close to the residence of the Duke of Cumberland. He chose a convenient recess, from where he had a view of the side door. He waited patiently. The occasional carriage passed, and the occasional strollers appeared. Captain Burnside remained unobserved, but observing. At twenty past nine the side door opened and a passage light glimmered. It outlined the head and shoulders of the maidservant Betsy. She stood at the open door, nervously peering. Captain Burnside moved, looked up and down the street, saw that it was clear, and advanced quickly and silently.

‘Oh, be that you, sir?’ whispered Betsy anxiously.

‘I am me, Betsy, and all is clear, my pretty one,’ he murmured.

‘It be all clear inside too, sir, and I’m glad I be pretty. Come in, but very quiet, like, for I be trembling all over in fear someone might hear. His Highness be out, and Mr Erzburger, his secretary, and the servants all be downstairs. Follow me, sir.’

He stepped in. She closed the door soundlessly, and tiptoed along the passage. She turned into a lamplit
corridor. He followed, and she turned again to ascend the back stairs of the house. Their feet were cautious and quiet, their tongues still. She traversed another corridor, stopped outside a door and opened it very carefully. She took him into a room where the curtains were drawn, and illumination came from a wall lamp burning a candle. Betsy whispered she had lighted it minutes ago, so that he would not be blind or have need to open the curtains.

‘Splendid girl,’ he murmured, and she pushed herself close to let her warm body brush against his for a friendly moment. In her nervous excitement she was in need of reassuring contact.

‘I be fair gone on you, sir, that I be,’ she whispered.

‘Well, that shows sound judgement, Betsy, for I’m a fine fellow and a credit to my Lord Chancellor. Now, let me see.’ He eyed the furniture. In the light of the candle flame, it seemed solid and businesslike. A huge desk interested him. He opened the central drawer, and saw at once what he was looking for, a leather-bound diary. He took it out, placed it on the desk and sat down. Betsy breathed a little noisily at his unhurried coolness.

‘Be you staying long, sir? I be in tremors if you are.’

‘A few minutes, Betsy.’ He thought. ‘Say ten or fifteen.’

‘Fifteen?’ Betsy swallowed. ‘Oh, I daresn’t think who might be wanting me and calling for me.’

‘Then leave me to it, Betsy. Trust me. A thousand honest men will vouch that I’d never let a partner down. Take yourself off, and I’ll make my own way out.’

‘Sir, I aren’t sure—’

‘Oh, you can be very sure, Betsy.’

‘Well, I’ll go down, sir, and come up again in ten minutes. It’ll take care of some of my tremblings, going down and showing myself.’

‘Good girl,’ he murmured, and she flitted away. He
opened the diary, and scanned it, remarking Erzburger’s neatly inscribed entries relating to appointments, official and private. He was not sure he would find a plain pointer, or any kind of pointer at all. He got up, went to the door, closed by Betsy, and he opened it and listened. The house was quiet. He closed the door again, and moved to an inner door. It opened on to Cumberland’s large study. Quickly, he crossed it, opened another door and entered Cumberland’s private suite. He made a speedy survey of the rooms, then returned to the study. The twilight was turning to dusk, but the open curtains saved the room from darkness. A larger inlaid satinwood escritoire caught his eye. He took a bunch of keys from his coat pocket. Choosing the smaller ones for his purpose, he attempted to unlock the desk. Unsuccessful, he made use of a thin metal rod, finely corrugated. The delicate lock clicked, and he opened the desk.

The faintest smile touched his lips. Before him was Cumberland’s treasure trove of separate little bundles of letters, all neatly stowed. He did not disturb them. He looked for a single letter. The unfortunate lady in question had written only the one. And there it was, of pale blue parchment, visible between two tied bundles. Carefully he extracted it, opened it, glanced at the signature. It was confined to a solitary ‘H’.

He put the letter in his pocket, closed the desk and used the thin steel rod to lock it. Swiftly, he returned to Erzburger’s office. He seated himself at the desk again, and began a new examination of the diary. Some six or seven minutes had passed. He was looking for the date of a certain appointment, if that appointment had been set down. He thought it would be, for Cumberland, through his secretary, was a meticulous and methodical man, given to ensuring that everything of consequence was recorded
in one way or another, as was every royal personage.

The captain ran his eye quickly over one page after another, concentrating on the immediate future. He noted the entry for 29 July: ‘
3 p.m. Geo. Pn. from Lady K
.’

He construed that as ‘George, Prince of Wales. Petition from Lady K.’ Cumberland, no doubt, had received a cry for help from one of the many foolish ladies who had allowed herself to be bedded by the prince. Distraught by the consequences, and finding the prince typically out of sympathy with her, she had probably turned to Cumberland for help, perhaps because she had once been his own fancy. Ladies were foolishly eager to bed with royalty. The captain did not think this one would receive too much help from Cumberland. It was very unlike him to intercede with Wales on behalf of any lady.

Betsy returned with a hastening whisper of garments. ‘Oh, be you still looking, sir?’ she breathed.

He nodded. He was examining a further entry for 29 July. Betsy regarded his bent head and his profile. Oh, he were such a pleasing gentleman in his looks and manner, just the kind she would like to set her up. He had promised her nine more guineas. Perhaps he would give her kisses too. Her fingers stole to her laced-up bodice and loosened it.

The captain was absorbed by that further entry, in Cumberland’s own hand:
‘3.30 p.m. Fd, Wm & Ed also. Concerning poss. marriage to Lady CP. Bty
and
riches
.’

Lady CP. Lady Clarence Percival, of course. Caroline. Beauty and riches both. Very true. So, hereby hangs a tale that would make the telling painful to Annabelle. But what man of Cumberland’s ilk would not prefer the magnificent elder sister to the pretty younger? What was Cumberland’s interest in the younger? Her virginity, probably, and the challenge this represented to a man
who would find it an amusing pleasure to be the first to bed her. Or was his leisurely pursuit of her motivated by another reason? It was Caroline he wanted. Perhaps he thought he could win her if he promised to leave her sister with her virginity intact. Would a woman sacrifice herself for her sister to that extent? Lady Caroline had expressed utter dislike and contempt for Cumberland. But were they her true feelings? Cumberland had a strangely magnetic effect on all kinds of women. Yet if Lady Caroline did have a weakness for him, she would have found it easy to outshine her sister and so save her. If not, Captain Burnside doubted she would sacrifice herself for Annabelle. Some women did not consider virginity as sacred as most men thought they did. What concerned them primarily was not preservation, but the attendant risk. Did Lady Caroline know Cumberland was to discuss marriage to her with his elder brothers? Was her dislike simulated?

Something was not quite right; something did not make sense. Unless Lady Caroline had said she would favourably consider a proposal, Cumberland would not make a fool of himself by asking for his brothers’ approval of a marriage that was only a hope in his mind. He was not a man to make himself look a fool. And he would still require the King’s sovereign approval. The King, of course, would refuse, and ragefully. Under no circumstances would Cumberland be allowed to marry a commoner, an American commoner at that. Cumberland must know that. His discussion of the proposed marriage with his brothers was an absurd and empty gesture.

There was another curious aspect. Why was Cumberland arranging to receive only his elder brothers? Why had he excluded his younger brother, the Duke of Cambridge? Cumberland could insult people by being casually
indifferent, and not spare members of his family, but it made no sense for him to be as indifferent as this to Cambridge.

The pointer, thought Captain Burnside, was here, at 3.30 p.m. on 29 July. But what was it pointing at?

‘Sir?’ It was a worried whisper from Betsy. The captain closed the diary, restored it to the drawer, and stood up. ‘Oh, you be done, sir?’ Betsy breathed in relief.

‘Done and finished, Betsy.’

‘Then come down quick, sir, I be quaking in my everythings.’

‘Your everythings?’

Betsy stifled a sweet giggle. ‘All of ’em, sir,’ she said, and led the way cautiously. He followed her down. He heard murmurs from below stairs, murmurs from the servants’ quarters, but no one came to question Betsy during her careful journey to the side door. In the passage she faced him, the candlelight revealing the faint flush on her face, and the limpid look of melting eyes. ‘Sir, you be giving me the dibs now?’

‘What I promised, you shall have, Betsy. And if I need to come again?’

‘Oh, you’re a sly one, sir, that you are, with them guineas still in your pocket and poor me not knowing how to say no to you in case you diddle me.’

‘Come, come, pretty buttercup, would any fine, honest fellow diddle a girl as obliging as you?’

‘Oh, you be a straight-up, loving-speaking gentleman, sir. There be no flash Harry about you. You’ll give me what you said, you’ll play fair with me?’

‘As fair as fair comes, Betsy,’ he whispered, and placed nine guineas in her eager hand. She peered at them in delight, then lifted her dark blue servant’s gown and
stowed the gold coins. There were faint little chinks of sound as the coins dropped into the pocket of an undergarment. Her breathing was quick and excited, for she had received ten guineas in all, a sum that was a regular, palpitating windfall. Her face beamed blissfully.

‘I be fair knocked out, sir. Ten guineas be rapture to a girl. It won’t matter now if anyone comes and finds us, I can say you’re a gentleman friend who’s stepped in to buss me. You be wishful of bussing me, sir, and kissing? I be willing.’

‘Sweet puss, never think I wish to ask more than help from you. Tell me, do you know which visitors come and go each day?’

‘I see some, I don’t see all, sir.’ Betsy pushed herself to him. ‘It be Mr Pringle’s job to receive visitors and to take ’em to Captain Heywood, who takes ’em up to Mr Erzburger, who takes ’em to the duke if they be on the reception list, sir.’ Betsy paused for thought. She was always a thinking girl. ‘Mostly visitors be high and haughty people, sir.’