Carola Dunn (15 page)

Miranda stared. “Lord Snell? Acquaintances of his can scarcely be the kind of people we shall be entertaining. Does he properly understand?”

“I explained most carefully. It seems they are medical men, not gentlemen of fashion.” Lady Wiston lowered her voice. “I believe Godfrey came up to Town to consult them, but he would not tell me what ails him. I fear it must be what Sir Bernard used to call
Venus’s Revenge
. Sometimes quite half his crew would be incapacitated with it.”

“Indeed, ma’am, but Lord Snell...!”

“Young, unmarried gentlemen do frequent those unfortunate women, alas. Of course all that sort of thing will stop once dear Godfrey is married.” She patted Miranda’s knee. “Well, I am off to bed, dear. Sleep well, and let us hope Godfrey and Peter soon come to a better understanding for it is most uncomfortable when the dear boys are at odds.”

She slipped down from the bed and trotted off through the connecting dressing room to her own chamber, leaving Miranda with much food for thought.

Medical men! The notion of the toplofty baron with the pox brought an irrepressible giggle to Miranda’s lips. Yet whether he suffered from “Venus’s Revenge” or some less unmentionable disease, why on earth would Lord Snell wish to extend his aunt’s hospitality to his physicians?

It was far more likely that he wanted them to observe her. From the very first, Miranda recalled, he had expressed concern over Lady Wiston’s lack of rationality, as he perceived it. Since then, he had uttered many an anxious comment on her antics.

Miranda tried to reassure him, but she was young, and female, and in other ways unqualified to voice an opinion he would take seriously. To desire a professional diagnosis was not unreasonable, nor did it mean he hoped for a negative diagnosis, as Mr. Daviot assumed.

If Lord Snell had actually consulted Mr. Daviot about his beloved Aunt Artemis’s sanity, Mr. Daviot had no doubt waxed so indignant as to be incapable of listening properly. Small wonder they had quarrelled. Much ado about nothing!

Snuffing her candle, Miranda snuggled down under the covers. The rain battered the window and the wind howled dementedly. Against her will, memories returned.

She and Lady Wiston had once visited the Bethlem Hospital for the Insane—once only. Her ladyship, who faced with scarcely ruffled equanimity the horrors of squalid tenements, hospitals, and even Newgate prison, had vowed never to return. The fettered creatures shrieking in their darkened cells were bad enough. Far worse were the treatments described in answer to Lady Wiston’s queries: isolation, strait waistcoats and shackles, blisters and purges, cold plunges, forced feeding, cauterizing, and the deliberate inculcation of fear.

The idea of Lady Wiston undergoing those tortures made Miranda feel sick. Lord Snell could not possibly contemplate subjecting his aunt to such horrors only because she liked to stand on her head.

Mr. Daviot must have misunderstood—but suppose he had not? If Mr. Daviot was right, Lord Snell had asked for his support, which suggested he needed support for his application. He would not get it from any of her ladyship’s servants or friends. On the contrary, dozens of people would be more than willing to stand up in court and swear to her sanity and goodness.

So she was safe. On that reassuring thought, Miranda at last fell asleep.

Nevertheless, she passed a disturbed night. At one point she dreamed Lord Snell was driving her in a curricle at a terrifying pace through the corridors of Bethlem. He kept assuring her that it was for her own good, to cure her of madness.

Waking, she recalled his promise to take care of her should anything happen to her employer. How she had fretted over whether he was hinting that he loved her! Now she saw a new and sinister significance to his words. Had he been attempting to bribe her not to stand up for Lady Wiston?

Miranda slept late the next morning. Washing and dressing in haste, she hurried downstairs.

“Oh dear,” she said to Alfred in the hall, “Mudge must be desperate to get out. Where is he?”

“Her ladyship took ‘im out, miss, after I tried and ‘e bit me. I went along wiv her ladyship’s humberolly acos o’ the rain. Her ladyship said as you wasn’t to be disturbed.”

“Oh dear! You did wash the bite, didn’t you? Let me see. Not too bad, luckily, but I shall put some basilicum on it. Come along to the study, Alfred.”

The first thing she noticed as she entered the study was the absence of Mr. Daviot’s manuscript. The table in the window was clear, no paper, pens or inkstand. A horrid sinking feeling invaded the pit of her stomach.

“The house is very quiet,” she said as casually as she could, opening her medicine chest. “Where is everyone?”

“Her ladyship’s gorn to see summun about them mudlarks, miss, the Tuttles. She’ll be back for Mr. Sagaranathu. ‘Is lordship’s gorn out on business. Mr. Daviot’s at ‘is club, and Mr. Bassett’s at the Admiralty.”

At his club! Miranda closed her eyes in brief thankfulness. For a moment she had feared Mr. Daviot’s quarrels with both herself and Lord Snell might have driven him to go off adventuring again.

“But what about his book?”

“‘Is book, miss?”

“Mr. Daviot’s papers. They are gone.”

“‘E took ‘em wiv ‘im, miss. Told her ladyship ‘e’d get more done at ‘is club.”

He did not want to work with her any more. Miranda fiercely blinked back a sudden rush of tears and concentrated on applying the basilicum to Alfred’s wound.

“Ta, miss. I’ll bring your breakfas’ to the dining room right away.”

“Thank you, Alfred. All I want is a cup of tea.”

“Her ladyship said you was to eat proper,” Alfred said disapprovingly. “Tell you what, miss, Mrs. Lowenstein got some plums this morning. If you don’t fancy muffin and eggs, I’ll bring you some o’ them.”

Over tea and greengages, Miranda tried without success to give her attention to
The Times
. Last night’s fears now seemed nonsensical, as midnight terrors so often do in the light of morning. What distracted her from the daily news was the hurt of Mr. Daviot’s defection.

She felt abandoned, which was ridiculous. After all, she had helped him, not the reverse, and only because Lady Wiston had desired it.

And because she enjoyed his company more than that of anyone else she had ever met, said the traitorous little voice in her head.

To her relief, she heard Lady Wiston in the hall, asking after her. Draining the last drop of tea, she went out.

* * * *

The club’s page boy materialized at Peter’s elbow with a cat-soft tread uncanny to one accustomed to Alfred’s cheerful racket. “Mr. Bassett to see you, sir,” he murmured discreetly, unheard by the other denizens of the hushed reading room.

Peter dropped his pen on the inkstand. He started to straighten his papers but gave up with a silent groan of despair. Who would have thought they could get so muddled in only a day and a half without Miss Carmichael’s care? Leaving them scattered, he went down to the lobby.

Bassett’s beaming face told all.

“You have your command,” said Peter with a smile.

“Yes, the
Adder
’s mine! I’m to go aboard this day sennight and take her down to Gravesend to await orders.”

“Congratulations, my dear fellow. I’m devilish glad for you. This calls for a toast. Come into the coffee room and we’ll drink to
HMS
Adder
and all who sail in her.”

“Just a quick glass, old chap.” Bassett followed Peter into the front room, nearly empty at this hour. “I can’t wait to tell Miss...the ladies. I say, Daviot, d’you mind if I ask your advice?”

“By all means,” Peter assented cautiously. They sat down at the table in the window and he ordered a bottle of claret before he went on, “What’s on your mind?”

“The trouble is,” Bassett burst out, “now the moment’s come there isn’t time, what with getting kitted out with a new uniform and all. I want to do it up all right and tight, no havey-cavey business, which means telling my parents and asking her brother’s permission. But they’re in Devon and he’s in Lincolnshire and in just a week—”

“Whoa! Her brother’s permission?” Between his pique at Miss Carmichael’s misplaced regard for Lord Snell and his aunt’s plot to marry off the pair, Peter had overlooked Bassett’s admiration for that infuriating female. “Never say you mean to pop the question?” he asked as the waiter arrived with a bottle and two glasses.

“I mean to ask her to marry me. Do you think I have a chance?”

“But it’s only a fortnight since you told me you cannot support a wife.”

“Nearer a month, and I’m not a half-pay lieutenant any more. Though we’d still have to wait, at least until after my first voyage.”

“I don’t believe in long betrothals,” Peter said firmly, filling their glasses. One way or another he had to put a stop to this nonsense. A woman who succumbed so easily to a title and a handsome face was not worthy of his friend. “It wouldn’t be fair to tie her down when she might meet someone else in your absence.”

“I suppose not.” Bassett looked disconsolate. “But if she doesn’t know I care for her, she might accept an offer from someone she doesn’t like half so much. I do think she likes me, at least a little, don’t you?”

“I’m certain she regards you as a very good friend, old chap, but I’m afraid her head’s been turned by that damned snake Snell. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you ask her if you may write to her? She will realize you have serious intentions, and if she agrees, you will have hope for the future, without a binding promise either of you might come to regret.”

“I daresay that will be for the best.” The young officer sighed, but to Peter’s relief he did not appear heartbroken. “I’d hoped to go aboard an engaged man. Still, I’ll have plenty to keep me busy. A ship of my own at last!”

Peter raised his glass. “The
Adder
, her new captain, and all who sail in her!”

The joyful grin restored to his face, Bassett joined in the toast.

“I’m off,” he said then. “She’ll be glad for me, anyway, and so will Lady Wiston. I’ll see you at the at-home.”

“Oh, I shan’t be there. I really must get on with the great work, you know. Time and tide wait for no man.”

Bassett laughed. “That’s a fine thing to tell a sailor. But you have to eat. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Peter nodded. Though he had not intended to go home for dinner, either—he hadn’t yesterday—an excuse to satisfy his aunt would be hard to find. He could not tell her that the less he saw of Miss Carmichael flirting with Snell, the happier he was.

No, that was not it! He did not give a damn if she set her cap at a nobleman, though he’d have expected her to have better taste. It was the sight of Snell himself Peter could not stand. The sneaksby had wormed his way into his aunt’s favour like a maggot into an apple, and the devil of it was, Miss Carmichael was right about not warning Aunt Artemis.

To disillusion her would only distress her for nothing, not because Snell had no evil designs but because he was at
point non plus
when it came to carrying them out. He had failed to suborn Peter, and there would be scores of others to swear to the soundness of her mind.

Returning to his writing, Peter reflected on how much less complicated life had been among the Iroquois.

* * * *

Miranda was glad to see Mr. Bassett go off happily to order the proper gold braiding put to his cocked hat. His face had fallen when she composedly told him she and Lady Wiston would always be delighted to receive news of his travels. He was a dear fellow, but a private correspondence was more of a mark of intimacy than she was prepared to grant.

Eustace and Alfred came in to clear away the tea things. Lady Wiston was looking unwontedly fatigued. With all the arrangements to be made for the Tuttles’ future, she had scarcely sat down all day.

“Do go and lie down, ma’am,” Miranda urged.

“I believe I shall, dear. Pray tell Cook, Godfrey’s friends will stay to dinner.”

“They will?” Miranda was dismayed. She did not like the looks of the two physicians who now stood by the window talking to Lord Snell. Why had he chosen to consult such unprepossessing characters?

One was a bulky man with a triple chin underpinning his red, greasy, sycophantic face, and a habit of rubbing his hands together. The other, small and angular, had a sly, foxy expression which reminded Miranda of the pickpocket Lady Wiston had hit with her umbrella. Both wore black with a rusty cast, suggesting their practices were neither extensive nor lucrative.

From that point of view, they fitted in well with the rest of the guests, but they had not mingled with the others. Instead they had lurked near Lady Wiston, eavesdropping on her conversations and whispering solemnly together as they now did with his lordship.

They reminded Miranda of carrion crows. “You mean you have invited both those doctors to dine?” she asked doubtfully.

“Yes, dear. Or rather, Godfrey asked me if he might invite them. I must say they seem rather odd people, do they not?” Such words from Lady Wiston amounted almost to outright condemnation. “Not at all the sort whose company one might expect Godfrey to frequent.” She gave Miranda an anxious glance. “You know, dear, Godfrey never stayed in the house before, even when the Admiral was alive, and I begin to think perhaps I did not know him very well.”

“I daresay Lord Snell has his reasons for issuing the invitation.” How she wished she could be certain of those reasons.

Ought she to warn Lady Wiston of her fears? If only Mr. Daviot were there to be consulted, but of course he was missing just when he was needed. In any case, he had made it plain he wanted nothing further to do with her. She would not lower herself to chase after him, even to tell him about the carrion crows.

“It is a pity they will be here tonight,” said Lady Wiston with a sigh. “I fear they will cast a damper on our celebration for dear Mr. Bassett. You spoke to Twitchell about the champagne?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Excellent. I shall go up now and lie down until it is time for my exercises.”

The less the doctors saw of yoga the better! Accompanying her ladyship out into the hall, Miranda said hopefully, “You are tired, Lady Wiston. Surely you may omit your practising just this once?”