Carola Dunn (17 page)

She knew she could count on him for that, and the knowledge was a great comfort.

Taking down the memorandum book, she set about writing explanatory letters to everyone on her list. When the summons to court came, they would be ready to send out. Surely enough of Lady Wiston’s friends and admirers would respond to counteract anything Lord Snell, his cousins, and his paltry, bribed doctors might say.

* * * *

The days past and nothing happened. At first Miranda felt the tension within her growing, but busy as ever, she had little time to brood. She began to think the whole business was a storm in a teacup. All the little things which seemed to confirm Mr. Daviot’s story could be quite easily explained away.

He continued to spend every day at his club and most evenings out with Mr. Bassett. After believing he was too angry with her to spend time in her company, Miranda started to wonder if he was now too ashamed of having slandered Lord Snell to face her.

The day of Mr. Bassett’s departure arrived. Torn between regret at leaving his new friends and excitement at his new command, he went off laden with preserves and fruitcakes and a fine ham from Lady Wiston’s kitchen.

An hour after he left, when Lady Wiston was at her lesson above stairs, Alfred came to find Miranda in the study.

“It’s ‘appened, miss,” he announced portentously, waving three sealed letters at her. “Fenimore, Jeffries, and Redpath, just like afore.”

“Let me see!” Taking them, she stared at the names on the front, the seals on the back—not stamped with his lordship’s signet, she noted. She was wild to know what they said. She had to know! “Turn your back, Alfred,” she said, reaching for a pen-knife.

“You wants to ‘eat it up a bit, miss,” Alfred advised as obediently he turned.

Miranda lit a candle and held the knife blade in the flame for a few moments. Gingerly she slid it under the seal of the Reverend Edward Jeffries’ note, hoping a clergyman was less likely to suspect anything amiss. She unfolded the sheet.

Crown & Anchor coffee room, half past noon,
she read, written in Lord Snell’s sprawling, arrogant hand, signed only with an S. That, the lack of signet impression, and the conciseness bespoke nefarious business. Feeling slightly sick, she quickly resealed the note.

“Whassit say, miss?” Alfred begged.

“Do you know the Crown and Anchor coffee room?” she asked as he swung round. “Would it be possible to overhear a conversation there without obviously eavesdropping?”

“I ‘spec so, miss. Coffee rooms in the City mostly has boxes, like, leastways round the sides. Jus’ say the word and I’ll give it a try.”

“I could not ask you to go. I must do it myself.”

“Not bloody likely, miss, ‘scuse the Billingsgate. ‘Is lordship sets ‘is glims on you ‘e’ll know right orf there’s summat havey-cavey. Now me, ‘e don’t notice me face, only her ladyship’s livery. All I gotta do’s take orf me coat and wig and ‘e won’t know me from a hole in the wall.”

Miranda had to agree, yet there were other considerations. If he was seen leaving the house without his livery, explanations would have to be made. She could not be sure he would understand or accurately report what, if anything, he heard.

“No, I must do it myself,” she repeated firmly. “Where is the Crown and Anchor?”

“Just south o’ the Strand, miss, by St. Clement’s.”

Near the law courts, where Mr. Fenimore would feel at home—and where a petition for committal to a lunatic asylum would be heard.

She gave him Lord Snell’s notes. “Go and deliver these, Alfred, and then come straight home. You may be needed here.”

“Quick as lightning, miss.”

He dashed off, and Miranda hurried up to her chamber. She changed into an old gown of dark brown cambric, from pre-Lady Wiston days. Lord Snell had only seen her in pretty, coloured dresses. She put on her plainest bonnet, but its narrow brim left her face exposed. Mrs. Lowenstein wore poke bonnets. Miranda sped down to the housekeeper’s room.

In view of Lady Wiston’s large acquaintance in the nether parts of London, neither Mrs. Lowenstein nor Twitchell considered Miranda’s desire to be inconspicuous worthy of remark. Twitchell was only distressed at the lack of hackneys in the square at this season. Leaving a message for her ladyship that she would be late for luncheon, Miranda set off for Oxford Street, where the shops ensured an abundance of hackneys all year round.

She reached the Crown and Anchor at twenty minutes past noon. Though not crowded, the coffee room was quite busy, with several tables occupied by barristers in old-fashioned wigs, engaged in vociferous argument. There were few women present but those looked like respectable travellers. The Crown and Anchor, while not one of the great coaching inns, ran a few stages into Kent and East Anglia.

Miranda stood reading the bill of fare, chalked up on a slate. Covert glances about the room showed no sign of Lord Snell, though it was hard to be sure. As Alfred had said, the seats around the sides of the room were high-backed settles, forming a sort of box around each table. The advantage was, if she could obtain a seat at the table next to her quarry, she would be invisible to them.

She stopped a scurrying waiter and enquired whether Mr. Fenimore was present. “He is staying here, I believe,” she explained.

“Over there, madam.” Without looking at her, the waiter gestured and bustled on.

Miranda saw two men sitting at a table against the wall. She did not dare study them closely lest they observe her interest, but they both looked to be between thirty and forty. One had a pale, indoor face suited to a lawyer. The other was a large, ruddy man in a green coat who must be Squire Redpath.

Miraculously the next table was empty. She made her way to it and sat down with her back to her quarry.

A moment later, Redpath and Fenimore were joined by the Reverend Edward Jeffries. Exchanging greetings, they sounded tense and edgy, and not at all as if they were on terms of intimate friendship. Miranda forced herself not to snatch a peek at the clergyman.

 What followed she missed as a different waiter came up to take her order. She asked for coffee and bread-and-butter. As he left, she heard Lord Snell’s hushed, complacent voice. She had to strain her ears to make out the words, and bursts of laughter from a nearby table kept interrupting her eavesdropping.

“...all settled. I have the order here in my pocket, signed and sealed.”

“Let me see.”

“Yes, let Fenimore check that everything is properly done. In my position, I cannot afford to....”

Coffee and bread-and-butter arrived. Miranda paid for them on the spot in case she had to leave in haste.

“...testimony of four anxious relatives and....”

“...the money?”

“Patience! It will be a few days. I have to make that fool Bradshaw understand the position, and.... In any case, the first thing is to....”

“When...?”

“This afternoon. No sense in delaying any longer, now the sailor is gone.”

“What about Daviot?”

“...chance of trouble from him...spends all his time at that club of his. He....”

“But the....”

“Everything is under control, I tell you, all arrangements.... As a matter of fact I have hired....” Lord Snell’s voice dropped so low, it was indistinguishable from the general buzz of conversation in the coffee room.

Icy chills running up and down her spine, Miranda decided she had heard enough. Mr. Daviot had not misunderstood, had not exaggerated, had not even plumbed the depths of Lord Snell’s villainy. In secrecy his lordship had pushed through his application for committal, with no opportunity for Lady Wiston’s friends to defend her.

She must be warned, at once! Miranda abandoned her untouched coffee and buttered bread. Keeping her face turned away from the four greedy, stony-hearted cousins, she hurried out.

Chapter 14

There was no shortage of hackneys in the Strand. The first one Miranda waved at stopped for her. Telling the jarvey to drive to Portchester Square as fast as his horse could trot, she sprang into the aged carriage.

Agitation, not awareness of the dirty seat, made her perch on the edge, hanging onto the strap. She must think, but her mind returned again and again to what she had just overheard.

The judge’s order for committal was theirs, and someone—Mr. Redpath?—was impatient to lay his hands on his share of the loot. Lord Snell had reminded him of something to be done first, presumably the actual spiriting away of his victim.
This afternoon.

Whether because of the law’s delay or deliberately, he had waited until Mr. Bassett was gone. The reason for his help in obtaining
HMS Adder
for the young officer was now obvious. Mr. Bassett would never have allowed him to carry off Lady Wiston.

Nor would Peter Daviot. Hence the introduction to the Explorers’ Club.

Ought Miranda to fetch Mr. Daviot before she went home? She did not know where the club was. The jarvey might know, but it was a small, obscure club, not like White’s or Brooks’s in St. James’s Street, familiar to all and sundry. Though she longed for the comfort of his presence, she dared not waste time hunting for him. Better to go home, warn the household, then send for him.

This afternoon.
How soon? She had left before Lord Snell, but his curricle was much faster than this wretched hackney. No use trying to persuade a London jarvey to whip up his horse, not without a larger bribe than she carried in her purse. He was as likely to take offence and slow down.

Sinking back on the seat, her hands clenched in her lap, Miranda fought back threatening tears.

Portchester Square at last. The hackney stopped at Number 9 and Miranda jumped down. “The butler will pay you,” she cried to the driver and ran up the steps into the house. “Eustace, pay the jarvey and come back quickly. Where is her ladyship?”

“In the dining room, miss.” The well-trained footman contrived not to look more than faintly startled by her urgency, but he permitted himself a question. “Whatever’s the matter, miss?”

“I shall tell you. Bring Twitchell and Alfred,” she threw over her shoulder, already half way to the dining-room door.

“Yes, miss. At once, miss.”

Lady Wiston was placidly demolishing a slice of damson tart. “Oh there you are, dear,” she said as Miranda burst into the room. “Have you taken luncheon already? Do try a piece of this tart. Cook’s pastry gets better every day, I vow.”

“I have no time to eat, ma’am. Listen! I have just discovered that Lord Snell is going to have you committed to...to an asylum.” She had to force the word past the lump in her throat, and she could not bear to look at Lady Wiston’s face. “I believe he means to come this very afternoon and take you away, or perhaps he will send those dreadful doctors, I cannot be certain.”

“Miranda, sit down. My dear child, you are shaking like a leaf. Here, drink this.” Lady Wiston, unnaturally calm, pressed a glass of wine into Miranda’s hand. “Are you quite sure of your information?”

“Yes, oh yes! I heard him myself, discussing it with his cousins. And Mr. Daviot warned me, an age ago. I did not believe him,” she said in bitter self-condemnation. “We must send for him at once.”

“Yes, at once. Ah, Twitchell, pray send the carriage at once to fetch Mr. Daviot.”

“No, wait!” Miranda took a gulp of wine and tried to collect her thoughts. “Harnessing up the carriage will take too long. Oh, why did I not ask the jarvey to wait!  Twitchell, Eustace, Alfred, there is a plot to abduct her ladyship. We have to protect her.”

The butler’s weatherbeaten face was horrified, and behind him the two footmen gaped. Mudge, who had followed them in, danced around Lady Wiston’s chair, begging for comfits.

“We need Mr. Daviot,” Twitchell said grimly, “and Mr. Potts!”

“Oh yes, Daylight Danny,” Miranda agreed.

“I knows where to find ‘im, miss,” cried Alfred, “and I can run faster nor any ‘ackney. I’m off.” Without waiting for orders or permission, he dashed out, an excited pug snapping at his heels.

Twitchell made no attempt to call him back and rebuke his lapse from footmanly propriety. “We’ll lock all the doors,” the butler proposed. “Surely they won’t bash them down in daylight, miss?”

“Godfrey has a key,” said Lady Wiston. She was beginning to sound a bit shaky.

“Lord Snell!” Eustace gasped incredulously as the front door slammed behind Alfred. With a disappointed yelp, Mudge trotted back.

“Lord Snell is behind it,” Miranda confirmed. “Eustace, you must go for....” Her voice trailed off as she realized he was now the only able-bodied man in the house. “No, you had best stay here. All of you, if they come, try to delay them. I shall go for Mr. Daviot. Twitchell, where is the Explorers’ Club?”

“Not far, miss. 29, North Audley Street, just the other side of Oxford Street.”

“Stay with me, Miranda,” Lady Wiston entreated. Her hand went automatically to her pocket for a comfit for the begging dog.

Miranda had already jumped up. “I cannot,” she said, hugging the old lady. “We must have Mr. Daviot here but I cannot leave you without Eustace to protect you. To explain to a maid would take too long, and then the club porter might not take her request to see Mr. Daviot seriously. I must go.”

Hurrying down Orchard Street, Miranda kept breaking into a trot. She crossed Oxford Street at a run, skirts lifted, dodging between a lumbering dray and a stage-coach. On North Audley Street, she eagerly scanned the house numbers. 19, cross North Row, 20, 21...27 on the corner of Green Street, cross over, 28, 29—beside the green front door gleamed a brass plate: The Explorers’ Club.

She seized the lion’s-head knocker and beat a tattoo.

The door swung open. The hall-porter frowned down at her. “Yes, madam?”

“Please, tell Mr. Daviot it is Miss Carmichael,” she panted. Tell him he must come at once. The case is desperate.”

“Mr. Daviot? He’s above stairs. I can’t let you in to wait, madam. No ladies allowed.”

“I shall wait here. Hurry, oh pray hurry.”

The door closed. As she stood on the doorstep, painfully regaining her breath, Miranda was struck by her own agonizing stupidity. She should have told Twitchell to send one of the maids for the coachman and groom, both able-bodied and loyal.