Drury Lane Darling (18 page)

“Breslau’s out setting Rose up in a love nest,” one wag suggested.

“Aye, Fleur’s death was the making of Rose Flanders. She’ll be his new leading lady, both on the stage and
off.”

“Is that the reputation Breslau enjoys?” Pamela asked when they returned to the carriage.

“He wouldn’t waste his time on Rose. He has much prettier flirts than that. It’s just business, getting her signed to replace Fleur at a bargain price. Mind you, that ain’t to say he hadn’t got eyes for Fleur. She was different. More cunning,” he added grimly.

The idea was taking root in his head that the play might show Fleur in a less attractive light than the memoirs. A bit of a vixen, toying with young gentlemen, scattering broken hearts to left and right. He became aware that the gnawing at his vitals was not all due to Fleur’s perfidy.

“It’s time for fork work,” he said. “Do you want to return to Breslau House, or eat in peace at a restaurant?”

Breslau House without Breslau held no charm, and she opted for a restaurant. Over lunch, they continued discussing the case.

“Let us go back to Spiedel’s and Halton’s flats,” Pam suggested. “They are the only solid leads we have.”

They went first to Spiedel’s, with no real hope of discovering anything. As they drew near the corner of Drury Lane and Macklin Street, Pamela scanned doorways, trying to recognize Spiedel’s building.

“There, that’s it. The one with the carriage out front. Nigel, you don’t think it could be Fleur! It’s a traveling carriage.”

Nigel’s face had turned to ash. “It’s Papa’s carriage!” he whispered.

Nigel’s surprise was hardly greater than Miss Comstock’s. “What could Sir Aubrey be doing here?” she asked.

He pulled the check string but made no move to leave the carriage. “I can’t face him, Pam.”

“We’ll wait till he leaves, and ask Mr. Spiedel what he wanted.”

It was five minutes before a hag-ridden Sir Aubrey came out. He looked up and down the street nervously, apparently finding nothing suspicious in a lingering cab. He hopped into his carriage and drove away at a smart clip.

As soon as he rounded the corner, Pamela and Nigel alit and hastened to Mr. Spiedel’s doorway. They were admitted by his factotum and shown into Mr. Spiedel’s modest living room. Thus far, Mr. Spiedel was only a name to Pamela. She had formed a mental picture of what he would be like—something of a dandy, handsome in a second class sort of way. She was not prepared for a regular Adonis, but that was what she found herself gazing at. If he was Fleur’s
cher ami,
she had to approve the actress’s taste.

Mr. Spiedel was no stripling like Nigel. Though young, he was well-formed, with a man’s broad shoulders and full chest. His clothing was genteel without being flashy. Hair the shade of a ripe chestnut, and as glossy, sat on his well-shaped head. His regular features were lent charm by the intelligence in his brown eyes. His manners, too, were more than acceptable.

“Mr. Raleigh, isn’t it?” he said, shaking Nigel’s hand. “I believe we met at Lady Chamaude’s place.” He turned a questioning face toward Pamela, and Nigel introduced them.

“I’ve never had so much company in my life,” Mr. Spiedel said, and laughed. “Your father just left, and before him, Lord Alban came to call. I never met either of them before in my life.”

“What did Papa want?” Nigel asked.

“Like Lord Alban, he came to offer his assistance—Fleur has been speaking to them, I assume. She has promised in the past to help me land a position. Thus far I haven’t had the offer I really want. I wish to become an actor. Convent Garden has offered me a speaking part, hardly enough to live on. I haven’t accepted it, though I was just reading in the morning papers that I have. Alban wanted me to act as his secretary, and Sir Aubrey has offered—er, financial assistance in whatever project I choose to undertake. Very generous of him.”

“How much?” Nigel asked jealously.

Mr. Spiedel smiled. “Not enough for you to worry about, Mr. Raleigh. Your father hardly plans to beggar his family for a virtual stranger. I am amazed that he came at all. Is he some kin to Lady Chamaude?”

“Certainly not!”

Mr. Spiedel’s laughing eyes skimmed in Pamela’s direction, but he said nothing. The feeling was in the air all the same that there was something between Fleur and Nigel’s father. Pamela studied Mr. Spiedel for any resemblance to Sir Aubrey, and found none. This fine-featured face was not in the Raleigh style. That left Lord Alban as Spiedel’s natural father. Surely that was the connection between this disparate group.

“Did Sir Aubrey mention Lady Chamaude?” Pamela asked.

The handsome eyes clouded over with apprehension. “He knew her some years ago and, of course, she was visiting him recently. He has no idea where she is now. He asked me in particular if I had heard from her since she left Belmont. Those articles in the morning papers have put the fear of God into me.”

“Where’s he putting up?” Nigel demanded.

“At the Reddleston.”

“I take it you’ve been looking for the marquise?” Pamela asked.

“I’ve called on every person I ever heard her mention. No one has seen her. I can’t believe she’s dead. Who would kill such a charming, harmless lady? Fleur hasn’t an enemy in the world. I refuse to consider the other possibility.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Spiedel?” Pamela asked.

His frown deepened. “I’m talking about suicide.”

“Oh, no! She’d never do that!”

Spiedel shook his head doubtfully. “In the normal way she wouldn’t, but when I read of General Maxwell’s visiting Lady Margaret Irving, I wondered—”

“But he isn’t!” she exclaimed.

“I read it in the
Morning Post.
Lady Margaret had nearly brought the general up to scratch before he met Fleur, you must know. I feared his mother must have ordered him to marry Lady Margaret when he was at home visiting her.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Nigel scowled. “It was even in the papers.”

Pamela considered this problem a moment, then said, “It seems the papers have published more than one piece of false information today, does it not? Your having accepted the offer from Convent Garden, Mr. Spiedel, and Maxwell’s visiting Lady Margaret. That is rather—odd,” she said. Nigel paid no heed to the meaningful look she bestowed on him. His eyes were fully occupied in studying Spiedel’s cravat, which had a fine, careless air, yet was decidedly stylish.

Pamela felt in her bones that Lord Breslau was involved in all these misleading announcements. Why else had he been smiling over the papers at breakfast? Of more importance, why had he sent them in? She was fairly sure by this time that Breslau was also responsible for announcing Fleur’s disappearance. That, at least, was true. And where did Lord Alban fit into any of it?

“When Lord Alban called, did he mention Fleur?” she asked Spiedel.

“Not by name. He said a friend had recommended me very highly. I know Fleur is acquainted with his lordship. More than acquainted; the friendship goes back several years. Certainly it was Fleur who brought me to his attention.”

“Have any other gentlemen called offering favors?”

His smile was disarmingly frank. “Not so far, but the day is young. Ah, there is the door knocker now!”

While his guests looked at each other in consternation, a Mr. Webb was shown in. He, too, was a prosperous-looking gentleman of middle years, a stranger to Mr. Spiedel, but presumably not to Fleur. He wished for a moment’s privacy with Mr. Spiedel to discuss a business matter.

Nigel and Pamela left. As they returned to the carriage, they were too confused for rational conversation. Ideas darted around in their heads, looking for a pattern. The announcement of Fleur’s death had brought a host of middle-aged, well-to-do gentlemen calling on Mr. Spiedel offering assistance. The reason was staring them in the face. They felt they owed Spiedel something, that the young man had some claim on them. The only possible idea Pam could come up with was that one of them was Spiedel’s father, and Fleur his mother. Mr. Spiedel couldn’t be aware of it. He was genuinely bewildered at all the offers showered on him.

The marquise’s apparently casual remarks at Belmont assumed a new significance. Pamela scoured her mind to recall what she had said. “You’d be surprised what talking over the old days can bring up. Alban, for instance, has been most helpful. All my old friends are very generous in assisting me.” Surely they hadn’t
all
saddled her with pledges of their troth? Spiedel was the only young man they were rushing to assist, unless Henry Halton, too, had been receiving offers. He couldn’t though. He wasn’t to be found.

Of course, the clever marquise could be telling each of her erstwhile lovers that he was the father. The words
your son
had definitely been overheard at Belmont. Blackmail hardly seemed too strong a word for her stunt. Had one of her victims decided to kill Fleur rather than pay up? Breslau wouldn’t be filling the papers with lies if Fleur were dead. What would be the point? Indeed she could see no point in it whether Fleur was dead or alive.

If she were dead she’d never read them, and if she were alive it would only infuriate her. Every item was an offense: that General Maxwell had deserted her, that her son was joining the theater when her aim was to keep him out of it, that Rose Flanders was to replace her in the new play. Breslau would be fortunate if Fleur didn’t come dashing back and murder him. A flash of understanding struck her and she gasped. So that was it!

“We might as well take a run over to Halton’s place,” Nigel said.

“It isn’t necessary. We can go home now.”

“I’m going to the Reddleston and have it out with Papa. What business has he giving my patrimony to Mr. Spiedel? If he thinks Mama will stand still for that, he has another think coming.”

Should she tell him? No, that was Sir Aubrey’s secret, to share if he wished. One of the marquise’s victims must actually be Spiedel’s father. One of them owed him and Fleur something. And if it was unsure which one was the father, then each should pay a part. Fleur wasn’t asking so much, to judge by Spiedel’s words. “Not enough to beggar him.” It would teach them all a lesson.

While Nigel rambled on, Pamela sat thinking. She decided that she couldn’t despise the ingenious marquise. All her scheming was not for herself. She just wanted a little security for her son. She wanted him to be respectable, to take a job in the government rather than be an actor like herself. Who knew better than Fleur what hardships the acting life entailed? Always an outsider, hanging on the fringes of society, acceptable enough to the gentlemen for an evening’s entertainment, but not good enough to be presented to their families. It must be a lonesome sort of life. No wonder if actresses took lovers. It seemed they couldn’t have husbands, unless they were as fortunate as Mrs. Siddons and married a famous actor.

What she could not figure out was the strange manner of Fleur’s disappearance. Why had she been playing dead when Nigel went to her room? Why did first the marquise vanish, then her clothes? And most of all, where was she? The answer, she thought, would be revealed at the theater that evening. When Nigel stopped at the Reddleston Hotel, Pamela had the carriage deliver her to Breslau House.

Lord Breslau had been home and left again. Miss Agatha handed her a note and a newspaper. “Breslau left these for you. He thought you might be interested in the entertainment pages, Miss Comstock,” she said. All smiles had dissipated. Miss Agatha looked as if she’d just had all her teeth drawn. “And by the by, Mrs. Foster came to call while you were out. I had to tell her I had no idea where you were, or when you would be home. She was extremely upset. I suggest you go to her, or at least write her a note explaining what you are doing here.”

The malicious glint hinted that Miss Agatha would not mind an explanation herself. There was no longer any need for conciliation. Mrs. Foster had used the words “Miss Comstock’s intended” in connection with Mr. Raleigh.

“Thank you,” Pamela said, and darted upstairs with her note and the paper.

Breslau had the paper folded back to the appropriate page. Several items were circled in red ink. She read them even before opening her note. The longest was an article praising Rose Flanders to the sky in her interpretation of Emily in
The Deuce Is in Him.
The words “she came, she was seen, she conquered,” “not since Mrs. Siddons,” and other unlikely hyperboles jumped out at her. They smacked of Breslau’s mannered speech. If this didn’t bring Fleur back, then they would have to assume she was dead.

The first item was obviously calculated to throw Fleur into a pelter. It was the second that brought Pamela to her feet with a shriek of outrage.

Theater lovers will be crowding the greenroom of Drury Lane this evening. The rumor is abroad that Lord B—will be hosting a party and making a surprise announcement. Dare we hope the surprise is his new play, and new leading lady?

After reading the gushing review of Rose Flanders, one would have to be dull not to guess who this “lady” might be. What infuriated Pamela was the location of the party, the greenroom.

It was impossible for a real lady to visit the greenroom. Breslau had chosen the spot on purpose to exclude her from the excitement. He could have had it—well, not at Breslau House perhaps, but at an hotel, where it would only be shabby for her to attend, and not impossible. The announcement put Breslau’s note completely out of her mind, but when she threw the paper across the room in a fit of temper, the note fell to the ground and she snatched it up.

Even the unexpectedly warm salutation didn’t lessen her wrath. “Dearest Pam,” she read with a derisive snort.

Read the underlined items in the papers before reading this. Sorry about the greenroom, but with all my starched relations, I must keep my work and my private life separate. I have a strong intuition this bash will be awash in infamy and bad histrionics. Even a restaurant is too public. Do come to the theater, though. Tickets enclosed for a private box. Perhaps the Fosters would like to accompany you? If you can stay awake till one or two, I shall tell all when I return. Please don’t remove to the Fosters’ to repay me for my recent annoying stunts. I must see you tonight. It is urgent. I believe we have discussed before the inconvenient urgency pertaining to certain relationships? Best love, Breslau.