Elisabeth Kidd (20 page)

“Lyle—can it be?” Lady Jersey raised her delicately plucked eyebrows eloquently and spoke up clearly to be certain Lyle heard her above the general hubbub. “There was a rumour that you might come up to Town this season, but I never believed it.”

“Always listen to rumours, Sally,” Lyle said, smiling, but keeping his eyes on his horses. “Especially if you start them yourself.’’

“Impossible man! I might have known rustication in the depths of Sussex would not be likely to improve your manners. Have you come to visit your ward?”

“Of course.”

“Have you seen her yet?”

“Yes.”

Lady Jersey sighed. “You have a talent, my dear Lyle, for being direct and evasive at the same time. Very well, I too shall be direct—is Miss Archer to make a match of it with Lord D’Arcy?”

“Is that another of your rumours, Sally?”

“It’s everyone’s rumour this week—and it’s a fact that D’Arcy has almost literally been beating off the competition.”

Lyle scowled at this, but with his profile turned to her, Lady Jersey could not be certain precisely what effect this information might have had on him.

“Do you go to the Bridling ton divertissement tonight, Lyle? If you wish to observe them together, I daresay you may do it there. Of course, D’Arcy may not put in an appearance at all—not that he isn’t to be depended on, because he isn’t—but
tout le monde
is now convinced that it was Kean who played Ariel to D’Arcy’s Prospero at Richmond the other day, and I expect D’Arcy will want to spin the mystery out as long as possible. Lord knows, Kean isn’t giving anything away—I tried, but the detestable little man as good as told me I was demented to come around posing such questions to him.’’

Preoccupied by the memory of her ill-usage at the hands of a mere play-actor, Lady Jersey did not perceive that Lyle had turned his head and for a moment stared full at her. No sooner had she come to the end of her speech, however, than the press of traffic began to break up and the Countess’s coach lurched forward a few yards and then picked up its pace through a sudden opening in the way, so that she could only wave gaily back at Lyle before he was out of her sight and promise to meet him again.

Lyle eased his own vehicle into the space left by the passage of Lady Jersey’s, and was shortly able to turn off Piccadilly into Stratton Street, there to be gratified almost immediately by the sight of Mr. Cedric Maitland, arrayed in an impeccable blue coat with buff facings and buff pantaloons to match, coming down the steps of his home halfway up the street. Lyle smoothed the frown from his brow and approached Cedric’s doorstep with a determinedly cheerful smile affixed to his countenance.

Cedric turned his head curiously at the sound of approaching horses, but when he saw who was driving them, he essayed a quick turnabout up the stairs again. He was too late. Lyle hailed him, and stopped his vehicle no more than three feet from where Cedric stood. Cedric took a fastidious step backwards from Lyle’s still frisky greys, but as the Marquess handed the reins to his groom and stepped down, Cedric could not help observing that he seemed to be in a peculiarly chipper mood—a circumstance that somewhat alleviated Cedric’s own mind. He relaxed his guard enough to shake Lyle’s hand.

“Morning, Lyle,” he said. “Dashed if you’re not the last man I expected to find on my doorstep this morning. Looking top o’ the trees too, ain’t you? Sussex man make that coat for you? What do you call that colour?”

Lyle cast an ironic eye over his friend, observed that it was in fact considerably after noon, identified the colour of his driving jacket prosaically as green, and declared that he was glad to find Cedric much as usual.

“Eh? Well, naturally—that is to say, everything’s much as usual. Nothing at all out of the way goin’ on. Ah—anything special bring you up to Town, Lyle?”

“If you would care to invite me inside, or to accompany you wherever you were going in that obviously expensive new coat of yours, I’ll tell you. But let us not dawdle on the pavement, if you please.”

“Oh, right! Come along with me to Watier’s, then. It’s just around the corner—you won’t need that rig.”

It struck Lyle that Cedric was not quite as usual—that is, he normally reacted fretfully to unexpected visits from the Marquess, but today he appeared to have something more on his mind than a slight divergence from his daily routine. As a consequence, Lyle avoided immediately stating his errand, instead sending his curricle back to Grosvenor Square with the groom and falling into step alongside Cedric as they strolled—Cedric’s habitual pace—the few steps to Bolton Street and Cedric’s club.

Lyle began offhandedly to prod Cedric for the latest gossip—which he was generally happy to provide—in the hope that some hint would emerge from it of the matter weighing on Cedric’s conscience. Cedric was being abnormally cautious, however, and although they subsequently spent nearly an hour in conversation together over luncheon—paid for by the Marquess—the only specific information Lyle was able to glean was that Lord D’Arcy had indeed been calling daily at Grosvenor Square and that Sydney had been receiving him. Finally Lyle tired of circumlocution and attacked from another flank.

“I gather from my Aunt Prudence,” he said, “that my house has come to bear a remarkable resemblance to a coaching inn on the Great North Road. The traffic, if what Prue tells me is no more exaggerated than usual, is coming thick and fast. Are you trying to tell me, Cedric, that all this dust is being raised solely by Lord D’Arcy’s visits to my ward?”

“No, no, certainly not! Don’t mean anything of the kind,” Cedric protested. “Mean to say, Sydney’s had any number of callers. The mamas are all fond of her, you know—it’s not just Sydney’s beaux that call. And she don’t favour any of them over any other. Told her she oughtn’t to do so, you know—bad Ton and all that.”

Cedric looked faintly relieved at having got himself out of that pitfall so handily—and promptly blundered into yet another.

He and Lyle were seated in a private parlour and had reached the final stages of a most satisfying meal—Watier’s being as famed for its cuisine as for the exclusivity of its gaming tables, the latter being unfortunately unavailable so early in the day. Slices of cold glazed ham, two positively luxurious broiled partridges served with whole mushrooms and French beans, and an excellent bottle of Burgundy were despatched between them.

“Sydney’s career has been a successful one, then?” Lyle asked, holding his wineglass up to the light but carefully observing Cedric out of the corner of his eye.

Cedric, lulled into a comfortably mellow mood by fine food and drink, failed to detect the warning implicit in Lyle’s unwonted curiosity. “Lord, yes! Fellows falling over themselves to get her to dance with them, or ride in the Park, and I don’t know what else—can’t keep up with her anymore. You want to come back here tonight, Lyle? Play starts at nine o’clock. It’s macao and pretty deep, but you won’t mind that, will you?”

“You forget we are all engaged to the Bridlingtons’ this evening—at least I assume you were also honoured with an invitation?”

“Oh, right. Well, we’ll look in there first.’’

“You don’t think something more than—ah, a look-in might be in order?”

“Well, you know, Sydney don’t need my help anymore, Lyle. She’s bang up to the mark now, our Sydney. But if you’re worried that she won’t be looked after—why, Carl Wendt will be there, I expect. That is, Janine Forsythe will be, and Wendt’s never far behind her. He’s Sydney’s relation, after all, and he can escort both the girls. Daresay it’s all planned that way already.’’

Lyle frowned. “Who else will be there?”

“Oh, the usual crowd. An Almack’s patroness or two, young Bridlington’s set, Miss Forsythe and her mother, Prue, Dolph, Lizzy Daniels, the Thierses, D’Arcy—oh, well, maybe not D’Arcy.’’

Cedric stopped at this and shot a suspicious look in Lyle’s direction. But he had let his suspicions sleep too long.

‘‘What about D’Arcy?” Lyle asked.

“Oh—” Cedric floundered. “Nothing much—why?”

“Is he no longer a member of Miss Archer’s court, then?”

“Er—well, they’ve not had a falling out that I’m aware of. But then, I ain’t seen much of either of them lately.’’

“Slacking in your duty, Cedric? I seem to recall sending you here specifically to keep Sydney from taking up with every loose screw in London—and, incidentally, to squelch any rumours my aunt and Lady Jersey and Mrs. de Lamartine may individually or in concert have concocted about Miss Archer—yet I find her being pursued by the likes of Edward Kingsley and Lancelot D’Arcy, and talked about as if she were the latest Caro Lamb.’’

Cedric began to look decidedly warm under his expensive new coat. “Well, see here, Lyle—you know it’s not easy keeping rumours from floating about. If you deny ‘em, people are only convinced there’s something in ‘em. Sydney’s been behaving as nice as you could wish—most of the time—and anyway, no one’s had a thing bad to say about her. Ask anybody.

“Yes. Well, I suppose I should be grateful you’ve kept her off the stage.”

“Eh? Oh—I managed to do that all right!’’ Cedric assured him in strict truth if less than candid detail.

In spite of Cedric’s patent discomfort under Lyle’s probing, it was becoming clear to the Marquess that he was not going to betray any more of Sydney’s secrets or to admit that there was anything at all untoward going on. Lyle grudgingly had to admire Cedric’s resistance to both entreaty and intimidation, a quality that had heretofore not been notable in Cedric’s character and that Lyle presumed to be attributable to Sydney’s influence—balky as mules, both of them.

Nevertheless, he put Cedric out of his misery by turning the conversation to less controversial subjects, and was duly entertained by accounts of Janine Forsythe’s engagement to Carl Wendt, Edward Kingsley’s sudden infatuation with the unbeauteous (but very rich) Janet Adderley, and Sydney’s triumph in beguiling the formidable Mrs. Drummond-Burrell into not only granting her vouchers for Almack’s but personally condescending to allow her to waltz there—all of which Lyle assumed would prove to have nothing to do with whatever it was that was causing both Cedric and Sydney to bristle with defenses like a Spanish town before a French assault.

Reading between the broader lines of Cedric’s narrative, Lyle concluded that what he did not speak of would be most likely to prove illuminating. He perceived, for example, that Cedric glossed over any mention of Lord D’Arcy that was not wrung from him, and of the famous Richmond Park fête which, having occurred only two days previously, seemed still to be a fresh subject of speculation in every other quarter. Accordingly, Lyle made a mental note of these matters, and when he had established their relative importance in his mind, he bade Cedric a pleasant good afternoon and left him contemplating the grain in the club’s discreetly dark paneling as Lyle set off in the direction of Berkeley Square—and his first concern.

At Pemberly House, the town residence of the Duke of Pemberly, he discovered Lord D’Arcy to be away from home, although he might be found—this information being elicited only with the aid of a crown piece and an imperious manner—at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon, or failing that, at the Daffy Club. These places being at opposite ends of London from each other, Lyle chose the nearest and proceeded to Bond Street. There he was informed, somewhat more graciously and far less expensively, that Lord D’Arcy had in fact left the Salon—where he had taken a fencing lesson rather than sparring with the Master as was his usual sport—only an hour before. On Lyle’s way out, the grizzled former pugilist who served as porter informed him that his lordship had expressed an intention to visit Manton’s Shooting Gallery.

A light seemed to glimmer in the obscurity Lyle had been stumbling about in all day, and he stood for a moment on the steps willing it to brighten. Then, propelled by the satisfying conviction that he was at last on the road to enlightenment, he hailed a hackney cab and directed it to Manton’s. There he observed, from a dark corner of the indoor target range, Lord D’Arcy demolishing a series of wafers with a pistol and a concentration that would have precluded his taking the least notice of Lyle even if the Marquess had been standing on his head in the best-illuminated room in the building. D’Arcy—romantically disheveled in this shirt sleeves, with a lock of black hair falling over his forehead—shot several times from a close range. He then measured off several more steps and repeated the exercise at varying distances from his target.

Suddenly, the light broke. Lyle nearly laughed out loud at his own obtuseness. Cedric, he saw now, had not told him everything because he did not know everything. Sydney—the little devil!—had not been simply unwell or unhappy this morning. She had been frightened! How dared she presume she would not get herself involved in some catastrophe without her guardian there to steer her clear of it? Lyle did not know whether to be furious at her for not confiding in him, or to rush back to Grosvenor Square to take her in his arms and assure her that everything would be all right now that he was there to take care of her.

He leaned back against a pillar and, with a slight smile on his lips and an inscrutable expression in his eyes, he watched until D’Arcy had handed in his pistol, washed his hands and head in a bucket of water provided by the attendant, put his coat back on, and left the Gallery. Lyle followed at a prudent distance.

When her guardian had taken himself off, Sydney sat down on a sofa and gave a long sigh of relief. She had been convinced, when she law Lyle standing before her, that he had got wind of the pending duel—which was to be held in the early hours of the very next morning, soon after the dinner party ended—and had come to stop it. Not that she would not have been glad to see it stopped by whatever means, but Lyle was sure to blame her for it, and with good reason. But he did not know, after all, although this was small comfort—how could it be kept from him for as long as one evening?

She had been tempted briefly to reveal the truth to him herself. She had become accustomed of late to Cedric’s punctiliousness and D’Arcy’s contrasting hyperbole, and Lyle’s directness had the consequent effect of inspiring in her a desire to match it, but circumstances did not permit such an indulgence. She was not sure her courage was up to it in any case.