Murder in Pug's Parlour (16 page)

He planted himself stockily before them both, and in a manner that definitely veered on the truculent, said: ‘Our dance, Lady Jane, I believe?’

She drew herself up in a dignified manner.

‘Mr Marshall,’ she said, ‘it must be clear to you that you are intruding.’

‘No doubt,’ he said briefly, ‘but it is still our dance.’

Lord Arthur laughed. He could afford to. ‘Run along, dearest, I can wait. Let this young oaf have his dance.’

Walter’s hands clenched, but he restrained himself – just.

Lady Jane cast a devoted look at Lord Arthur, and one of an entirely different nature at Walter. She marched out of the orangery by Walter’s side to the dance floor. She accepted his arm stiffly, her lips pressed tightly together, baring them in a grimace.

‘Mr Marshall,’ she hissed, ‘I shall never forgive you.’

‘For claiming you for our dance?’ he asked, equally icily.

‘For coming in then. Lord Arthur had just asked me to be his wife.’ Even as she spoke, she felt that she had been a little unwise in this precipitate announcement.

Walter Marshall stopped dead in the middle of the floor. He seized her hand and marched her off the floor and into the morning-room.

‘Did you accept?’ he asked grimly.

‘Of course,’ she said with dignity. ‘I love him.’

‘You fool,’ he said simply.

She gasped. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

‘Quite easily. He’s well over twice your age. He’s never been married. There’re all kinds of stories floating around,
from which he’s only protected because he’s close to the Prince of Wales. And he’s stone broke. He only wants you because you’re a duke’s daughter.’

A bright spot of anger appeared in each of Jane’s cheeks. ‘I suppose it’s not conceivable that he might want me for myself?’

Deliberately Walter considered. ‘No, it’s not. I can imagine someone wanting you for yourself. But not him. He can’t even kiss you properly.’

This time she flew at him physically as well as verbally. ‘You were watching? But that was a – a sacred moment. You shouldn’t—’

He caught her hands and pulled her to him. ‘This is how you should be kissed.’ And proceeded to show her. It was nothing like Lord Arthur’s kiss. For a start, there was no moustache to tickle her. And then there were several other interesting sensations that almost made her wish she could continue in this diverting occupation. Then she recollected Arthur.

When she succeeded in breaking away – which took a little while – she marched to the door and said in carefully restrained tones, ‘Mr Marshall, you will leave this house,’ a dignified statement somewhat marred by the curl hanging over one eye.

‘You haven’t slapped my face,’ he pointed out objectively. ‘You’re letting me off very lightly.’

She hesitated. Her fingers itched. But he held her gaze. Abruptly she flung herself out of the door and slammed it behind her.

Prince Franz of Herzenberg was pleased. At last a chink, a hope, that he might with grace disentangle himself from the Duchess. He was not at all sure how he had arrived in her toils. The Kaiser led an exemplary home life; he
expected his diplomats to do the same. Victoria’s court, too, was exemplary. He had not therefore bargained on the machinations of London society and was finding himself hopelessly out of his depth. He lived in fear that word would reach the Kaiser. And in even greater fear of—

‘Your Highness,’ breathed Honoria, sinking low to the floor with the desired result that her pretty bosom beneath her décolletage was clearly visible. ‘Our dance. The supper dance.’

The Honourable Mrs Hartham was drunk. Drunk on champagne and the headiness of female power.

‘Your Highness,’ she trilled. ‘This exquisite buffet. Dear Laetitia. She excels herelf. And yet,’ she glanced archly at the Prince, ‘I feel I might still be a little hungry at the end of the evening.’

‘Indeed, madame?’ replied a Prince, a little nonplussed.

‘I might ask for a plate of sandwiches,’ said Honoria with heavy meaning, tapping him lightly with her fan.

The stiffening of his muscles in annoyance passed her by as did the significance of her statement to him.

‘Would you care to share them with me?’ She glanced at him coyly, letting her gaze fall modestly.

‘That would be delightful,’ replied the Prince, entirely at sea now.

‘Of course, dear Laetitia . . . She won’t mind? She is my dearest friend.’

‘I am sure Her Grace would not object to your asking the butler for sandwiches.’

She chuckled. ‘What a delightfully witty man you are.’

The Prince could see nothing witty about this statement but smiled and bowed.

‘Of course I haven’t
decided
yet; no lady could. But I will give you my answer later this evening.’

The Prince gazed at her blankly. Were all Englishwomen mad?

‘If I say yes, if, mind you, you naughty man, delightful man, it will be about an hour before I will feel a little hungry. When you see the sandwiches then I will be yours. Yours,’ she said in a thrilling undertone, and tapped him archly once more. ‘Now go, Your Highness, we will be marked.’

Slowly the awful truth began to dawn upon Prince Franz von Herzenberg.

The gentlemen had retreated to the library, glasses of the best Napoleon in their hands. They were of course discussing the international situation. It was a safe anchorage.

‘Salisbury’s got it right. Everyone’s talking about the navy but it’s the army we’ve got to look to,’ rumbled the Duke. ‘Say it meself, Cambridge is past the job. Need a new man. Nothing against the Queen, God bless her, but it’s time her cousin went. It’s the army won us the Empire.’

‘And the navy keeps it,’ said Walter quietly.

‘My dear fellow,’ drawled Petersfield, ‘what’s the navy done since Trafalgar? I believe it fired one gun in the Crimea, though, did it not?’

‘Precisely,’ said Walter. ‘That is its function. Defence.’

‘And you Liberals believe that Germany’s to be feared. That we should build up the navy even more to guard against her. Doesn’t make much sense. France and Russia are the enemies you need to build sea power against, not a land power like Germany,’ Petersfield said patronisingly.

‘Like the Germans meself,’ said the Duke ruminating. ‘Don’t think much of this new Kaiser though. May be the Queen’s grandson, but too clever by half. Now Marshall’s right there – the Kaiser’s got a bee in his bonnet about our navy and the need to keep up with us. Why, I remember at Cowes—’

‘I can assure you, Marshall,’ said Arthur, interrupting this reminiscence, ‘that Germany has no aggressive intentions. Russia is our common enemy. Why, look at the alliance the Chancellor signed with us last year.’

‘There are rumours that he talks of a war to be fought . . .’

‘Nonsense, my dear fellow. And if so, it would be against Russia. No, they want to stay friendly with us. Believe me, I know these fellows. Went there with Teddy once. Kaiser wants peace and so do the Foreign Office.’

‘Whom did you meet there?’ asked Walter.

‘Caprivi.’

‘Not von Holstein?’ asked Walter slowly.

‘Von Holstein? Who speaks of von Holstein?’

Prince Franz of Herzenberg had entered the room unnoticed, and his face was white.

Honoria began to contemplate the night ahead. She remembered the touch of the Prince’s hand during the waltz, the pressure of his arm as he led her in to supper, the whispered words over the galantine of chicken. The look in Laetitia’s eye! Well, all was fair in love. And Laetitia would never hold it against her. The Prince was far too attractive for her not to understand. She turned her thoughts from delights to come to find Lord Arthur handing her a glass of champagne. Honoria did not care for Lord Arthur – he was too suave for her taste and, moreover, was clearly not in love with her, which did not endear her to him – but her drunkenness overcame her dislike. Besides, she had witnessed an interesting little scene earlier. She decided to be arch.

‘Arthur, dear, what a lovely evening! Dear Laetitia is so exquisite at organising these little dances. Now do dance with me. Poor me is all alone.’

‘Dear Mrs Hartham, I’d be delighted. How kind of you to ask me.’

The sarcasm passed her by. She gathered the train of her pale blue satin dress in one hand, and they took the floor.

‘Dear Lord Arthur, do you recall the Marquess of Stevenage’s soirée earlier this year? Dear Mr Wilde was there. Dear, dear Oscar.’

Lord Arthur frowned. ‘Writes some strange books, that fellow.’

‘Nonsense, Lord Arthur. What can you mean? Lovely, lovely little books, about swallows and princes – happy princes.’ She gave a slight hiccup. She had been reading
The Happy Prince
to her younger son. She had cried.
Dear
Oscar. Thus she thought of him though she had met him but once. Proud of her association with the arts, she was oblivious to the fact that his reputation had somewhat changed with the decadent
Picture of Dorian Gray
published earlier that year, and was somewhat puzzled, therefore, by Arthur’s reaction.

‘Hardly know the fellow,’ said Arthur shortly. ‘Met his wife. Liked her. No friend of his.’ Few in Society were now.

That reminded Mrs Hartham of the interesting little scene she had witnessed earlier. ‘Come, Lord Arthur. You’re too modest. Now we’re friends aren’t we? After all, I do know your little secret.’

Seeing him for once disconcerted, she tapped him playfully with her fan. ‘Come, Lord Arthur, I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to be the one to tell dear Laetitia, would you? Or the dear Duke? So just you be nice to me.’ She flashed a brilliant little smile at him, as the dance ended.

Lord Arthur did not return it. His face was devoid of any expression at all.

‘My dance with you, Honoria,’ said the Duke grimly. He had decided enough was enough and arrived to claim his
own, even if the lady had made it painfully clear his company would not be required that night.

‘Oh George,’ Honoria giggled. ‘How delightful. I did not see you there. And Mr Marshall too.’ He had arrived, clearly anxious for a word with Lord Arthur which His Lordship seemed indisposed to grant.

Honoria held out her glass again. The giddiness of being the cynosure of so many male eyes was as heady as the champagne. ‘George, my champagne. I’m
so
thirsty.’

The Duke, disgruntled, was determined mot to give ground, but instead turned rather pointedly to Marshall: ‘Who was that chap von Holstein you were talking about?’

‘Von Holstein? Possibly the most dangerous man in Europe today,’ said Walter grimly. ‘He prefers to remain in the background, for the trappings of power do not interest him. The practice of it does. He pulls the strings of Germany’s foreign policy but because he remains in the background no one knows what his aims are. He is a Machiavelli. A blackmailer. An intriguer. He builds up dossiers on those that displease him and quietly, catlike, bides his time. A bachelor, a wine-lover – and a very powerful man. He is said to have a hand in the choosing of all Germany’s diplomats.’

‘Like that fellow Herzenberg?’

Walter nodded. ‘Presumably. Possibly the Baron von Elburg too. You’ve heard of him? Another London diplomat. Is he a Kaiser man? Or the Chancellor’s? Or von Holstein’s? Who knows how these threads link up?’

Bored from the moment politics were mentioned, Honoria began once more to contemplate the night ahead. It was time to put His Highness out of his torment. To let him know of the bliss in store for him. She, Honoria, would be his. Ah, how happy he would be. Happy, happy Prince. She giggled. He would be the Happy Prince of Herzenberg.
She emitted a soft champagne giggle to herself. She summoned the nearest footman to her side. He was just a footman to her, a person in livery. She did not see the boy’s round face, eyes goggle-eyed at the chatter, the perfume, the swish of silks and satin. It was Edward Jackson’s first ball.

‘You,’ said Honoria Hartham imperiously, daringly, in case George’s attention was drawn to her, and half hoping it would be. ‘I want you to take this to His Highness.’ She plucked a flower from her corsage.

‘What ’Ighness?’ Edward managed to stutter, glancing round fearfully for Mr Hobbs in case he was overheard opening his mouth against instructions.

Honoria sighed. Really, the class of servant dear Laetitia was employing nowadays was quite impossible.

‘The Prince von Herzenberg.’ She turned and pointed him out to Edward. He grinned, as Honoria said: ‘Tell him to think on Mr Wilde’s story and wear this flower for me.’

Edward had long since come to the conclusion that while gentlemen were stupid ladies were even stupider, but set off obediently clutching the yellow carnation in his now slightly grubby Berlin-gloved hands.

Honoria turned to find the Duke’s eyes riveted on her. Had he heard? He stepped in front of Lord Arthur and took her arm, none too gently. Just as an excited Edward Jackson returned from his mission.

‘Prince says to tell you ’e understands, mum.’

She smiled at him. ‘Thank you, my man. Thank you so much.’

The Duke glared and Lord Arthur stared in some puzzlement at Edward Jackson, still hovering uncertainly, until the boy blushed and began to back away.

‘What did that boy mean?’ said the Duke slowly. ‘Tell you he understands.’

‘Nothing, you naughty man. Just a lady’s secret. And I
can keep a secret. I can keep everyone’s secret. Yours, and yours – and yours!’ She chuckled, tapping each flirtatiously with her fan.

It was well after one o’clock in the morning that the last guest departed and the house party crept wearily to their beds. It was thus almost two when the last footman climbed wearily to his second-floor pigeonhole, too tired even to ponder the delights of the first-floor women’s quarters that he was so strictly forbidden to savour. Auguste, his duties finished an hour since, was already slumbering fitfully, dreaming of a presentation of crawfish
à la provençale
, with a smiling Escoffier standing by in approval. The crawfish grew and grew in size, their claws stronger and stronger, engulfing him in their embrace; then suddenly it was Ethel that embraced him – alas, only in his dreams.