Newt's Emerald (6 page)

Truthful, studying the cards the callers left, and listening to Dworkin recite their verbal messages, was pleasantly surprised to find a large number of highly eligible young men asking after her health and general well-being. But she was soon disabused of any notion of their gallantry or her own allure by Lady Badgery, who looked over their names and sniffed.

“Fortune hunters. They know you’re worth at least ten thousand a year from your mother, even without your father’s estates. Not to mention heiress to the Newington Emerald, which they must not know is missing … which is curious, now that I think on it.”

“It is very odd,” said Truthful, her brow troubled. “Lady Troutbridge
did
call upon Father that afternoon, and he was . . . awake, if still wandering in his wits. I am sure he would have spoken of its disappearance
and
blamed the Newington-Lacys. I wonder why she hasn’t spread the tale?”

“The only reason she would not, is because she is ill, or if the story would somehow reflect badly on herself.” replied Lady Ermintrude. “Otherwise, Portia Troutbridge has never been known to keep a scandal to herself.”

“Oh, I do hope she is ill!” exclaimed Truthful. “I mean, only just ill enough to keep the news quiet for a little longer. Is that too dreadful of me?”

“Not at all,” announced Lady Badgery. “It is a very reasonable desire. In the case of Portia Troutbridge I myself would wish for something much more severe. Scarlet fever, perhaps. Or the plague.”

At last, on the evening of the fifth day after Truthful’s arrival, it was time to put their plan into action. Truthful, her moustache glued on, donned a low-crowned beaver and travelling clothes of a very plain cut, covered them with an old and very unfashionable single-caped
driving coat that had belonged to the late Lord Badgery, crept out of the servant’s entrance at midnight, and walked around the corner to Charles Street, taking care that no-one observed her. There, she waited a few minutes, till the hackney cab the Countess’s intermediaries had ordered approached. Its driver, seeing a single gentleman standing on the corner, drew up, and leaned down.

“You the gent who’s to go across to Park Lane and then back to the Square?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes,” she muttered, keeping her voice low, and hat well down, shading her face.

“Right. Well, jump up, sir.”

Truthful, who had been waiting to be handed up, started, then jumped in as best she could. There was straw on the floor of the cab, and she brushed her boots down automatically, thinking of how awful it would be to arrive anywhere with the tell-tale straw of a hackney on one’s costume.

The drive to Park Lane, and then along it, was a nervous one for Truthful, who had never thought to be alone in a cab at midnight, in the middle of London … and dressed as a man!

But the drive was uneventful. They passed several other carriages, a group of lantern-bearing street-keepers gathered at the Grosvenor Gate into Hyde Park, and a number of tipsy young gentlemen who were trying to walk backwards along the full length of Park Lane, apparently for a bet, as they were urged on by a number of others who were walking the normal way beside them.

Ten minutes later, the hackney pulled up outside Lady Badgery’s house and Truthful jumped down. She turned back for a moment to hand the driver a guinea, a massive overpayment were it not for the added gruff instruction: “Forget you came here this evening.”

Then she was knocking on the door — a firm, but polite knock, that she felt might reflect the character of a religious-minded young gentleman.

After five minutes had produced no discernible effect on the other side of the door, she knocked again. The door opened, presenting the cautious visage of the elder footman, with the second footman behind him holding a stout cudgel. Before they could speak, Truthful gruffly proclaimed her new identity.

“I am the Chevalier Henri de Vienne, cousin to Lady Badgery. I believe I am expected.”

Chapter Five

Major Harnett’s Manuscript

The next few days passed in a rush of activity for both Truthful’s personas. As Lady Truthful Newington, she drove out to Hyde Park with Lady Badgery in her barouche at the fashionable hour between five and six, thereupon meeting many of the Dowager’s friends and not a few young gallants; she visited the Dowager’s modiste and ordered several gowns of the latest fashion; made two morning visits to family friends; attended one very modest, well-bred and yawn-inducing evening card-party; and received a great number of callers.

The Chevalier de Vienne ostensibly spent most of his time secluded in one of the upper bedchambers, in silent contemplation and prayer. But when Lady Truthful was resting between excursions or guests, the Chevalier rode out to call upon the jewellers of London. The servants, noticing the care he took to avoid “meeting” Truthful, thought him very shy. The grooms, noting his unsteady seat when riding astride put it down to him being French. Truthful was a fine horsewoman, but she was used to a side-saddle.

Armed with explanatory letters from Lady Truthful and Lady Badgery, the elegant young Frenchman was met with unvarying politeness and differing degrees of unctuousness by the jewellers, but none proved of any help. The matter was not made easier because Truthful could not come straight out and talk about the Newington Emerald, but only enquire about any particularly large and sorcerous stones they might have heard were suddenly for sale. But apart from the relatively regular re-appearance of the cursed Calendula Diamond, no large and sorcerous jewels had surfaced among the more reputable jewellers, and the less respectable (who hinted at underworld connections) were no more use. Nearly all the jewellers tried to sell the young Frenchman something from their own stock, and indeed she was tempted by a number of items that were not only beautiful, but imbued with minor charms.

Truthful was riding back from just such a meeting when she took a wrong turning, and then another. Fortunately a watchman came up behind her, and seeing a young, foreign-
looking gentlemen gazing about in consternation, directed her attention to the dome of St Paul’s as a useful landmark, and told her to take the next road on the left.

But this turning brought her to a lane that was crowded with the business of paper and books. Men were carrying quires of paper, loading them onto carts; others transporting paper-wrapped packages of what could only be books. Here and there, men of a more scholarly look moved through doorways, or down sunken steps.

It was very much a scene of industry, and Truthful felt certain that her immaculate coat of blue superfine, buckskin pantaloons and black hessian top-boots would not survive passage unmarked. Nervously, she began to wheel her horse around, still gazing back at the workmen, some of whom returned her gaze in what she thought was a threatening manner.

She had almost brought the horse around when it suddenly shied, and she looked back to her front in horror, as a man leapt away from under the horse’s forefeet, dropping paper everywhere and cursing.

“Damn it, man!” he cried, staring up at Truthful as she leaned forward to calm her mount, muttering soothing words in French. As always, the horse responded more to her innate sorcery than any words, and quietened immediately.

“Sir!” exclaimed the man again, in a voice loud with anger. “I ask you to look at me when I am speaking to you!”

Truthful leaned back in the saddle, her mount now calm and steady. Closing her eyes for an instant, she thought of what her cousins would do in a similar circumstance. Then she opened her eyes and looked down.

The man was staring furiously up at her, brandishing a wad of papers in his hand and gesturing at the others lying ruined on the street — churned into the mud, or cut by the horse’s hooves. He was coatless, and Truthful saw that his shirt was both crumpled and ink-stained, and his breeches and boots deserved better care. He looked to be some six or seven years older than herself, and his features, if not set in anger, could be described as handsome. He had a particularly fine shock of jet-black hair.

Truthful saw him like a picture for a moment, then the sound and anger washed back over her, and she thought of her cousin’s tales of similar encounters.

“I am looking at you, sir,” she said, in her deepest and most French-sounding voice. “And I am sorry I have ruined your papers. Would a guinea cover the damage?”

She reached in her waistcoat pocket for the coin, but this mollifying action only seemed to enrage the man still further.

“It would be a sorry day if I let a Frenchman trammel my ‘Badajoz Diary’ into the road,” he said coldly. “Dismount, sir, and I’ll teach you a lesson in manners, if not horsemanship!”

Truthful stared down at his set face, and fought back an urge to cry. No-one had ever spoken to her like that before, but fear soon gave way to her own anger.

“It is not in my nature, to partake in fisticuffs with any . . . paper-carrier or clerk.” she said, equally coldly. “I am the Chevalier de Vienne, not some common—”

“This is England,” interrupted the man, stepping closer and seizing her stirrup. “And here you’ll find a Duke wouldn’t turn aside from a proper turn-up with a pot-boy, let alone a paper-carrier, if the occasion warranted it. So if you won’t step down, Monsoor Chevalier, I’ll turn you from your horse for my lesson!”

“As you wish,” replied Truthful, ire and trepidation mingling together in her butterflying stomach. Whoever the man was, he spoke very well, and was obviously no paper carrier. She dismounted, the horse between them, and looked back over the saddle. He was almost a head taller than Truthful, and only her high-crowned hat took her to near his size.

“I hope you remember that it was not I who chose this quarrel, but an accident,” she began, stepping out from behind her mount and raising her fists in the manner the Newington-Lacys had tried to teach her on several occasions, and that she had seen on her disguised excursions with them.

“Indeed,” said the man. He stepped forward likewise, and raised two large and very solid-looking fists. Truthful trembled as he did so, but she didn’t retreat, and looked him squarely in the eye.

“Please don’t mark my face,” she said suddenly, thinking of the difficulties a black eye would raise for Lady Truthful. She clenched her fists again at the thought, presenting a slim boyish figure, with a fighting stance as open as a door.

“I don’t think I can hit you at all,” replied the man, dropping his fists. “You’re a plucky devil, lad, but you’re not up to my weight. It’d be like striking a child.”

“I’m thankful for that, sir,” said Truthful, honestly, dropping her own guard. “I
am
sorry I made you drop those papers. They are not too important, I trust?”

“That all depends on whom you might ask!” laughed the man, all traces of rage melting from his face. “It is my account of the Siege of Badajoz. The final manuscript. I was just taking it to my publishers, when I am beset by a Frenchman! Now I shall have to copy or rewrite at least two score of pages!”

“Again, I beg your pardon,” said Truthful, bending down to help him pick up the fallen pages. As she passed them to him, one caught her eye. The title page, torn in half, but with
Badajoz Diary — by a Soldier
penned in an elegant script, and under that “Major Harnett, 95th Rifles.”

“You are Major Harnett?” she blurted out, as he took the page, frowning at its condition.

“I was a soldier,” he replied. “You speak very good English for a Frenchman, Chevalier.”

“Ah,” said Truthful hastily. “My cousins are English, and I had an English tutor. I have always studied most diligently, sir.”

“I can believe it,” said Harnett dryly. “You certainly can’t box. You should visit Gentleman Jackson and learn a little science if you stay long in England. Your cousins will take you, I’m sure.”

“They are both ladies,” replied Truthful. Remembering her story she added, “I have no partiality for sparring or sport of any kind. I am to become a monk.”

“No!” cried the Major, quite taken aback. “That’s infamous! You’re a young game-cock if ever I saw one. You should be cutting a spree, not mouldering in religion!”

“That is what father says,” sighed Truthful, playing her role to the full. “But I have always desired solitude, and the quiet contemplation of Christ . . .”

“Hold hard!” cried Harnett. “How old are you, boy?”

“Nineteen,” replied Truthful.

“I was with the 95th in Spain when I was nineteen,” mused Harnett, shaking his head sorrowfully. Truthful smiled to herself as she realised he was thinking of her as what her cousins would call “a regular green ’un”.

“Well, there’s not too much harm done,” he said, thrusting out a hand and smiling engagingly. “I daresay I’ve sometimes not looked where I was going.”

“You are most kind, sir,” replied Truthful, clasping his hand with what she hoped was a manly gesture. But as they touched, a spark of something shot through her arm. She gripped his fingers lightly, and couldn’t meet his eye.

“Perhaps, Major,” she said, hastily letting go, “you could direct me how I might find my way from here to Grosvenor Square.”

“Grosvenor Square?” said Harnett, raising an eyebrow. “Who are your cousins?”

“I am staying with Lady Badgery,” replied Truthful, “and my cousin, her great-niece, who is Lady Truthful Newington.”

“Don’t know either of them,” said Harnett. “I don’t go out in society much these days. Newington? There’s an old buzzard of an Admiral by that name . . .”

“He is not an old buzzard!” exclaimed Truthful angrily. “He is my . . . my cousin also! I am not surprised you do not go about in society, if that is how you speak of respectable people!”

“I mean no harm,” replied the Major, with surprise. “You’ve a very womanish sensibility, my boy, if that sort of talk offends. I daresay you’ve yet to see the insides of Cribb’s Parlour, or a hell—”

“And I do not intend to,” snapped Truthful. “Now, sir, if you will direct me to Grosvenor Square!”

“Of course,” replied the Major. “Of course . . . Newington . . . Newington. There was something else about the name, some on-dit about town, I heard yesterday . . . ”