Suzanne Robinson (12 page)

He didn’t understand it. No other woman made him explode with fury, but coming within a few hundred yards of the young lady guaranteed disaster. Inevitably he ended up making a spectacle of himself, aided, of course, by Miss Bright. This time, however, his nemesis had witnessed him conducting surveillance. The last thing he wanted was to expose this grave matter to the scrutiny of the unpredictable Miss Bright. There was no telling what insanity she might produce should she blunder into his affairs again. The woman was an affliction upon his existence.

It didn’t help that she had no respect for him, or
that she treated him like a wayward schoolboy. He had no regard for titles, but Miss Bright might at least respect his greater years, his experience, his knowledge of civilized Society. When she looked at him as if he were something that crawled out of a rubbish heap, he wanted to shake her.

What was so infuriating was that she looked at him that way while managing to appear like a dark-haired water sprite. All the time she was calling him a skunk her eyes flashed like jet, and she flushed just as he imagined she would under much more intimate circumstances.

The cab jolted to a halt, and Cheyne woke from his stew to find himself at his club. Forcing the image of Matilda Bright out of his mind, he paid the driver. Balfour was waiting for him, and they found a couple of overstuffed armchairs facing each other at one of the bow-front windows.

When a footman had taken their drink orders, Balfour said, “Any luck?”

“Sorry, old man. I don’t think she was delivering the money at Catchpole’s.”

“Not your fault. I asked you to follow her because her husband wants to know the truth but fears a scandal.”

“Don’t they all?”

“True, but being in Her Majesty’s government …”

“I know. Look, Balfour. We know the blackmailer must be bribing ladies’ maids and valets. They’re the ones in a position to see the victims hide incriminating letters and documents. The criminal is
someone quite clever at sorting out the ones most afraid of exposure and scandal. That means he’s too clever to risk being identified by the police.”

“What can I say, old boy? My hands are tied by my superiors, none of whom want to risk their own hides by exposing the secrets of people who could ruin them.”

The footman brought their drinks, and Cheyne took a long sip of whiskey. “That’s why I think we’re going to have to approach this business another way.”

“We can’t use a Scotland Yard man in Society.”

“No,” Cheyne said. He leaned back and gazed out the window. “No, but we can provide our own victim and set a trap.”

Balfour gave him a surprised look. “You?”

“Not me. Given my well-known opinions, our blackmailer wouldn’t attempt to threaten me. He’d know I’d tell him to publish the scandal and be damned.”

“Exactly. And anyone with something to hide isn’t going to help us.”

Swirling the whiskey in his glass, Cheyne watched a lady and gentleman walk down the street and enter the premises of one of the most expensive jewelers in the city. “We need someone who’s rich. Very rich. A wealthy person for whom respectability is essential and who therefore is vulnerable. I’d prefer a young lady. The blackmailer would hardly expect Scotland Yard to work with a refined and sheltered young lady.”

“Tennant, I wouldn’t work with a refined and
sheltered young lady. She’d make a mess of the whole thing.”

Cheyne set his glass down and leaned on his knees while he regarded his friend. “What we need is someone known to value position, rank, and wealth above everything. Someone who appears vulnerable yet has the courage and daring to take the risk, and who won’t mind if things get a bit rough. We need a young lady who’s got some mettle.”

“Tennant, old man, there are no bold young ladies in Society.”

Cheyne glanced out the window again as a motorcar sailed by, its lamps clattering. He blinked and whistled quietly. “The little colonial.”

“The who?”

“Miss Matilda Bright would be perfect.”

Balfour was already shaking his head. “No. She’s not a British subject, and she’s known to the Prince of Wales. Besides, she’s too young, and refined—What are you laughing at?”

Suppressing another chuckle, Cheyne said, “Miss Bright was raised on a ranch, Balfour. Her life hasn’t been as refined and sheltered as it would appear from her demeanor.”

“How do you know?”

“She calls me an uppity tinhorn and a skunk.”

At Balfour’s amazed glance, Cheyne stopped smiling. “Just take my word. Miss Bright is the perfect victim for us.”

“Even if she is, how do you know she’ll help?
Wait a minute. Is this the young lady you’ve been having quarrels with all over London?”

“Heard of that, have you?”

“She won’t help you. She doesn’t like you, old chap.”

Cheyne picked up his glass and watched the sunlight dance in the amber liquid. “Leave Miss Bright to me. I’ll manage her.”

Several days later Cheyne alighted at Spencer House in St. James’s dressed for a formal call. Mutton had provided certain vital information to him regarding the Bright household. The two ladies of the house were at home on Wednesdays, and today Miss Bright was certain to be there to receive a call from the Marquess of Stainfield, better known to Cheyne as Avery “Barmy” Richmond, the most supercilious and condescending of his old school acquaintances.

Barmy was all right as long as you didn’t allow him to natter on and on about lineage and heritage and bloodlines. He even had a weightier side to him, having been responsible for an important effort to improve conditions in Her Majesty’s prisons. But he approached his good works with an air of noblesse oblige that annoyed Cheyne.

He stopped to admire the eighteenth century town house. Originally built by the first Earl Spencer, it was an unparalleled example of neoclassical architecture. Cheyne admired its symmetry, the Doric
portico on the side of the house that faced Green Park and its pediment crowned with statues of Bacchus, Flora, and Ceres.

He was admitted by a butler who took his card and begged him to be seated in the hall. Cheyne looked at the fragile antique chairs and remained standing. He’d presented his old private card, one he rarely used because it had his title on it. As he’d expected, the butler was back immediately to show him into the Palm Room.

As with all the rooms in the house, the Palm Room was based on classical themes, but at one end of the chamber rose four white columns set against rounded arches. The walls were painted a muted green, while each column was plastered and gilded to look like a golden palm. Behind the palms lay a series of coffered arches that led to a window. To his right through the French windows lay a sundrenched terrace. Mrs. Bright saw him enter and rushed over to him.

“Lord Geoffrey, this is an unexpected pleasure. How good of you to call.”

Cheyne bowed. “My dear Mrs. Bright, I go by Cheyne to my friends, among whom I hope I may number you and your charming daughter.” God, he almost made himself sick when he sounded like that.

As he engaged in small talk with his hostess, he looked for Miss Bright. She was seated between two palm columns talking to Barmy Richmond. There were two other callers with Miss Bright, Sir William Stellaford and his wife, Lady Julia. The Stellafords
were known for their lively interest in America and their love of adventure, so Cheyne wasn’t surprised that they’d made friends with the Brights. Mrs. Bright led him to join the others, and as he took a chair beside Lady Julia, Miss Bright eyed him with suspicion.

“Tennant, by Jove,” barked the marquess.

“Hello, Barmy.”

The Marquess of Stainfield sniffed. “I don’t go by that name, and you know it.”

“Sorry, Barmy, but you’re stuck with it among the old Etonians.”

He couldn’t help it. The moment he came in and saw Stainfield sitting next to Miss Bright, something had gone wrong. He’d never felt one way or the other about Barmy, but suddenly the fellow irritated him.

Barmy Richmond was one of those young men who never seemed to grow into his head. Although he was tall, he was also thin, and his head was quite round, so that he looked like an upside down onion. It didn’t help that he wore his hair slicked down with pomade or that his nose came to a decided point, like that of a pencil. Cheyne realized he was being harsh. Some women admired Barmy’s looks. They said he was distinguished and refined, that his height was majestic and his features handsome in the manner of a Roman emperor. Disgusting.

“Lord Cheyne, we’re planning a journey to America,” said Lady Julia. “Miss Bright was just telling us all the best places to see in New York.”

“I shall take photographs,” announced Sir William.

“Hardly a surprise, old chap,” said Barmy. “You drag that confounded box everywhere you go. I’m surprised you don’t have it with you now.”

“Julia wouldn’t let me bring it,” said Sir William.

While the others chatted about the new Kodak cameras that allowed anyone to take photographs, Cheyne turned his attention to Miss Bright and smiled at her. She stared back at him without returning his smile.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a low voice.

“I’ve come to apologize for my conduct at the antiques emporium.”

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so skeptical, Miss Bright. I do have manners, you know.”

“Really?” She turned to Barmy, dismissing him.

This was going to be difficult. He waited until she rose and went to the bell across the room to ring for tea. Joining her, he nodded at a statue standing in a niche, a Roman woman in a long robe and veil.

“Do you like classical art, Miss Bright?”

“What are you up to?”

Cheyne spread his arms. “I’ve been thinking about our encounter at Catchpole’s, and I have realized how boorish my conduct toward you has been. We began terribly, and that one accident has colored all our dealings. Neither of us has benefited. Don’t you think we should call a truce and begin again?”

“It’s not my fault you don’t look before you cross the street.”

“You were going too fast,” he snapped. Then he controlled his temper and forced a smile. “I beg your pardon. It’s not done, correcting a lady, and I apologize.”

“Why?”

Bloody hell, she was too distrustful of him. If he didn’t get past her suspicion, his plans would fail. Mustering his most alluring manner, Cheyne tried to adjust his view of Miss Bright and treat her as he would any pretty young lady of his acquaintance.

“Why? Because I have found it most unpleasant to quarrel with such a lovely young woman.”

He watched Miss Bright’s mouth fall open.

“Oh, blast. I sound like a cheap music-hall actor, don’t I? Why is it that one sounds so trite and foolish when one tries to be honest?”

Miss Bright closed her mouth. Then she said, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“It’s only polite to say thank you when somebody gives you a compliment.”

“Ah.” Cheyne tried to remember what compliment he’d paid, but gave up.

A burst of laughter caused both of them to glance at the Stellafords and the marquess. Miss Bright made a move to rejoin them, but Cheyne stalled her.

“I say, Miss Bright. I didn’t know you knew old Barmy.”

“Haven’t known him long. He’s a good egg if you don’t listen to all that talk about folks’ families and such.”

“Indeed.” He wasn’t listening with much attention because he’d noticed that Miss Bright rather resembled the statue by which she was standing. Her skin was as smooth, although certainly not as pale as the white marble. Cheyne must have drifted in his thoughts because Miss Bright was looking at him as if she were waiting for him to say something.

“Oh, yes. Um. I did want to ask you about motorcars, Miss Bright. I’m going to purchase one, and I’d like to know what type you recommend.”

Matilda Bright lit up. “I love my Panhard-Levassor. It runs perfectly, starts on the first crank, hardly ever breaks down. Powerful engine, too. And fast.”

“I’m aware of that.”

She blushed and looked at the carpet on the floor. “Yes, well …” She cleared her throat. “Seeing as how you’ve been good enough to come here, I should admit I might have been going a bit fast.” She appeared to make some decision. “Yes, yes, I was. I got carried away. Sometimes I just have to get out of here.”

Miss Bright’s gaze swept the Palm Room. “Sometimes all this elegance and stateliness is hard to live in, and Mama—sorry—Ma
ma
sets great store by elegance and stateliness. That’s why …”

Seeing that she had lost her courage, Cheyne intervened. “Mrs. Bright has high ambitions, I take it.”

“Papa, I mean, my father did, too.”

Pain swept over Miss Bright’s features and vanished so quickly Cheyne thought he might have imagined it. Then she smiled with pure joy.

“Papa—I mean Pa
pa
—he and I used to go to galleries and museums together. The first time we went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and saw the paintings, we both cried.”

“Good lord, why?”

“All that beauty. Me and Papa had never seen any of those things except in books. It was better than magic.”

Cheyne watched her ebony eyes take on the glassy sheen of unshed tears. Miss Bright had a sensitivity he hadn’t expected. “I felt like that once, but it’s been a long time.”