The Bride Hunt (23 page)

“Very well,” she agreed amiably. “I’m a little short of sleep, as it happens.” She huddled into her coat, drawing up the collar, and closed her eyes behind the goggles.

She had not expected to sleep but she came to with a groggy start when the engine stopped, and saw that they were outside the house on Manchester Square. “I slept all that way.”

“You did,” he agreed, coming around to open the door for her. “Snoring peacefully.”

“I do not snore.” She stepped onto the curb.

“How would you know?”

“I’ll tell you something, Gideon, this habit you have of conversing in combative questions grows irksome,” she declared. “It might serve you well in a courtroom, but it’s annoying and uncomfortable in a social conversation.” She removed her goggles and tossed them onto the seat she had vacated.

He pushed his goggles up over his visor. “Does it occur to you that I might find your way of conversing in distinctly personal questions just a little irksome?”

“I was only doing my job,” Prudence declared. Then she shook her head in a little gesture of resignation. “I think we’re disliking each other again.”

“So it would seem,” he agreed. “I imagine it will go in cycles.” He put a finger on the tip of her nose, raising his eyebrows.

“Maybe so,” she said, aware of a softness in her voice that she hadn’t intended, but he was disarming her now, showing her the other side of Gideon Malvern. “Maybe so,” she said again, “but you provoke those reactions, Gideon. I’m generally a peaceable, easygoing person. Ask my sisters.”

“I don’t think I’ll bother. I’m sure they’ll back you to the hilt. Instead, I’ll concentrate on the memory of the wildly passionate lover whenever you become quarrelsome, and then I won’t be tempted to respond in like fashion.” He bent and kissed the tip of her nose and then the corner of her mouth. “Find me some accurate records of Lord Duncan’s dealings with Barclay, Prudence. I can’t do anything without them. And come to my chambers tomorrow afternoon, after five. We’ll talk about how to present you in court and what impressions you have to avoid giving.” He gave her a wave before she could respond, and turned back to the motor.

Prudence hesitated, words tumbling in her head, but none of them seemed adequate. One minute he was kissing her and calling her sweetheart, the next issuing brusque instructions. She waited until he had disappeared around the corner of the square and then went up the stairs to the front door.

Jenkins opened the door as she inserted her key in the lock. “Miss Prue, what happened?” He couldn’t hide his concern.

“Prue, is that you?” Chastity appeared at the head of the stairs. “Did you have an accident. Are you all right?”

“No, no accident, and yes, I’m all right, love.” Prudence swiftly climbed the stairs. “Motors have a habit of breaking down. We spent the night at an inn in Henley.” She gave her sister a quick kiss as she hurried past her. “I have to change my clothes, Chas. They’re the same ones I wore all day yesterday.”

“Yes,” Chastity agreed. “Did you sleep in them?”

There was something in the question that caused Prudence to stop on her way to her room. She turned slowly. Chastity was regarding her with her head tilted to the side, a slight smile on her lips.

“No,” Prudence said. “I didn’t.”

“So, what did you sleep in?”

“If I told you the inn had spare nightgowns for benighted guests, would you believe me?” Prudence was aware now that her own lips were curving.

“Not a bit of it,” Chastity said. “Are you going to spill the beans?”

“Of course.” Prudence laughed. “Come and help me wash my hair. It’s a mess.”

She had told Chastity the whole and was sitting by the parlor fire drying her hair in a towel when Constance came in. “You’re back. Thank goodness. I was quite worried when I got Chas’s message last night. What happened?”

“Oh, Prue had an impulse to which she yielded, and it seems to have led to a night of unbridled passion in Henley-on-Thames,” Chastity said with an airy wave.

Prudence emerged from the tent of the towel. “In a nutshell.”

“That’s quite a nutshell.” Constance perched on the arm of the sofa. “Is he a good lover?”

Prudence felt herself blush. “I didn’t have much to compare him with,” she said. “But I can’t imagine how the night could have been better.”

Constance grinned. “That sounds fairly definitive,” she said. “The question, though, is how does this—”

“Affect our business dealings with the barrister?” Prudence interrupted. “I know, Con. And don’t think I haven’t considered it. But I really don’t believe it will make one iota of difference. Sir Gideon Malvern, KC, is not the same person I spent such a wonderfully crazy night with. He reverts with surprising ease.” She picked up her hairbrush and began to brush her still-damp hair with vigorous strokes.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Chastity asked doubtfully.

“Of course it is,” Prudence declared, smothering her own doubts. “And on the subject of business, he’s adamant that that note from Barclay isn’t sufficient for him to base a case on.” She sighed a little. “So, it seems there’s nothing for it. I’ll have to go to Hoare’s first thing tomorrow morning. It’s too late today.”

“I thought we’d already agreed on that plan,” Chastity said, throwing another shovel of coal on the fire.

“I know, but I had a smidgeon of hope that we could avoid it.”

Constance shook her head. “We’re in too deep for regrets now, Prue. Did Chas tell you what I’ve been doing this morning?”

“No, I haven’t had a chance,” Chastity said. “I had to stay here for you, Prue, so Con went out alone to see if she could discover whether anyone had been snooping around.” She looked worriedly at her eldest sister. “Was there anything, Con?”

The sisters’ lightheartedness of a moment earlier was now quite dissipated. “Tell us,” Prudence said. She knew instinctively that they were going to hear nothing good.

Constance paced to the window and back again. “As we agreed, I went to some of the main outlets we use, Helene’s Milliners, Robert’s of Piccadilly, a few others. I tried to make it seem we were doing the usual rounds to see how many copies they had sold of last week’s issue.”

She paused, and her sisters waited. “Every one of them said other people had been asking questions about how the broadsheet was delivered to them, who checked on supplies, took orders, collected the money.”

“Detectives,” Prudence said flatly. “Employed by Barclay’s solicitors. Gideon was right.”

Constance nodded. “Of course, no one knows who we are, we’re simply representatives of
The Mayfair Lady.
We’re always veiled, and nothing can be traced to this address. But I’m thinking we should hold next week’s issue.”

“Not publish?” It was a concept so foreign to the sisters that Chastity’s exclamation came as no surprise to the other two.

“Maybe we should cease to publish until after the court case,” Constance said reluctantly.

“But that’s giving in to them,” Chastity said, her mouth set with unusual firmness. “I think it should be a last resort.”

“What about Mrs. Beedle? They’re bound to have followed up on the poste restante address,” Prudence said with a worried frown. “She wouldn’t betray us, but we can’t have her harried.”

“One of us should go there tomorrow and talk to her,” Constance said.

“I can’t.” Prudence stood up, shaking out her hair. “I have to go to the bank. One of you will have to go.”

“I will,” Chastity volunteered.

“I don’t suppose during your night of unbridled passion you had a chance to advance our search for a bride for the barrister?” Constance regarded her middle sister with the hint of a raised eyebrow.

“I did try,” Prudence said. “He won’t have anything to do with Agnes or Lavender. Quite adamant he was on that score.”

“But he hasn’t even met them,” Chastity protested.

“I don’t think that matters a whit to him. To be brutally frank, I don’t think his heart is in this bargain.”

“Then why did he agree to it?” Constance demanded.

Prudence shrugged. “I think he thought it was a joke, something he didn’t have to take seriously.”

Her sisters looked at her thoughtfully. “Of course, matters might be a little more complicated now,” Constance observed. “One lover finding the ideal bride for the other. A situation almost perverse, one might say.”

“One might,” Prudence said aridly.

“In fact,” her elder sister continued with a speculative air, “one might wonder if
your
heart is still in the search.”

“I assure you that my heart is as much in it as it ever was,” Prudence declared with asperity. “A brief fling with a client does not have to affect one’s objectivity.”

“No,” Constance agreed. “Of course it doesn’t. A brief fling, that is.”

Chapter 15

P
rudence stood outside the narrow entrance to Hoare’s Bank in a steady drizzle. She was nerving herself to go in when the glass door opened and the liveried doorman emerged, holding up a big umbrella. He bowed and came towards her. “Are you coming into the bank, madam?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’d like a word with Mr. Fitchley if he’s in today.”

“He certainly is, madam.” The doorman held the umbrella high as she took down her own, shaking the drops off. He escorted her into the hushed interior of the bank, where everyone for some reason that Prudence had never been able to fathom spoke in undertones.

“The lady is for Mr. Fitchley,” the doorman said almost behind his hand to an elderly, hovering clerk.

The clerk recognized the visitor without difficulty. It was sufficiently unusual for women to transact financial business for themselves to make Miss Duncan a distinctive client. “Good morning, Miss Duncan. I’ll tell Mr. Fitchley you’re here.” Prudence smiled her thanks. She sat down on a straight-backed velvet-cushioned chair, holding her handbag in her lap, and hoped she didn’t look too self-conscious. The silently busy clerks and cashiers in their cubbyholes cast her barely a glance, but she could feel her guilt radiating from every pore.

Mr. Fitchley himself came out of his office to greet her. “Miss Duncan, good morning. This is a pleasure. Do come in, come in.” He waved expansively towards his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Fitchley. A rather wet one, I’m afraid.” She offered another smile as she went past him into the sanctum. It was a small, dark room with a smoldering coal fire in the grate.

“Pray have a seat.” The bank manager gestured to a chair in front of the desk, where not a scrap of paper was to be seen. He folded his hands on the immaculate surface and said with a smile, “What can we do for you this morning, Miss Duncan?”

Prudence opened her handbag and took out the envelope containing the letter of authorization. Her fingers were not quite steady as she turned it over so that the earl’s official seal was immediately visible. “I need to examine Lord Duncan’s bank records, Mr. Fitchley. I realize it’s unusual, but my father has some concerns about some past transactions. He would like me to look into them.” She leaned forward and laid the envelope in front of the banker.

Mr. Fitchley put on a pince-nez and lifted the envelope. He turned it over in his hands several times. “I trust Lord Duncan’s concerns have nothing to do with the service Hoare’s Bank has provided. The earl’s family has banked with us for four generations.”

Prudence made haste to reassure him. “No, of course not. It’s just that he wants to refresh his memory on some transactions that took place about four or five years ago.” She offered a self-deprecating smile. “As you know, Mr. Fitchley, I tend to manage the financial affairs of the household. My father has little time to spare for such chores.”

The bank manager nodded. “Yes, your late mother, dear Lady Duncan, used to tell me the same thing.” He took up a paper knife and slit the envelope, unfolding the crisp, headed vellum. He read it very carefully—almost, Prudence thought, as if he would memorize every duplicitous word. Then he laid it down on the desk, smoothing it with the palm of one soft, white hand.

“Well, that seems to be in order, Miss Duncan. If you’d like to follow me . . . we have a private office where clients may examine their effects without disturbance.” He rose from his desk and led the way into the main room. Prudence followed him across the marble-tiled expanse, past the cubbyholes where diligent workers kept their eyes on their desks as the manager walked by. He opened a door and stood aside for Prudence to enter a rather cell-like room, furnished with a table and chair. Gray light came from a small window.

“A little chilly, I’m afraid,” he said. “We don’t keep a fire in here unless a client has made a previous arrangement to come in.”

“I’m sorry . . . I should have done, of course. But this came up rather suddenly,” Prudence said.

“That’s quite all right, Miss Duncan. If you’d like to make yourself comfortable, I’ll have a clerk bring you the ledgers. Will you be wanting the safe-deposit box as well?”

“Yes, please.”

The bank manager bowed himself out, closing the door behind him. Prudence shivered in the damp chill and paced the small space from wall to wall. Within ten minutes the door opened again and a clerk came in with an armful of ledgers, followed by another with a locked box. They set these on the table. “Should I light the gas, madam?” the first clerk asked.

“Yes, please.” Prudence took the key that lay on top of the box and slipped it into the lock. The gas flared, casting at least the illusion of a warm and cheerful glow over the cheerless room.

“Would you care for coffee, madam?”

“Yes, that would be lovely, thank you.”

They left the cell and she sat down at the table, lifting the lid of the box. She had the feeling that if her father had anything he wanted kept secret he would put it under lock and key, not leave it in an open ledger. The box contained only a sheaf of papers. She took them out just as the clerk returned with a tray of coffee and some rather stale-looking digestive biscuits, which he set down beside her. She smiled her thanks and waited until he’d retired, closing the door once more, then she spread the papers on the desk.

Her parents’ marriage certificate; the sisters’ birth certificates; her mother’s death certificate; her mother’s will; her father’s will. None of these interested her. She knew that her mother’s small estate had all been spent on
The Mayfair Lady.
It hadn’t occurred to Lady Duncan to charge for the publication, so her own money had kept it afloat. Lord Duncan’s will was straightforward . . . everything to be divided equally among his three daughters. Not that there was anything, really, other than debt, to pass along, she reflected, without rancor. Maintaining the country house in Hampshire, with its tenants’ cottages and dependencies, together with the house and staff in London, would take up whatever small revenues the country estate brought in. But that was the way it was now, so they were quite used to that. She returned the papers to the box as she looked them over and then she came to the last one.

She stared at it, feeling suddenly queasy, for a moment unable to believe what she was reading. It was a legal document. A lien on the house on Manchester Square. The house that had been owned by the Duncan family since the time of Queen Anne. She looked at the document blankly. Took a sip of coffee. Looked at it again. It was dated April 7, 1903. And the lien was held by a company called Barclay Earl and Associates.

It didn’t take a brilliant mind to make the connection. The earl of Barclay held a lien on 10 Manchester Square. A house that had never in all its history had so much as a mortgage against it, at least to Prudence’s knowledge. A slow burn of anger grew in her throat.
Why?
What on earth could have possessed her father to hand over the house that was his inheritance, his pride, his family’s pride?

Desperation.

There was no other explanation. There could not be another explanation.

Prudence dropped the document into the box as if it was something vile. She found the ledger for 1903. The payments started in January . . . payments to Barclay Earl and Associates. Every month the sum of one thousand pounds. And then in April they stopped. But in April Lord Duncan had given Barclay a lien on his London house. No longer able to make the payments that he had presumably contracted to make, he had done the only possible thing.

She took up the ledger for the previous year. The payments started in October. But there was nothing to say what they were for. Was her father being blackmailed by Barclay? No, that was too absurd. The two men were fast friends, or at least Lord Duncan certainly seemed to think they were.

She reached into her handbag for the note from Barclay that they had found among the papers in the library. Payments . . . schedules . . . interest. She went back to the safe-deposit box, and there she found it, tucked into a slit that formed a pocket in the lining. October 5, 1902, a few weeks before his wife’s death, while she lay in the agony he could not endure to see, Lord Arthur Duncan had agreed to finance a project to build a trans-Saharan railroad. He would make payments of one thousand pounds a month to Barclay Earl and Associates, who would manage the project.

And when he could no longer make those payments, he had accepted a lien on his house. She slid her hand into the pocket again. There was another sheet of paper. Half a sheet, rolled thin as a cigarette, as if the recipient hadn’t been able to bear reading it. When she unrolled it, Prudence understood why.

My dear Duncan,

So sorry to bring bad news. But it’s a bad business. Trouble with the Mahdi again, and people still remember the spot of bother with Gordon in Khartoum. Unfortunately, no one seems too keen on our little project at present. The rolling stock is in place, our people are set to start work. But the backers have decided to renege on our agreement. Political concerns, don’t you know. We’re all in the hole to the tune of a hundred thousand pounds. Just to reassure you, we won’t be taking up the lien unless matters become desperate.

Barclay

Presumably, they had not yet become desperate, Prudence reflected. There was no way her father could have resumed making thousand-pound payments out of the household budget without her knowing. So the lien hung there, the veritable sword of Damocles. Her father must be in torment. And yet he was prepared to stand up in court as a character witness for this thief, this charlatan, this out-and-out villain?

It was beyond her imagining. She could understand how a man unhinged by grief could make unbalanced decisions, but her mother had been dead for almost four years. Surely their father had regained sufficient control of his senses to see what had been done to him.

Prudence sat back in her hard chair, drumming the tip of her pencil on the table. Pride would keep Arthur Duncan from admitting his mistakes or confronting the man who had fooled him. Pride would keep his head firmly buried in a dune in the Sahara.

She sat up straight again. Whatever their father’s present state of mind, they did now have something to bolster their accusations of financial shenanigans. They needed to investigate the credentials of Barclay Earl and Associates. Did it exist as a legitimate entity? Had it ever? The whole idea of a railway across the Sahara had always been absurd. At least to people not crazed by grief, she amended. But to make their case, they would have to prove that it had been fraudulent from the start. That Lord Duncan had been inveigled into investing in a fraud. Investing so deeply that he handed over the family property when he couldn’t meet his payments.

Prudence, no longer in the least guilty, calmly removed all the relevant papers from the box and the relevant pages from the ledger and put them in her handbag. Gideon would know whom they could use to look into the credentials of Barclay Earl and Associates. There must be a registry of companies somewhere. She swallowed the last of her coffee, relocked the safe-deposit box, tidied the ledgers, and left the cell. A clerk escorted her to the door and she went out into the rain, putting up her umbrella with a satisfying snap.

Chastity stood at the corner of the small street outside an ironmonger’s and looked across at Mrs. Beedle’s shop. It had been ten minutes since the man in the homburg and rather shabby mackintosh had set the doorbell tinkling on his way inside.

It was drizzling and she was both well protected and relatively invisible in a Burberry raincoat, a waterproof hat with a half veil, and a large umbrella. She had strolled down the street once since he’d gone in, but hadn’t been able to see into the shop from the opposite pavement and was reluctant to cross over and risk drawing attention to herself.

The door of the corner shop opened and Chastity turned to look in the window of the ironmonger’s, feigning interest in the display of cast-iron kettles. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the man in the homburg stroll down the street in the direction of the bus stop. Mrs. Beedle’s shop was visible from the bus stop, and Chastity decided she couldn’t risk going in to the shop until the man had boarded his bus . . . but since she couldn’t stand in the open street for any length of time either without causing remark, she went into the ironmonger’s, shaking out her umbrella.

A man in a baize apron emerged from the back at the sound of the bell over the door. “Mornin’, madam. What can I do you for?” He surveyed her with an acquisitive gleam in his eye. Run-of-the-mill customers in this part of Kensington could not in general afford Burberry raincoats. His mind ran over the more expensive range of goods he could show her.

Chastity thought rapidly. “A flatiron,” she said. “I need a flatiron.”

“I’ve got just the thing for you, madam. Cast iron; nice, even surface. Heats up in a jiffy. Your laundry maid will love it.” He hurried into the back, and Chastity stood at the window, craning her neck to see if the man wearing the homburg had left the bus stop as yet. She had no desire to burden herself with a heavy piece of totally unnecessary and probably expensive cast iron, but she couldn’t leave if he was still there.