Lady in the Stray Read online

  “Little Boney sent his agents not only to us.” The corpulent gentleman’s heavy jowls quivered with his sigh. “Secret agents have also been established in Holland and Italy. It is as good as a play to observe the Corsican’s antics—or would be if there was less at stake. I fear, Yves, that we were too hasty to disarm. Even do hostilities resume, I doubt Boney would venture upon an English invasion, nonetheless.”

  Lord Stirling contemplated one of his brilliantly polished boots, purchased from Hoby, the bootmaker whose select shop was located on the corner of Piccadilly and St. James’s. “You fear a French invasion, Richard?”

  “I do not.” The corpulent gentleman quirked one of his bristling brows. “If Boney did embark upon so rash a venture, he would most likely be destroyed. And even if he managed to achieve a landing, he’d cause more fright than real harm. I didn’t wish to speak to you specifically about Boney, Yves, although from what I know of the Corsican, he’s nourishing some ambitious design. This matter is more serious than that.” He paused.

  More serious than impending French invasion? Lord Stirling disliked the tenor of his godpapa’s remarks. Yves wished very much that he was elsewhere—inspecting the latest acquisitions at Tattersall’s, perhaps, or practicing his science in “Gentleman” Jackson’s boxing saloon, or fencing in St. James’s—anywhere but sharing White’s famed bow window with his devious companion.

  Growing bored with his gleaming Hessian boot, Lord Stirling elevated his gaze. Established as a chocolate house over a hundred years before, White’s had soon become a select gaming club. Though the hour was very early, rich lords of the Whig aristocracy were already deep at play.

  Richard followed his godson’s thoughtful gaze. “I squandered my fortune at Brooke’s,” he remarked. “But that is fair and far off. I crave your attention, Yves.”

  “You have my attention!” retorted Lord Stirling. “You have had it this past half hour. I wish you’d get to the point, Richard. You’re not addressing the Commons now.”

  This unjust slur upon his oratorial abilities the corpulent gentleman let pass. “I’m not wandering in my wits yet, my boy. Has it not occurred to you that Boney may not be alone in the employment of spies?”

  At this moment, Lord Stirling was very close to subjecting his godpapa to a display of the violent temper for which he was famed. “You take advantage of the fact that you are too large for me to hurl through the window, Richard.”

  “Ah. I try your patience.” Again came that singularly sweet smile. “Bear with me but a few moments longer, Yves. There is a purpose to my discourse.” A waiter arrived, bearing a tray. A bottle was broached, and glasses filled. “In short, a memorandum has turned up missing,” Richard continued when the waiter had gone. “A very important memorandum. One that could affect the outcome of the ongoing hostilities with France.”

  Now that his curiosity was well on the way to being satisfied, Yves wished that it were not. In his stomach was a very ominous feeling that had nothing to do with the quality of the wine. “Are the hostilities ongoing?” he inquired perversely. “Perhaps I just imagined the Treaty of Amiens.”

  “You may think France and England are at peace; certainly George thinks it, but Boney does not. To continue: this confounded memorandum has disappeared, and in it are mentioned some names which should not have been. You look confused, Yves. Pray use that acute wit that I am assured you possess. We English have always emulated the French, and in this instance with notably more finesse.”

  Richard now had his godson’s full attention. “You are saying that we have emulated Boney’s tactics, and that because of this missing memorandum our good work may be set at naught. Our agents are named, I conjecture—the devil! How could such an important document go astray?”

  “That is an excellent question.” The corpulent gentleman did not appear anxious to vouchsafe an answer. “The person whose carelessness is at fault shall remain unnamed. He came to me when he realized what had happened—no, Yves, you may not lecture me on the quality of my friends. You understand why it is imperative that we straighten out this tangle? Does that memorandum fall into the wrong hands, the case could grow desperate.”

  “Especially for the agents named therein,” Yves responded drily. “I agree that it’s a damnable situation—but why tell me about it?”

  The corpulent gentleman looked angelic. “You possess a nicety of judgment, Yves.”

  “I do not possess a disposition to meddle!” Lord Stirling countered. “You may spare me further flummery.”

  “A pity.” The corpulent gentleman rearranged his bulk. “I had planned to remark next upon your painstaking discretion and your way with the ladies. Sometime you must tell me whether it is your offhand manner they so admire, or your blue eyes, but not now. You must perceive that if the memorandum were to fall in the wrong hands, the consequences could be quite dreadful.”

  “What I perceive, Richard, is that you seek to embroil me in this.” Lord Stirling evidenced little enthusiasm for the prospect. “I wonder why I should let you. It is your friend who has made so grievous a blunder—by the by, how came it about?”

  “My friend,” Richard said sadly, “has a penchant for play, as will perhaps not surprise you in a friend of mine. He had taken to frequenting a private establishment where the stakes were to his liking and the play was reportedly fair. He had the memorandum with him, having paused to try his luck en route to his destination—the memorandum was so important that he trusted its delivery to no one else.”

  Here Lord Stirling interjected an opinion. “Cabbagehead!” he said.

  “Precisely,” the corpulent gentleman agreed. “When my friend left the gaming house, it was minus the memorandum, as he discovered shortly before his destination was reached. He could hardly return to the house and demand a return of the list of spies or explain to the person who awaits its arrival why he didn’t deliver it. He did return to the gaming hell, thinking the owner of the establishment might know what was in the wind, and came away thinking that fellow might have managed the thing himself. Nothing was said outright; it was more a matter of feeling something was amiss—but then the house was closed down. As a result, my friend has had to feign sickness and barricade himself within his bedchamber.”

  Lord Stirling had an unpleasant suspicion as to where these confidences were leading. “Your friend is damned imprudent.”

  “Quite.” The corpulent gentleman looked rueful. “I neglected to explain the gaming house was a meeting place not only for reckless gamblers but for émigrés, and that the owner was involved in all manner of things he should not. We should probably be grateful that he broke his neck when he did, because there seems to be little doubt that the memorandum is still somewhere in Mountjoy House.”

  “Mountjoy House.” It was as he had expected; Yves set down his glass. “Oh, no. I am devoted to you, Richard—upon my word, I am—but you will not persuade me to go near Mountjoy House. And now, if you’ll excuse me, a little opera dancer has been awaiting me this past hour.”

  “She’ll have to wait a little longer yet.” The corpulent gentleman leaned forward, clamped a surprisingly strong hand around his godson’s wrist. “Is this my adventurous Yves? You stand in grave danger of becoming blasé, my lad.”

  Lord Stirling looked at the fleshy hand that was sadly creasing his sleeve, and then at his godfather’s dissipated face, and smiled. “You are a fine one to talk of being blasé, Richard.”

  The corpulent gentleman was not slow to press an advantage. “I was used to dandle you on my knee. Noisome brat that you were.”

  “And now you will think me the best of good fellows, do I but try and restore this missing memorandum.” Yves supposed there was some truth in the accusation that he grew soft, sting as the accusation might. Certainly his adventures these days were most often of the boudoir variety. “Are you so certain the memorandum is still in Mountjoy House?”

  “I’ll wager a pony on it—or would if I had one.” Richard released
his godson, assured that Santander would not flee. “Had the memorandum fallen into enemy hands, we would have known by now. Yet we cannot go on indefinitely hoping that it doesn’t turn up to embarrass us. It must be restored.”

  “So I am somehow to gain entrance to Mountjoy House.” Try as he might to persuade himself that adventure beckoned, Lord Stirling could drum up no enthusiasm. “Why don’t you undertake this delicate mission yourself?”

  Richard looked down upon his bursting waistcoat. “My bulk prohibits my being furtive, and my empty purse from play.”

  “The house is to be reopened?” Yves glimpsed last-minute reprieve. “I shall stake you. Then your problem is solved;

  “Coward!” Richard said softly. “No, my lad, I can’t allow you to be so rash. Moreover, you’ll achieve the entree more easily than I ever could.”

  Lord Stirling looked blank. “I will?”

  “You were used to move in rather more, er, reckless circles than you do now.” The corpulent gentleman was capable of huge enjoyment, even with danger looming in the distance. “The young lady who inherited Mountjoy House is not unknown to you, I think.”

  Known to him? Yves cast back his thoughts to the time when he had moved in those less genteel circles, had not been Stirling but merely Santander the rogue. He had known Marmaduke Mountjoy by reputation only, and but one member of that reckless family rather more. Member of the family— Yves frowned.

  “My best wishes go with you, lad!” chuckled Richard.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Most unsuitable!” said Lionel once more as he reluctantly provided his charges their first view of Mountjoy House, mute evidence of some previous tenant’s fascination with the Gothic, as result of which the original appearance of the house could only be guessed at. In its present incarnation, the pink sandstone structure was enlivened by a row of battlements, broken buttresses and tall arched windows more suited to a ruined abbey, high detached pinnacles precariously perched on the backs of projecting gargoyles that carried rainwater in the hollowed troughs of their bodies and then spat it out. The solicitor gazed without the slightest appreciation upon the entrance front, fenestrated with large windows containing geometric traceries of cast iron, and positively glowered at a stone swan with outstretched wings, forever on the verge of flight.

  “I wish you will reconsider. This isn’t an appropriate residence.” Lionel glanced at his companions, gauging their reactions to the funereal aspect of Mountjoy House.

  Young Charlot was wide-eyed. “Crickey!” he observed.

  “Precisely,” Lionel responded, dryly. “Perhaps now you will reconsider, Mademoiselle Beaufils.”

  “Reconsider?” Vashti took firmer grip on her perforated box, from which issued a low and unrelenting growl. “I shall do no such thing, sir. Pray let us go inside.”

  Wishing that he had chosen to pursue a different profession, Lionel approached the massive front door. That portal was opened by Orphanstrange. Solicitor and valet exchanged the compassionate glance of two eminently rational male creatures that suddenly find themselves at the mercy of the illogical opposite sex.

  “Jupiter!” said Charles, who was still young enough to eschew logic. “This is capital, Vashti!” He scampered toward a staircase carved in a most singular manner with figures of dogs and monkeys and apes.

  Mademoiselle Beaufils was slightly less enthusiastic, Lionel thought. Personally, he considered the overall effect of Mountjoy House about as cozy as a tomb. The interior of the structure was no less startling than its exterior, and boasted ceilings with plaster ribs in the interlacing curvilinear designs of the sixteenth century, arcading on a small scale of intersecting arches, and a great many Gothic doorways.

  Through one such doorway Orphanstrange now conducted them, into a drawing room with tall dark windows and hideous old tapestries and a fireplace in the form of an arch. The oak walls, crowded with ancient pictures in antique gilded frames, had curious old-fashioned chandeliers affixed. On the floor was Brussels carpeting in a crimson-and-gold Persian pattern. The furnishings showed a strong Egyptian influence, incorporating sphinx-head bodies and models of mummies and crocodiles. Vashti and Charlot did not pay as much heed to these marvels as otherwise they might, had not the crocodile sofa possessed an occupant. Lionel hastily averted his gaze from that damsel, in her semi-transparent draperies. He still did not know how to explain Minette. Through his lips issued a moan.

  “Vraiment?” Minette arched a slender dark brow. “Does something pain you, chéri? Non? Then you must introduce me to your friends. This is Marmaduke’s little Vashti, I think—but who is her young galant?” Her green eyes sparkled inquisitively.

  Little did Lionel relish these introductions, and quickly saw them made. Minette arose gracefully from the crocodile sofa and moved forward, hands outstretched. “How I have longed to meet you!” she enthused, saluting a startled Vashti on each cheek. That Charlot was not similarly complimented was due only to Bacchus, who chose that moment to emerge from Charlot’s pocket, whiskers atwitch. “He won’t hurt you!” explained Charlot as Orphanstrange shrieked in a very unvaletlike manner and Minette stepped back a pace.

  No occupant of Mountjoy House could long remain unacquainted with the rodent family, but Minette shuddered all the same, an action that was very interesting indeed in her flimsy gown. The solicitor averted his gaze and flushed. Minette looked meaningfully at Orphanstrange. “Mon ami, here is the so-estimable Mr. Heath, to whom you wished to speak concerning the drains.”

  “Drains?” Studiously looking everywhere but at Minette, Lionel wiped his brow. “I know nothing about drains.”

  “Hein? A solicitor who knows nothing of drains?” Minette affected consternation. “Mon chou, it is time you learn!”

  Her darling, was he? Lionel was being manipulated by an expert. “But—” he said.

  “I know a great deal about drains!” Charlot cheerfully volunteered. “Aunt Adder’s were always all amuck.”

  “You must tell both Orphanstrange and Mr. Heath all about your aunt’s drains.” Minette shepherded the gentlemen before her into the hallway. “Orphanstrange will show you our drains, and perhaps between you, you may discover what is amiss.” Any protest the gentlemen might have made was lost, so firmly did she close the door. Then Minette turned back to survey her companion, who stood upon the hearth, clutching her perforated box, the Afghan hound lolling at her feet.

  “Definitely you are respectable!” Minette took firm hold of Vashti’s arm and guided her to an oaken chair with lavishly carved back. “It would be très difficult to find anyone more respectable than you look. It is not what I expected of Marmaduke’s heiress.”

  Vashti’s brief rebellion had flared up and died out as fast, leaving her feeling queerly flat. “What did you expect?” she cautiously inquired. “And why? For that matter, just who are you? I don’t mean to be vulgarly inquisitive, but—”

  “—but I am living in your house!” Minette leaned against a table with sphinx-shaped supports, decorated with water lily of the Nile. “It is not unreasonable that you should be a tiny bit curious, n’est-ce pas? The so-proper Mr. Heath did not explain, eh? He does not approve of me, I think.”

  Vashti doubted that even Minette’s own mother would approve of the girl, which diminished her likability not one whit. “Mr. Heath didn’t mention you at all.”

  “Aha!” Minette looked mischievous. “That is because he is épris—and does not realize! But you will not be interested in my affaires de coeur, Mademoiselle Beaufils. As to what I do here, I was your cousin’s ward.”

  On the contrary, Vashti was inordinately interested in her companion’s affaires de coeur, though she should not have been. “Marmaduke’s ward?” she echoed, clutching more tightly to her perforated box.

  Minette grew increasingly curious about that box and what it might contain. With the advent of Mademoiselle Beaufils and young Charlot, Mountjoy Houses’s resident wildlife had apparently been greatly increased. “Mais oui,”
she said as she approached. “Marmaduke rescued me from a fate worse than death—he did, I assure you, and in the very nick of time! Moreover, he vowed he would leave me comfortably bestowed, and I could have wept with vexation when I discovered he had not!” She bent forward, her inquisitive nose wrinkled. “Pardon, Mademoiselle Beaufils, but what have you in the box?”

  “In the—oh!” Entranced by Minette’s dramatic delivery, Vashti returned to the present with a start. “Calliope. My cat.”

  “A cat.” Minette’s hopeful expression faded. “I had hoped it was some of the ready that you clutched so tightly to your breast—not that I comprehend why anyone should carry about money in a perforated box, but there is no accounting for tastes. Perhaps you should release this cat of yours, Mademoiselle Beaufils. It does not sound to be of the happiest disposition.”

  Vashti looked doubtful. “If you’re sure.”

  Minette shrugged, recalling Delphine’s dislike of felines. “What is to be sure of? Perhaps your Calliope may account for some of the vermin which overrun this house.”

  Vashti was intent on the cautious opening of her box. “That accounts for the strange noises I heard earlier. A curious rustling noise, as if mice scampered within the walls.”

  Minette cast the walls an unfriendly glance, in particular the wall upon which hung a portrait with extremely lifelike dark eyes. The expression in those dark eyes was as hostile as her own. “You might be surprised to discover what is hidden in this old house,” she muttered cryptically.

  Vashti ignored her companion’s mutterings, intent on her perforated box, which, now that its occupant had discovered herself on solid ground, was rocking wildly back and forth. Cautiously Vashti grasped the lid, then in the same movement flung it aside and leapt back.

  “Mon dieu!” gasped Minette, and joined Vashti upon the crocodile sofa as a hideous multicolored ball of fur erupted from the box and streaked around the room. Under furniture and upon it Calliope leapt, darted into every corner, climbed halfway up the window hangings. At length the calico cat fetched up, snarling, beside Mohammed on the hearth. The hound opened one eye, wagged his tail, gave Calliope a great lick. Looking baleful, the cat subsided between the dog’s front paws.