Kissing Cousins Read online

  KISSING COUSINS

  Joan Smith

  Chapter One

  Miss Oakleigh peered from the window of a small flat on Upper Grosvenor Square to the road below. The solitude of an afternoon in late May was undisturbed by so much as a pedestrian. Sunlight cast its beam indifferently on the tall elms waving gently in the breeze, on the façades of yellow brick houses, and the cobbled street.

  Her companion, Miss Donaldson, peered up from her embroidery and said, for perhaps the tenth time that afternoon, “Any sign of him yet, Samantha?”

  “No,” Miss Oakleigh replied in a weary voice. A frown puckered her brow as she paced to and fro in the small saloon. “And no reply to my notes. He can’t be at Wanda’s house.”

  Glancing at her niece, whom she had known for half of her own forty-four years, Miss Donaldson felt she was looking at a stranger. It was not the frown puckering Samantha’s brow or the shadow in her blue eyes that caused this sensation. The blue mulled muslin gown was perfectly familiar. She had known it when it was still an ell on the shelf in Mr. Muldoon’s drapery shop in Milford. The gown was a month old and had been seen many times. It looked well on Samantha’s tall, elegant form.

  Miss Donaldson decided it was the tousle of blond curls where one was accustomed to seeing a subdued wave pulled back from the brow that changed her niece’s appearance so startlingly. It robbed the girl of her native elegance and left in its place a saucy, hoydenish air.

  “What should we do, Auntie?” Samantha asked in a voice edged with fear. “It is unlike Darren to shab off without telling us. He knows we were to leave for Wiltshire today. We sent off all the servants except Mary. You don’t think it has come to a runaway match with Wanda? There would be no need for that.”

  “I hope not,” Miss Donaldson said with a tsk of dismay. “She’s a decade too old for him.”

  “That is half her charm. And she’s so very pretty, with that glossy black hair.”

  “Fine as a star. She bowled the lad over entirely, but Miss Burridge, next door, says the woman is nothing else but a lightskirt.”

  If respectability determined the weight of the skirt, Miss Donaldson’s gown would weigh a ton. She was an austere-looking spinster wearing a cap with a blue ribbon, which provided the only touch of color to an otherwise gray ensemble. Her modest gown was of dove gray sarsenet, her hair and even her eyes were gray.

  “I wonder if she is right,” Samantha said. “Miss Burridge also said the postman stole her letter, and the butcher added the weight of his thumb to the scales. I always felt Wanda was very free in her manner, but as this was my first trip to London, I made sure it was only my provincial eye that detected a hint of scarlet.”

  “I told you any female who lets herself be picked up at Vauxhall is no lady.”

  “I was with Darren that evening. There was nothing improper in it. Wanda got separated from her friends, and that hedgebird was pestering her. I saw it myself.”

  “Hedgebirds don’t pester respectable ladies. I knew what she was up to when she told us that cock-and-bull story about being afraid her cousin would force her to marry him. She was angling for an invitation to Drumquin, and failing that, she has talked that ninnyhammer of a Darren into some compromising situation in hopes he'll offer for her. How can Sir Geoffrey Bayne be trying to force her into marriage? Miss Burridge told me last night he is a married man. Her son-in-law knows him and his wife.”

  “I have no doubt Miss Burridge’s son-in-law knows a Mr. Bayne, but who is to say it is Sir Geoffrey?”

  “She said he knows Sir Geoffrey Bayne. I cannot think there are two gentlemen called Sir Geoffrey Bayne, even in London. Wanda Claridge is nothing else but his bit o’ muslin. A lightskirt preying on country bumpkins! If Darren has married her, he is ruined. And no man will take a second look at you either, my girl.”

  “I don’t care a fig for that. Where can he be? Darren took every penny from the sugar bowl and has been gone since eight o’clock last night.” Samantha went once again to the window and glanced out. A gasp of alarm caught in her throat.

  Miss Donaldson hastened to the window to see what had caused it. She saw a fat little man in a broad-brimmed white hat, a blue jacket, and kerseymere breeches pelting toward the door. The figure was more comical than frightening. “Who is he?” she asked.

  “It’s Mr. Townsend, the Bow Street officer. Wanda pointed him out to me on Bond Street the day she helped me buy that bonnet. He’s coming here!”

  “It may be one of the neighbors he’s calling on. That Mr. Halpenny is a suspicious-looking fellow.”

  “But if he does come here, what shall we do?”

  “Do what I’ve been telling you to do all along. Call on Cousin Edward and ask his advice.”

  There was no time for that, however. When the loud knock came at the door thirty seconds later, Samantha’s cheeks blanched to white. Her knees were trembling so hard, she could hardly move to open the door.

  Mr. Townsend stepped in, introduced himself, and asked the ladies their names. “I have a warrant for the arrest of Darren G. Oakleigh on a charge of theft,” he announced, flourishing an official-looking piece of paper.

  “What—what is he supposed to have stolen?” Samantha asked in a quavering voice.

  Miss Donaldson was beyond words. She fanned herself vigorously and placed a bony hand on her heart to still its thumping.

  “One thousand pounds. The charge is being pressed by Sir Geoffrey Bayne against a Miss Wanda Claridge and Mr. Oakleigh. The money was taken from the safe of the love nest Sir Geoffrey hired for Miss Claridge. The servants tell me Mr. Oakleigh forced the safe and ran off with Miss Claridge last evening. Sir Geoffrey didn’t learn of it until he returned unexpectedly from the country and called on his chère amie this morning. Is Mr. Oakleigh at home, ma’am?”

  Samantha shook her head in bewilderment. “He hasn’t been home since yesterday afternoon,” she said in a weak voice.

  “You realize it is a criminal offense to harbor a thief, ma’am?”

  “Take a look about if you wish. He’s not here.”

  Mr. Townsend availed himself of the invitation. He strode through the little apartment, peering under beds and into clothespresses until he was satisfied that the girl was telling the truth. His practiced eye had the place pegged within a minute. It was obviously the domicile of respectable ladies in straitened circumstances. The few good pieces of furniture spoke of past grandeur, but the faded elegance had not been refurbished in a decade. Before leaving, he asked a great many questions which the ladies answered truthfully. Mr. Townsend could smell a lie a block away.

  No, Mr. Oakleigh had no carriage with him except his traveling carriage, which was kept at the stable that went with the flat. Townsend had already been to the stable. The carriage and team of four had been taken out the evening before. This suggested that the culprits had left town.

  Miss Donaldson had recovered her voice and explained, “We have no idea where they are, officer. We don’t live here. We are only on holiday. Miss Oakleigh’s aunt, Mrs. Talbot, is on vacation in the Lake District, and offered us her flat for a month—a little holiday for the youngsters. We were to leave for Wiltshire today.”

  “Ye’ve never been to London before?” he asked Miss Oakleigh. She shook her head. “That would explain it,” he said. “Greenhorns,” he added to himself, then said aloud, “What was the relationship between Miss Claridge and Mr. Oakleigh?”

  “Friends,” Samantha said grimly. “We thought she was our friend.”

  “The sort of friend that makes an enemy unnecessary,” Townsend said with a shake of his grizzled head. "I’ll not pester you further, ladies. If the lad shows up, send him to Bow Street.” He adopted an avuncular tone and added, "I’ll not go hard on
the boy. I know who is at the bottom of this mess of potage. It’s not the first time Miss Claridge, as she calls herself this month, has been in the suds.”

  “This month!” Samantha exclaimed. “Who was she last month?”

  “That I can’t tell you, but she was Nancy Hewitt a few years back, and Sally Bright before that. You don’t want to have much to do with the likes of her. Good day to ye.”

  He bowed and took his leave.

  As soon as the ladies were alone, Samantha recovered her spirits. Anger put the color back in her cheeks and fire in her eyes.

  “I am going to Brighton and haul Darren back by the scruff of the neck,” she declared. “And I shall give Miss Wanda Claridge—as she calls herself this month—a piece of my mind as well.”

  “Shocking!” Miss Donaldson said. “Why would she require so many names unless she is up to no good? I wonder what her real name is. Jane Shore, I shouldn’t wonder. You think they are at Brighton? I would have thought they’d head to Drumquin.”

  “Wanda is forever talking up Brighton. If she had a thousand pounds in her pocket, that is where she would head. The ton is leaving London now that the Season is drawing to a close.”

  “They might have headed to Gretna Green,” Miss Donaldson suggested with a worried glance.

  “If they’ve gone there, it’s too late to stop them. They left yesterday. I doubt it is marriage she has in her eye, Auntie. She knows we live quietly in the country, and planned to return there today. Wanda never spoke of anything but having a good time. And she had a key to Sir Geoffrey’s Brighton cottage. She had been there before. She spoke highly of it.”

  “Surely if she robbed him, she wouldn’t have the gall to go there.”

  “She’s brazen enough for anything. And she thinks Sir Geoffrey is still in the country, I expect. Townsend mentioned he returned unexpectedly. Though with the thousand pounds, she might be at a hotel. I’ll tell you one thing, she had a bathing costume made up last week, and she wouldn’t be needing that at Drumquin. I shall catch the next coach to Brighton. I shan’t ask you to go with me. You can stay here with Mary.”

  “You can’t go alone on the common stage.” Miss Donaldson knew when her niece’s chin firmed in that mulish way she had that argument was pointless.

  “I’m two and twenty. I can look after myself. Besides, I haven’t enough money to hire a carriage and team and driver. I have only the bit I had in my reticule. Darren took everything else. One of us should be here to warn him of Townsend, in case he returns.”

  “Call on Cousin Edward,” Miss Donaldson said.

  “That old stick? I hardly know him. I met him only once five years ago at Cousin Celine’s wedding. He seemed astonished that I wasn’t married or engaged at the ripe old age of seventeen years.”

  “He is your cousin—top of the trees. It won’t do Darren any harm to have Cousin Edward in his camp. Lord Salverton would have great influence with the law,” Miss Donaldson said with a meaningful nod of her cap. “He would move heaven and earth to keep any scandal out of the family. Very high in the instep, you must know.”

  Samantha drew her bottom lip between her teeth to help her make a decision. “Oh, very well. Darren will need all the help he can get, but I don’t look forward to Cousin Edward’s tirade when he hears what Darren has been up to.”

  “He'll cut up stiff. It is the price we must pay for his help. But really, you know, I think Cousin Edward will understand. He is always helpful to his relatives.”

  “I shall pack a bandbox to take with me. I plan to go to Brighton, whether Cousin Edward approves or not. I expect I shall be back tomorrow, Auntie, and then we can leave this horrid city. I wish we had never come to London. I look forward to the peace and quiet of Drumquin. I never thought I would say that!”

  “I only hope we won’t have to share Drumquin with Miss Claridge.”

  “Or Mrs. Darren Oakleigh. If Wanda has got him to a vicar, we are finished.”

  On this dismal speech she went into the bedroom and packed up a few necessities, and Miss Donaldson spent a moment thinking of Lord Salverton. It would be a wonderful thing indeed if Cousin Edward should develop a tendre for Samantha. It seemed unlikely enough on the face of it, but if rumor was to be believed, there had been a time when Lord Salverton was not so nice as he now appeared.

  Samantha placed on her head a high poke bonnet with coquelicot ribbons that Wanda had assured her was the latest jet. It certainly caused heads to turn, in any case. This concoction was toned down by a plain merino cape over her gown. Once dressed, she took her leave of Miss Donaldson and went into the street to search for a hackney cab.

  She was soon alighting in front of a veritable mansion on Berkeley Square. The yellow brick house was enormous. It towered proudly over its neighbors. Its severe geometry and obvious prosperity seemed in keeping with its owner. Everything that wasn’t brick gleamed in the fading sunlight. The windows sparkled, the brass door knocker sparkled, even the globe of the lamp outside the door sparkled. The heavy, cold lion’s-head knocker emitted a sonorous sound when she used it.

  The toplofty butler who answered her knock was enough to make a prince tremble. He looked as if he had been weaned on a lemon.

  He took one look at the garish ribbons on her bonnet and said, “Can I help you, miss?”

  Samantha pokered up at that demeaning “miss.” “I want to see Lord Salverton, if you please,” she replied.

  The butler looked down his long, parsnip nose and said, “His lordship is occupied. Would you care to leave a message, or perhaps speak to his secretary?”

  Samantha drew a deep breath, lifted her chin, and said, “No, I would not care to leave a message or speak to his secretary. It is excessively important that I speak to my cousin at once. Tell him Miss Oakleigh, from Drumquin, requires a moment of his time.”

  Luten’s ire subsided at the word “cousin.” His lordship had droves of them. No cousin was ever turned from the door without first having a hearing.

  “Please step in, Miss Oakleigh,” the butler said in a somewhat less frigid voice than before, and held the door. “I shall see if his lordship is free for a moment.”

  Samantha peered around an entrance hallway that belonged in a castle. A lake of black and white marble stretched before her. Its surroundings were reflected in its shining surface, like a real lake. In the near distance, a gracefully curved stairway led up to a balcony. Disapproving marble statues glowered down at her from their niches in the wall. On an ornate gilt table, a bouquet of flowers roughly a yard in diameter bowed in the slight breeze from the doorway. Their aroma blended with that of beeswax and turpentine.

  The butler disappeared into the depths of the long hallway and reappeared again a moment later.

  “Right this way, Miss Oakleigh,” he said, beckoning her forward.

  Samantha followed the butler down the hall. Her shoes made a light clicking sound on the marble floor. She walked carefully to avoid slipping on the highly polished surface.

  The butler opened a paneled door and said, “Miss Oakleigh, your lordship,” and Samantha stepped into the study to face her toplofty cousin.

  Chapter Two

  A well-barbered black head, sleek as a wet seal, lifted from the paper Lord Salverton had been perusing, and Samantha found herself being examined by a pair of steel-gray eyes. The face was as she remembered it from five years before. Handsome, with a well-shaped nose and firm jaw, but the features were marred by an expression not far removed from disdain.

  Lord Salverton, always the perfect gentleman, rose and bowed. “Nice to see you again, Cousin. I can spare you a moment,” he said in polite if not warm accents. “Miss Oakleigh, is it not?”

  Samantha forgot to curtsy, which was a grave omission in Salverton’s view. She was distracted by the elegance of her cousin’s toilette. At five o’clock he was already dressed for the evening. How Darren would love a burgundy jacket like that! It clung to Salverton’s broad shoulders. At his throat, a discree
t ruby gleamed from a fall of lace. The gem picked up the hues of the jacket.

  “Yes, it’s Samantha,” she said, compounding the felony by thrusting her first name on him. “I have come for your help.” Salverton’s nostrils pinched in disapproval. “That is—your advice,” she added uncertainly.

  “Pray be seated, Cousin,” he asked, wafting a shapely hand in the direction of an oak chair in front of the desk. He waited until she was seated before sitting down himself in an armchair whose carved excesses suggested a throne. The desk was as wide as a dinner table, but not so cluttered. It held only a chased silver ink pot, pens, a leather address book, and a blotting paper on which rested a report bearing a government seal. The oak-lined room was handsomely furnished and tidy almost to excess.

  While Samantha glanced nervously around, Salverton’s experienced eye studied the coquelicot ribbons on her bonnet and mentally disparaged them. But then, it was no new thing for a country cousin to go overboard on her first foray into the shops of London. A pity, for the face was quite tolerable. The eyes especially. That particular shade of blue, deeper than forget-me-nots, lighter than sapphires, always appealed to him. And those long lashes were extraordinary.

  Samantha leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial voice, “The thing is, Cousin, my brother Darren—you remember Darren?”

  “The heir to Drumquin. I remember him very well. He struck me as a sensible lad, though I haven’t seen him for a few years.”

  “Five years. Cousin Celine’s wedding, at Bath.”

  “Just so. Celine married a solicitor. I think she might have done better, with a dot of seven thousand. And Darren is in London with you?”

  “Well, yes. That is, we came to London together for a holiday.”

  “You should have come sooner. The Season is just ending. There were some very interesting partis this year, too.”

  “Actually we came a month ago.”

  Salverton pokered up at this. He would not have objected to steering his young cousin toward an advantageous match. He took a keen interest in the welfare of all his large and extended family.