Wiles of a Stranger Read online

  "She did have a beau then. Lucien said she had not."

  "She was as close as skin to a lemon, miss. She never said a word about it, but she got a letter, and it didn't look like a lady's fine writing to me, though she claimed it was from a girl friend."

  "It could have come from a relative, a brother or father."

  "Why would a decent relative go sending his note to the back door by a messenger? He'd have it come with the mail, if he wasn't ashamed of hisself. And she didn't have no family either. She made a point of telling us all so."

  "I understand Sir Algernon hired her in London."

  "He was taken in good and proper. We all were. We thought she was a very nice sort of a girl, but you see how she carried on when she got the chance. She's not a bride is what we all think in the kitchen, miss. Why else would she make a great mystery of it, but that she was ashamed of herself, and so she should be too."

  "That is a pity. What have we for dinner?” I asked, to terminate the subject. “Ah, a nice slice of lamb. It should be tender this time of the year."

  "So it is, miss. I've had a bite belowstairs, and never tasted lamb so good.” She smiled, unstacking the tray and laying out our meal very nicely.

  Despite all my problems, I was ready to do justice to it. I expect I inherited my hearty appetite from my father, although I am happy to say I have not inherited that very large, square frame one sees so often in Dutch ladies. My English mother was dainty, small-boned and delicate, which modified my size. I wish I had got her beautiful face as well, but I confess to a broader set of cheekbones than I like. Mama's sable tresses too are bleached to a less opulent brown in me, but at least I inherited her natural wave. Mrs. Farell tells me I am “lively,” by which I have come to learn she means pretty. She is kind enough to tell me if I would bother to tone down my pink cheeks with powder and call in a coiffeur to tend my hair, I might nab myself a beau. You may he sure that when I meet a gentleman worth so much bother, I shall do it.

  Chapter Six

  It was during our dinner that Major Morrison arrived, causing us to jump up from the table for a dart to the window. He traveled in a high style for a retired major. He was perched in a yellow sporting curricle behind a team of matched grays, with his domo—groom or valet or batman—beside him. This means of travel all the way from Devonshire indicated a heavier traveling carriage somewhere between here and there, carrying his luggage. No more than the top of his hat was visible from our window as he drove up to the house. Lucien proclaimed him a bang-up fiddler. He also expressed an intention of going to the stable to examine the prads as soon as he was finished eating.

  I went downstairs with him, and learned in the kitchen that the major, arriving at such a gauche hour, had been invited to remain for dinner. Stella would not be behindhand in offering the hospitality of the house to a lone gentleman. I did not get to see him myself for a few hours, when Lucien was called down for his nightly meeting with the family before retiring.

  My first thought upon seeing the major was, Yes, he is a military type, certainly. An officer and a gentleman. It was an impression I was obliged to alter on both counts before many hours’ acquaintance.

  He was tall, his shoulders held back and his chest expanded, nearly filling the doorway with his body, when he and Beaudel joined us, after taking port in the dining room. He would not have traveled in evening clothes, but wore them then, which indicated that he might be remaining overnight. Glanbury Park was not so formal as to preclude taking dinner in a blue jacket.

  These thoughts were fleeting. The feature that held the attention, and affirmed in my mind that he was indeed an Army man, was the black moustache and beard, and the closely cropped hair. Such hirsute adornments were not fashionable amongst any but Army gentlemen. Even amongst them, it was a style more favored by the older set, to which Major Morrison could not be said to belong. He was in his thirties, I thought—somewhere in the low thirties.

  His walk was measured, precise, very military, as he drew up before us. In fact, he very nearly clicked his heels, like a Prussian officer. I examined his face, that part of it not covered with hair, as Beaudel introduced him to Lucien. His eyes were a very cool, deep gray, and the skin was as brown as tanned leather. “The Peninsula” clicked automatically into place in my mind. My late brothers’ friends, who called on us when they returned to England, had such complexions. The major's was perhaps even a shade darker, indicating a long stay in that hot climate. His anatomy was sleek, well muscled and lithe beneath a modestly patterned waistcoat. All this was observed in less time than it takes to tell.

  Within minutes, I had in my possession a more interesting fact than any of this. The major, so self-assured in appearance, was ill at ease, nervous. His eyes shifted, darting about the room, to Lucien and myself, and Mrs. Beaudel, and the door, and back to Lucien very frequently. What possible interest could a retired major have in a young boy he had never seen before? The hands too betrayed his agitation. They held a quizzing glass, which he fingered unconsciously. Beaudel, on the other hand, was quite at ease.

  "How did you leave Lord Sacheverel? I hope he is well,” Lucien said, the perfect little gentleman. “You mentioned in your letter you are acquainted with him."

  "He is very well, for his age,” the major replied, then turned his attention back to Beaudel. “It was, of course, Sacheverel who told me about the jewel collection. As I am interested in adding to my own few pieces, he suggested I speak to you. Are you, in fact, selling off the collection?"

  "Not in the least. I can't think how these rumors get started. It is only a few odd stones that are for sale, Major. I hope you have not come far out of your way on the hope that anything in the nature of the rose Jaipur is for sale."

  "No, actually it is the Italian pieces of the sixteenth century that interest me most. Sacheverel told me Sir Giles was keen on the same period, and had some few items."

  "They are not actively on the market,” Beaudel told him, “but the right price will always be given consideration. As my wife is always telling me, cash will accumulate interest, while the jewels do not. There is something to be said for selling. If you care to make an offer after you have seen them, we can discuss it at greater length. Well, Major, as you are out of uniform, would it be more proper to call you Mr. Morrison?"

  "I have the local militia group at home under my command, and am still called Major there,” he replied, preening his beard in a pompous fashion. He liked his Army trappings too well to part with them, was my own feeling. I made sure we would be hearing tales of his heroism, without too much prompting.

  "Is that so? The local militia have disbanded, since Bonaparte is rid of, once and for all."

  "There is no hurry to be rid of it,” he said quickly. “No hurry at all. There is no saying Boney won't escape again, as he did from Elba."

  Beaudel was too polite to dispute this statement, but of course everyone knew a rocky island off the coast of Africa was a far different story from Elba, where Bonaparte was not even held prisoner or anything of the sort.

  "Were you ever engaged in battle against Napoleon yourself, Major?” Mrs. Beaudel asked, to give him an opportunity to brag. She knew how to play up to a man.

  "I was at Waterloo,” he answered briefly. I expected more details of his prowess.

  "A stunning victory for Wellington,” Beaudel said, mouthing the gospel on every Englishman's lips. “I expect most of your career was spent in the Peninsula."

  "Quite, quite. Vitoria, Talavera, Salamanca, Burgos—I was at them all. I was an aide-de-camp to the Iron Duke,” he said, in a dismissing way.

  "Indeed!” Beaudel exclaimed, sitting up, impressed with this story. We all like to meet one who has actually been on intimate terms with the mighty. “What sort of a man is he?"

  While the guest went on with some details of the general's personality and behavior, I regarded him closely. With a brother who had been in the Peninsula, I had followed the campaign more closely than most. When retur
ned soldiers, of whom I had met more than a few, spoke of the Peninsular battles, it was more common to name them in the order in which they had occurred. Talavera, Salamanca, Vitoria—as they worked their way up from the border of Portugal to France. The haphazard arrangement jarred on my ear. Worse, to have thrown in the defeat of Burgos with the victories was such a questionable thing that I began to wonder if Major Morrison had ever been in the Peninsula at all, or whether he were not a stay-at-home major who paraded his farm hands up and down the village green, playing at war.

  I decided to test him, which meant putting myself forward more than a governess might politely do. Our role was to sit back and listen, speaking only if our charge got out of hand. My test must pose a question whose reply required some close knowledge of the Peninsular was. Burgos seemed a likely subject for the test question. When he began on some talk of taking French prisoners, leaked innocently, “Would you have taken a great many prisoners after a battle such as Burgos?"

  "Hundreds of them,” he said, waving a hand airily.

  This absolutely confirmed in my mind that the man was an impostor. After the defeat of Burgos nearly half the English Army ended up prisoners, whereas the French seldom left many soldiers behind. Wellington had been confused at the reason for finding so few stragglers, and concluded that the French marched more quickly, and kept closer ranks. I rather wondered that Beaudel did not realize Burgos had been no victory for us, but the battle had taken place some time ago, and our defeats always received less publicity than our victories.

  If Major Morrison was not a real major, then who was he, and why was he here? I have already indicated that he directed a good deal of attention to Lucien, which is not to say he omitted Mrs. Beaudel from his observation, or myself either. He was a very sharp observer of us all.

  The hostess could not be accused of outright flirtation, with her husband sitting beside her. She actually said very little, but she managed her heavily-lidded eyes in such a way that before long, the major began directing the better part of his conversation to her. After some interchanges between them, he returned his attention to Lucien.

  "So you are the little fellow who owns the Beaudel collection,” he said heartily, while his fingers massaged his quizzing glass. “You are pretty young to own a boxful of diamonds and jewelry. I hope you take good care of them."

  "My uncle takes care of them for me,” Lucien replied, in his foggy little voice that could still surprise me by its deepness. “A man tried to steal some a few days ago, but Uncle caught him."

  "That is a shocking thing!” the major exclaimed, looking to Beaudel for confirmation.

  With my mind alive to some charade on this man's part, I began to see playacting in every move be made. I took the notion he was no more surprised at the story than I was. He knew it all along. It is not that he did not react strongly enough. Quite the contrary, he overreacted. His gray eyes widened, his brows shot up. The whole performance smelled of Covent Garden.

  "I was very surprised,” Beaudel allowed. “He was an eminent authority in the jewel world. I had not thought Diamond Dutch would sink to stealing, but he was caught with a few stones in his pocket."

  "No better than he should be, I daresay,” Morrison said.

  I glared at him, the gorge rising in my throat. He lifted his quizzing glass and regarded me for a longish moment, while I stifled my anger, unable to retaliate. Then he turned back to Beaudel. “Were they valuable stones he stole?"

  "As to that, he did not have access to anything worth real money. They were not flawless gems, nor very large. Some of the pieces my brother picked up in India for an old song, but very likely he did not know that."

  "If the foremost diamond expert in the county did not know it, who would?” the major asked, his head at a haughty angle.

  For half a moment, I felt it would be possible to like the major. It was an excellent point. If my father were to steal, which he never would do, he would not bother to pick up a handful of flawed or small stones worth very little. He soon rattled on to earn my disgust.

  "Of course if he were short of blunt, he might very well sink to stealing baubles. Well, he did do it, so there is no point in discussing the matter. Shall we have a look at the Italian jewelry now, sir? I shall return tomorrow to see them in the light of day, of course. I hope it will not be cloudy. How about it, Lucien? May I see your jewels?” he asked, turning to the boy.

  "You will have to ask my uncle,” Lucien told him.

  This was not necessary. Beaudel was already arising to go for the key, while his wife took advantage of his absence to roll her eyes at the major, and he took advantage of the opportunity to compliment her on her appearance, finding it eligible to tell another man's wife he was surprised to discover one quite unsuspected jewel at Glanbury Park.

  It was Lucien who called them to order, in his own inimitable and blunt way. “Aunt Stella always looks well when we are having company. She dresses up for hours."

  "Children should be seen, and not speak unless spoken to, Lucien,” I felt obliged to tell him, but my heart was not in it.

  "People hardly ever speak to me when there are adults about,” he replied.

  The major engaged him in some pleasant nonsense until Beaudel returned, then we all went along to the study for another view of the collection. I was not specifically invited, but as Lucien went, I tagged along. The jewels I have already described. The major examined them with the keenest interest, and a few comments indicating that he knew what he was talking about. The old Italian necklace he was particularly interested in. He was marvelously impressed with it, and hinted without asking outright why it was for sale. Beaudel repeated he was not actually eager to sell, and pressed the major for some idea of what price he had in mind.

  "I will have to have my man examine it thoroughly,” he said, to evade a quotation. It was a common practice for each party to push the other for the first bid. “He should arrive from London tomorrow. A pity to put him to the bother when Diamond Dutch is within a stone's throw of your front door, but I don't suppose they'd let him out."

  "I wouldn't let him inside the house if he were allowed out,” Beaudel said sharply.

  "Quite right,” the major said, in his tart, military way, that reeked to me now of playacting. “If you have any other such pieces, I would be interested in seeing them as well."

  Mrs. Beaudel urged her husband to show him the sapphire, which Beaudel did, but unwillingly. She wanted the major to admire all the various pieces, but whether this was to have a chance to talk to him, or in hopes he would want to buy, was not quite clear to me. When the display was finished, she rang for Wiggins and ordered tea. You never saw a more proper butler than Wiggins, nor a more uninterested mistress than Mrs. Beaudel. Morrison was not the only actor in the house.

  Lucien and I were not included in the taking of tea. We went upstairs and I put him to bed, with all the little rituals established the night before. I did not learn by what sequence of events the major was invited to remain overnight, but when footfalls were eventually heard coming up the stairs, there were three pairs of feet, and a lady's voice pointing out a guest room to Major Morrison.

  Knowing the lady's predilection for nighttime meetings belowstairs, I was afraid to roam myself. Just what I might hope to discover was unclear besides, although I was curious to rifle Mr. Beaudel's desk, on the off chance of finding some piece of incrimination. Before many more nights, I planned to follow Mrs. Beaudel and find out just what it was she and Wiggins did belowstairs, other than make love, that is.

  When at last the house settled down to silence, I tiptoed to my door and placed my ear against it, to learn whether Stella left her room. Hearing nothing, I opened my door and went quietly into the dark hallway. No light came up from below, but there was a line of illumination visible beneath the door of the room given to Morrison. Glancing at Lucien's room, I noticed that his door was open. I went back for my lamp and went in, to see that his bed was empty. He was not in the room.
The most terrible misapprehension came over me, all in a flash. I took the idea someone was planning to harm him. Kidnapping, even murder did not seem too farfetched, there in the dark, thundering silence of the night. I had to tell Beaudel, of course.

  I turned down the hall to do so, past Morrison's room. As I passed, I heard a snicker of suppressed laughter within, Lucien's laughter. I did not know whether I was more relieved, or shocked, or angry. I was extremely agitated in any case, and went in that state to the major's door and knocked sharply. I blame my next inexcusable step on my state of nerves. I went barging in without waiting for anyone to bid me enter. I might have been faced with the major in any state of dishabille, but was confronted with no more than him in shirt sleeves. His jacket was cast aside, his boots kicked against a wall, while he himself was sprawled on the bed, playing with toy soldiers.

  "What is going on here?” I demanded at once.

  "A reenactment of the Battle of Waterloo,” the major answered, regarding me with a pair of devil-may-care eyes. All traces of the military gentleman were abandoned. The slovenly disarray of his garments spoke clearly of an unfamiliarity with Army life. I remember my surprise to see in what tidy form Richard kept his room on the few occasions we had the pleasure of his company, after he had taken his commission. His batman was partially responsible, but an officer would be sure his batman kept the place neat.

  "A defeat, or a victory?” I demanded, remembering Burgos.

  "Oh, a victory. We are being the English, of course,” he answered, unaware of my irony. “Did you take me for a Frenchie?"

  I ignored him. “Lucien, what are you doing out of bed at this hour?” I asked angrily.

  "I am playing soldiers with Major Morrison. He invited me to."

  "At eleven-thirty at night?"

  "It was only eleven when we started,” he told me, with a conspiratorial little grin at his newfound friend.

  "Never volunteer any information under interrogation,” Morrison cautioned him, with a playful quirk of his brows in my direction.