A Scandalous Mistress. Juliet Landon
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and a child have been sneaked out of the pound at night, and nobody knows who’s responsible. No law against paying a debtor’s debts to get ‘em released, as you know, but it has to be done through the proper channels, not by forcing the padlocks or slipping a fistful o’ town bronze to the night doorman. It’s got to stop,’ he repeated.
‘So you want me to find out who’s behind it. Could it be a member of the Vestry, d’ye think? Someone with a grudge?’
‘I doubt it. The Vestry have complained to me, so what I’m after is some juicy background information on whoever it is, enough to…er…persuade them to go and do their good turns somewhere else. I don’t want to raise the hue and cry about it, just a little discreet blackmail will do. A threat of prosecution, if you like. It is an offence, after all.’
‘Is it?’ Nick smiled.
‘Oh, yes. Abduction,’ said the Marquess, airily. ‘And perverting the course of justice, too.’
‘Coming it a bit strong, Father?’
‘We…ell, maybe. But I can’t have the Vestry upset. They run the show while I’m here, you know. Special headquarters on Paradise Road. They like to be seen to be effective.’
‘Which I’m sure they are, sir. I’ll look into it immediately. Shouldn’t take long. I’ll let you know.’ Nick shrugged his substantial shoulders into the immaculate dark grey morning coat and allowed the valet to adjust the lapels, the cuffs, the waistcoat and snowy neckcloth with fastidious care. Looking down at his glossy black Hessians, he indicated a speck of dust on one toe. The valet dropped to his knees to attend to it, then stood to hand Lord Elyot a beaver hat, a pair of soft kid gloves and a polished cane with a silver knob.
‘Shall we see you at St James’s Square for dinner?’ said the Marquess.
‘I’m not sure, sir. Shall I let you know later?’
‘Of course. And don’t forget your sister’s birthday this month.’
‘Heavens! Is it August already?’
‘No, m’boy, it’s been September these last two days.’
‘Really? How old is she?’
‘Lord, lad! How should I know? Ask your mother at dinner.’
They parted with a bow and a look that was not nearly as serious as their mutual ignorance of family birthdays would suggest.
Within the shining reflective precincts of Rundell, Bridge and Rundell on Ludgate Hill, the atmosphere was hushed, even churchlike, where white-aproned black-vested assistants spoke in reverential whispers, bowed, smiled and agreed with their well-heeled patrons who could afford not to notice the price of the wares. It would have been of little use to pass the doorman if money was a problem, for Rundell’s was the most fashionable goldsmith in London where nothing came cheap and where, if it had, none of their customers would want to buy it.
That much Lady Amelie Chester had gathered from the pages of the Ladies’ Magazine, and she had made a point of not returning from her first visit to the capital without seeing for herself what all the fuss was about. She had kept her barouche waiting for the best part of an hour while her coachman had driven the length of Ludgate and back several times so as not to keep the horses standing too long, and still there were choices to be made and the wink of a jewel to catch her eye. The ridiculously brief list she had brought had long since been discarded. She smiled at her two companions who hovered nearby, clearly not as enamoured by the Aladdin’s Cave as she was.
The plainly dressed one holding a Kashmir shawl over one arm smiled back. ‘Miss Chester is getting a bit fidgety, my lady,’ she whispered, glancing at the girlish frills and bows disappearing behind a glass cabinet.
Miss Caterina Chester, the bored seventeen-year-old niece of the avid purchaser, had at last seen something she liked, which could best be observed through a display of silver candlesticks and cruets. Two men had stepped into the shop to stand quietly talking long enough for her to see that they were related, that one was perhaps nearing thirty, the other his junior by a few years. Both, without question, were veritable blades of distinction, the best she had seen all day. And she had been looking, almost without let-up.
Her practised young eye knew exactly what to expect from a pink of the ton; nothing flamboyant, everything perfectly cut, clean, stylish and fitting like a second skin over muscled thighs and slim hips and, although there would be some gathering at the top of the sleeves, there must be no hint of padding or corseting. These two were true nonpareils.
They were a comely pair, too, she told herself, comparing them. The elder one with the more authoritative air would have been in the army, she guessed, while the other, like herself, would be thinking that he could find more interesting things to do than this. Of one fact she was sure, however: neither of them would be in Rundell, Bridge and Rundell’s unless they had wealth.
It was inevitable, she knew, that their attention would veer like a weathervane towards her aunt, Lady Amelie Chester, who had turned so many heads that day it was a wonder they had stayed on shoulders. No matter where she went, or did, or didn’t do, for that matter, men would stare, nudge and whistle rudely through their teeth at Aunt Amelie. Envious women looked for weaknesses in her appearance and gave up in disgust that the dice could be so heavily loaded in one person’s favour.
Watching them carefully, Caterina saw the younger man’s lips form a pucker, putting his hand to the quizzing-glass that hung upon his buff waistcoat and dropping it again at the three quiet words from his companion. Then, like cats stalking a kill, they moved nearer.
Lady Chester had come to a decision and, in a state of near euphoria, was oblivious to all else. Having recently rid herself of an old-fashioned teapoy on a leggy stand, she was delighted to have found a small silver caddy made by the Batemans, topped with an acorn finial and handled with ivory. Before the enraptured assistant had finished praising her choice, she spied a beehive-shaped gilt honey pot with a bee on top. Her gloved fingers caressed its ridges. ‘This,’ she said, ‘is perfect.’
‘Paul Storr, m’lady,’ the assistant smirked. ‘We hope to acquire more of his work in the future. It came in only yesterday.’
‘Then I’m sure it will be happy in Richmond,’ she said. ‘Add it to the others, if you please. I’ll take it.’
The elder of the two men moved forward. ‘Richmond?’ he said. ‘I thought I knew everyone in Richmond. I beg your pardon, ma’am. We have not been introduced, but pray allow me to take the liberty of performing my own introduction, since there is no one else to do it for me. Nicholas Elyot at your service. And my brother, Seton Rayne.’
The assistant intervened. ‘My lords,’ he said, bowing.
‘Amelie Chester.’ Amelie dipped a curtsy of just the correct depth while Caterina moved round the glass case to watch, fascinated and not too proud to learn a thing or two about how Aunt Amelie caused men to vie for her attention. One day, she would do the same. Her aunt neither smiled nor simpered as so many women did to gain a man’s interest, Caterina noticed, watching the graceful incline of her head. A soft-brimmed velvet hat covered the rich brown hair escaping in wayward spirals around her ears to accentuate the smooth peachy skin over high cheekbones. Her eyes were bewitchingly dark and almond-shaped, her brows fine and delicately arched, and there was no feature, thought Caterina, that needed the aid of cosmetics.
On the verge of leaving half-mourning behind her, Lady Chester’s pelisse was of three-quarter-length pale violet velvet with a swansdown collar worn over a silver-grey silk day dress. The edges of the velvet sleeves were caught together at intervals with covered buttons, and a capacious reticule of matching beaded velvet hung from one arm. The only ornament on the rather masculine hat was a large silver buckle into which was tucked a piece of swansdown, and the effect of all this on the two men, Caterina thought, was as much a sight to behold as her aunt’s classic elegance. Surreptitiously, she removed the fussy lace tippet from around her shoulders that she