The Perfect Hero
By
Madeleine Conway
(c) copyright by Madeleine Conway, November 2007
Published by New Concepts Publishing
Smashwords Edition
Cover art by Eliza Black, (c) copyright November 2007
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One:
In which dogs cause difficulties
Hero Veasey looked with distaste at Achilles and Ajax. There they lay, curled in a cream and toffee mass by the fire, deeply uninterested in leaving the comfort of the hearthrug for the horrors of a walk in the gloom of a December afternoon. They were charming in their sleep, snuffling slightly, twitching occasionally as a fresh scent crossed their dreams. But roused, they were fiends in canine form, and it was she who must escort them for their afternoon exercise. She usually liked dogs, but Achilles and Ajax were different. They had no purpose: they did not catch rats or collect game or herd sheep. They were toy dogs and Aunt Lydia imposed no discipline on them. Hero and Beattie would take them down to the gardens to the north of George Street and the little menaces would tangle their leads and snarl at each other, and when they were not snarling at each other, they would snarl in tandem at any passing creature, united only in their suspicion of every moving thing.
A footman came bearing a serviceable cloak, for the chill, drizzling day was too harsh for one of her prettier pelisses, and Beattie followed him up from the servant’s quarters. The maidservant was warmly wrapped up and bore a dull, sturdy bonnet for Hero. Taking the pair of King Charles Spaniels for their afternoon constitutional was Hero’s only obligation as a guest with her dear aunt and uncle, but on some afternoons, on dank winter afternoons, it seemed an onerous one. She tied her bonnet and signaled for the cloak, which Hero buttoned with nimble fingers. Then the footman slipped leads around the dogs’ necks while she and Beattie drew on their gloves and within seconds the room was filled with a confusion of yapping and growling. Exchanging a glance of mutual commiseration, the girls each took a lead and set off into the fresh air, their charges tumbling alongside.
Walking briskly, they soon reached the iron railings of the gardens where residents of this fine new area of Edinburgh were entitled to roam, provided they had paid their subscription. Hero handed Ajax’s lead to Beattie, dug about in her reticule for the key, and opened the gate. The spaniels strained to enter and started leaping up and yapping once again to be released. Beattie and Hero bent down, slipped the leather from each of the animals and watched as the creatures raced off into the shrubbery bordering the square.
They were in the easternmost of the three squares planned by the architects of the New Town. There were as yet no mature trees there, but the bushes that had been planted only a year or two previously thrived and there were plenty of nooks and crannies in which two small dogs could happily lose themselves.
“Let’s stroll about the paths, Beattie. We must keep warm somehow.” The two girls walked, and Beattie asked what Hero was planning to wear that evening.
“One of the new gowns, I think. The bottle green satin, perhaps? I like that better now it is made up.”
This encouraged Beattie to chatter on, much to Hero’s relief. It was curious how little the new gowns interested her. A year ago, she would have been agog, vying with Beattie in her enthusiasm, but such things no longer seemed particularly important to her. In fact, all her previous interests seemed altogether frivolous and irrelevant. It was astonishing what a change six months could render. But Beattie, who was still very young, rising sixteen, and thrilled by the opportunity to train as a proper lady’s maid, could scarcely resist exclaiming over the delightful items delivered to the house in George Street for the delectation of Miss Hero Veasey.
It was ungrateful to be so unmoved by all the pretty things that were showered on her by her father and her uncles and her aunt, Hero knew, and she did her best to conceal how little she was captivated by baubles and bangles and ribands. Her family could no more stop giving them to her than they could cease eating or drinking. She had given them a fright, had suffered a terrible blow and a dreadful sickness, and was more subdued and sombre than she had ever been. Papa, Uncle Anthony, Aunt Lydia, and Uncle William wanted their little Hero back again, and thought to bring her back to her former self with trinkets. She sighed. Even the most delicious of gewgaws and bibelots and pretty new gowns would not restore her silly girlishness. She did not regret it, but she did regret that she could not act as gaily and light-heartedly for her loving family as she had been used to do.
With Beattie running on, full of the invitations and excitements of the past week and the week to come, it was easy to walk several times round the square while the dogs burrowed in the undergrowth and came leaping out to chase after twigs and bark at the saplings planted on the lawns. But the light was leaching away, and they needed to return home before it became entirely dark.
“Let’s try to catch the little horrors, Beattie. I will seek out Achilles, you look for Ajax. I last saw him over there, digging amidst the camellias.”
The girls separated and started calling the dogs. Achilles immediately broke cover and hurtled up the incline to where Hero stood, only to scuffle under the bushes by the gate where they had entered twenty minutes before. Hero picked up her skirts and chased after the tiresome pest. She squatted and tried to peer through the leaves, then stood again in exasperation only to jump back in surprise. A man loomed over her.
“Excuse me, I must beg a favor of you.”
His voice was educated and his cloak looked expensive. He wore a smart hat and silk scarf, and carried a fine walking stick. In seconds, Hero had taken this in but the sudden apparition still startled her.
“What favor?” she asked, examining him. He was not much taller than she, had dark eyes and was slightly breathless. He glanced back over his shoulder. As he turned back to face her, his eyes danced and his smile was rueful.
“You may slap me afterwards, any distraction will do.” He stepped towards her and reached a gloved hand towards her chin, which he tilted upwards. Hero’s eyes widened in astonishment as his face drew nearer and nearer. He was intending to kiss her! She was so astounded that she stood stock still while his lips touched hers, once, gently, tenderly, meltingly. He stayed still, and his eyes flickered away towards the gate once, but then seemed to focus once again on her, and she felt his other hand come up to her arm and then round her back.
He pulled away and murmured something incomprehensible as she gazed up at him, then he pressed his lips to hers again and she felt a shiver of response as he kissed her again, deepening the kiss. Her mouth opened, and she heard him give a brief moan. His tongue parted Hero’s lips. An entirely unfamiliar tingle assailed her, first in her breasts, then her abdomen, then lower. She found her body pressing closer to his, despite their heavy winter cloaks.
His fingers were on her neck and jaw and the tender skin beneath her ear, exerting the slightest pressure, but a pressure which made her lean into him and meet his kiss and reach one gloved hand to his shoulder. Her hand should have pushed him away, but she could not help slipping her arms about his neck, clinging a little closer, meeting his kiss, returning it. She was melting, she was incandescent. Valentine had never kissed her like this, never!
Beattie’s shocked voice only slowly cut through the miasma of desire that had overcome both Hero and the plundering stranger.
“Miss! Miss Hero! Let her go, you brute!” Then Beattie launched herself at the broad back that separated her from her mistress and began to pummel it, accompanying every wallop with her vehement words. “LET--HER--GO!”
Hero sprang away as his hold on her fell away, and she watched him turn and easily catch Beattie’s flailing hands. She raised her fingers to her lips, still dazed. The man held Beattie off with ease and looked over the young girl’s shoulder at Hero, “I do apologize. I’m not sorry I kissed you, but I shouldn’t have done it, I know. I do hope we’ll meet again, but in the meantime, I must dash. I have to see some chaps about a boat.”
“You might at least help us get our dogs,” said Hero. Her knees felt as though they might give way: chasing after the dogs would be impossible in her current state.
“Look, calm the girl down and I’ll do what I can. But I don’t have much time.”
He propelled Beattie over to Hero who opened her arms to the girl and held her close. “Calm down, Beattie, calm down, it’s all over now. We must get the dogs.”
He placed two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. The two dogs arrived at his heels in seconds, and he held them, allowing Hero to bend down and loop their leather leashes to their collars. The man stood again, doffed his hat and said in farewell, “Beg pardon, ladies, must toddle.” Away he strode into the gathering dusk.
“Miss Hero, are you alright?” Beattie wittered on as Hero stood, gazing after the young man. “What are we going to say to Mrs. Macdonald? Will I lose my position? I’m meant to protect you and I was about as much use as a limp halibut!”
Beattie looked as though she might fall to sobbing or screeching, neither of which prospect cheered Hero. She gave Beattie Ajax’s lead.
“We’ll say absolutely nothing to Mrs. Macdonald. Do you think we’ll ever be let out by ourselves again if we say anything to her of that gentleman? Which means that you will not lose your position, provided you keep absolutely quiet about this. No backstairs gossip at all.”
“But he was kissing you.” Beattie left unsaid the fact that Hero had been kissing the man back with equal enthusiasm.
“He was. But what am I to do about it? I have no idea who he was. Come along, Beattie, otherwise they’ll start sending out footmen in search of us. It’s dark.”
As they stood on the steps leading up to the Macdonalds’ house, Hero whispered, “Remember Beattie, not a word.” The maid nodded and the door swung open for them. “And I want you up in my room as soon as you’ve shed your outdoor clothes. I shall need your help with the new gown, it has so many buttons.”
Before Beattie could respond, Hero headed upstairs. In her room, a fire had been laid and lit, all the sconces were ablaze with candles. It was full of light and warmth, a haven from the afternoon’s chill. She sat in one of the chairs by the fire. Unwittingly, she raised her fingers to her lips. Valentine had never kissed her thus and she had been betrothed to him. He had crushed her and squashed her, and she had never questioned it because everybody said men were great rough creatures with base impulses. Of course, Valentine was bigger than the man from the gardens.
But that man had been strong and firm. The way he had drawn her close to him, the way he had held off Beattie, the way he’d summoned the dogs: everything she’d seen of him demonstrated his power. But he hadn’t frightened her, not for a second, not the way Valentine had. He’d just made her realize that she too had impulses, instincts, sensations. Glorious, fascinating sensations. She thought back to his kiss and tried to recall the exact motion of his lips on hers, his arms around her, his body pressed against hers, and she began to feel once again the feelings he had aroused in her then. She looked down. Her breasts seemed to ache for his touch, and deep within her, she was conscious of a strange lassitude and heaviness. She wanted his touch again. She wanted more than his touch. The door clicked open and in came Beattie, looking a little hesitant, and Hero gave a little sigh as the memory of that strange moment was dispelled.
Mercifully, Beattie was relatively subdued this afternoon, and said little. The less they talked about the incident in the gardens, the less likely Beattie was to chatter about it below stairs. There was little point in fuelling the fire. But gradually, as Beattie shook out petticoats and tied ribbons and combed out Hero’s hair, the girls relaxed with one another until Beattie was chattering away as normal.
“Is Mister Valentine likely to be there this evening?” asked Beattie. She thought Valentine Wemyss was the most glamorous creature imaginable. But then she was an impressionable sixteen year-old, just the age Hero had been when she first met the dashing lieutenant. Of course, he’d sold out now and reverted to being plain Mr. Wemyss. But he was still tall and very handsome, even if he no longer wore a red coat nor rode a great grey horse.
“I believe he will be present.” Which was too matter of fact a reply for Beattie, who then launched into a flurry of ideas for making her mistress even prettier and even more likely to earn the address of the gallant Mr. Wemyss. And as the maid tugged at locks and heated curling tongs and brought out lace and wove who knows what into her hair, a cloud descended on Hero, because sooner rather than later, she must make up her mind about young Mr. Wemyss and either accept him or send him on his way. Six months was quite long enough to have recovered from her travails, and now the Macdonalds were beginning to make noises and her dear Papa was quite reconciled to Mr. Wemyss, and everyone was saying that spring would be a lovely time to get married. Everyone except cousin Rosamond, but she was far away on the estates of her adored husband, preparing to have her first child in the summer. Her stalwart letters saying that Hero need not have Mr. Wemyss if she did not wish were reassuring, but they could not have the same force as the combined good wishes of her aunt and uncles and father, all suggesting that Mr. Wemyss would be welcomed back into the fold if she chose to have him.
It was so complicated. A year before, there would have been no question. The summit of her ambitions had been to receive a proposal of marriage from Mr. Valentine Wemyss. And she had achieved that ambition. But then, Mr. Wemyss had repudiated her. He had denounced her publicly as a light-skirt, a hoyden ready for a tumble in the stable with a passing groom. He had been grossly misled by a fellow officer, a man who had deliberately set out to make mischief and destroy her happiness and for no other reason than envy of Weymyss’ fortune in marrying into the Veasey family with its estates and investments. Of course, Hero’s innocence was firmly established, the lies that had been spread were countered, and her reputation had been restored to her.
Initially, Hero had imagined that with a little time, she would be ready once again to hear Mr Weymyss’ suit. After all, the whole unpleasant business had reconciled her cousin to Mr. Buchanan and led to their marriage the previous autumn. Mr. Wemyss had been most penitent and attentive. But doubts assailed Hero: how could Mr. Wemyss have so failed to trust her? What could have possessed him to accuse her of infidelity at a public gathering? Why had he failed to respond to her letters for so long in the months prior to his appearance in Yorkshire? The first two years of their correspondence, he had written weekly or fortnightly. Then it had dwindled to monthly, understandably as the great war against Napoleon progressed. But after Waterloo, Valentine’s letters had dried up almost entirely, and she had heard no word at all in the five months before his return from Brussels.
Perhaps it was not fair to hold that against him. Perhaps she should just accept him and have done. But somehow, she could not. He had been about to declare himself any time these past six weeks, but every time he had appeared close to pressing his suit, she would swerve away, evade the speaking looks and turn the subject to something prosaic. Which should tell her something about her true feelings. If she were honest, she must finally concede that Valentine Wemyss was the last man on earth she wished to marry, and she ought to put him out of his misery sooner rather than later.
But that would mean losing the company of his sister, Elizabeth. And since Hero had met Lizzie, she had found a friend who promised to be as dear and true as Rosamund, but who as a married woman could be no longer. Despite a delight that her somewhat world-weary, cynical cousin should have fallen in love and married, it could not be denied that losing Rosamund had been as bad as losing a sister, for they had been raised together and shared every conceivable tribulation and trial, from visits to the dentist to the previous summer’s difficult passage. Then, when Hero had come northwards to Edinburgh, Lizzie had come south, as representative of the Wemyss ladies. Mrs. Wemyss, of uncertain health and still with two daughters in the schoolroom, had insufficient funds to bring the whole family to Edinburgh simply to meet with a prospective daughter-in-law. But she could send her dear Lizzie to represent the Wemyss family and encourage the match in every way possible. For a good marriage would be the saving of this particular branch of the family, which suffered still for its unfaltering support of Charles Stuart in the Forty Five.
Lizzie Wemyss had stayed first with her cousins, but soon joined Hero under the Macdonald’s roof. It had been agreed that she would extend her stay in Edinburgh and remain through Christmas and into January, when the Edinburgh season took off with an incessant series of parties and dinners. If Hero were to bring Valentine to the point and then turn him off, it would be deeply awkward for Lizzie to remain in Edinburgh. Yet, the Wemyss family desperately needed one of its children to marry well and, ideally, marry quickly. With Valentine’s prospects dished, Lizzie might be their last hope, and the Edinburgh season was the ideal opportunity for her to find a suitable catch. Hero saw this clearly. While she was not convinced that Lizzie, who was a discerning young woman, would necessarily accept a suitor, at least she should have the chance. But Lizzie would have too much pride to remain in Edinburgh as a hanger-on in the house of the girl who had spurned her brother.
At last, Beattie stood back to admire her work. “Och, Miss Hero, I think you’ll be pleased. Will you take a look?”
Hero stood and went before the cheval glass in the corner of the room. Beattie came over to shake out her petticoats and give a final tweak to her handiwork. Then she stood back and folded her arms in satisfaction.
“If that Wemyss fellow doesn’t swoon at the sight of you, he’s made of stone. You look like a fairy princess, you do.”
“You’ve done a grand job, Beattie.” Hero could have told the girl that her elaborately curled hair, with its diamond pins and kiss-curls, was far too grand for a simple evening at home, even with company. But she turned and reached out her hands to the young girl. “It’s not fair that you should have all the work and I should have all the fun.”
“I don’t mind, miss. I’d never look as pretty as you even if I spent all day primping and preening, and there’s the sad truth. It’s a treat to see you, and worth all the work in the world.”
“Thank you, Beattie. I shall go down and hope to do you honor.” Hero left the girl tidying up at the dressing table and went downstairs to her aunt’s receiving room. There sat a young woman with fiery hair, great brown eyes and a merry mouth which she was chewing in vexation as she gazed at the broad back of her exasperating brother. Both brother and sister leapt and turned as Hero paused in the threshold. Lizzie Wemyss came forward and kissed Hero warmly on both cheeks.
“You look absolutely wondrous tonight! What finery!”
“All my Beattie’s handiwork. I simply sat and let her do her worst.”
“If this is her worst, we must all shade ourselves when she decides to do her best. You do look dazzling, Miss Veasey.” Valentine Wemyss paused a little before speaking Hero’s name, reminding them both of a happier time when he had been given leave to call her by her Christian name.
Lizzie shook her head and looked away. Unquestionably, she was cross with her brother, but there was no way to ask the cause of their falling out, not until more people had joined them. An uneasy conversation followed. Hero made light of her dampening excursion with her aunt’s dogs, carefully avoiding any mention of strange young gentlemen. Valentine made heavy weather of a courtly insistence that Hero should not go out in such inclement weather and Lizzie resolutely avoided speaking at all. It was a relief to all three when Mrs. Macdonald came in, accompanied by her great friend Mrs. Grant, soon followed by Mr. Macdonald, Mr. Grant and two other gentlemen of their acquaintance.
It was not long before the assembled group went through to the dining room, but Hero found herself seated at some distance from Lizzie. She found no relief in her companions. Mr. Grant was a gentleman in his fiftieth year, who liked to pat young girls on the hand and pass on his tips for securing a husband. On her other side sat Valentine Wemyss who seemed of a singularly blockish disposition this evening, scarcely uttering a word, nor eating the food before him. Hero watched as he stared into his soup, then idly stirred his fork about the plate smearing puréed carrot liberally around its rim but bringing little to his mouth.
When Mr. Grant’s attention turned to the lady on his left, Hero spoke in a low tone to her suitor.
“Is everything well with you, Mr. Wemyss?”
“Of course. I am sitting beside the loveliest woman in the room.” He put his knife and fork together but continued to gaze at the plate as though trying to memorize its pattern.
“You seem out of spirits, sir.”
“If I am, you know well enough what may be done to revive me.” He turned to look at her, and she was taken aback by the ferocity of his expression.
“Sir, this is not the place,” she murmured.
“It never is the time nor the place, is it? If you don’t want me, you’ve only to say so, you know, and I shall leave off coming here and plaguing you.”
“You don’t plague me.” The words escaped her too quickly. Wemyss looked away in disbelief. Losing her own appetite, Hero set her knife and fork down and looked about her. Turning, she caught Lizzie’s eye; Valentine’s sister rolled her eyes and shrugged, making it clear she had no idea what was so unsettling to her brother. She gave Lizzie a tremulous smile and reached to take another sip of wine. Fortunately, Mrs. Macdonald soon after signaled that it was time to retire. Hero hoped for a chance to speak with Lizzie, for Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Macdonald were perpetually in a huddle over their plans for the Christmas festivities. But her hopes were dashed when Lizzie was almost immediately approached by a footman. Her Aunt Killigrew was already there to take her and Valentine off to their Charteris cousins for the rest of the evening and the old lady had no intention of keeping her horses standing longer than necessary. Lizzie made her farewells swiftly and Hero was summoned to give her opinion on the decorations and food and guest lists that Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Macdonald were discussing in anticipation of Christmas, just over a week away.
Chapter Two:
In which Mr. Charteris ducks and dives
The Fettered Cockerel was the lowest kind of dive imaginable, a smoky, rackety, gimcrack lair for bludgeoners, bilkers, fakeman-charleys, fiddlers, filchers, high and low toby men, snafflers, smugglers and all manner of thugs and toughs. Any variety of man might be found for hire here, provided the task at hand were on the wrong side of the law and the employer was not too choosy about references. Freddie, seeing where his quarry had led him, feared that his smart evening rig-out would be conspicuous. But at first glance, the tavern was full of smart individuals: it was only when you were at close quarters that their grimy collars and worn waistcoats became noticeable.
He slipped into the inn and eased his way through the press of bodies towards a quiet corner nearer his quarry. The two men he’d been following were deep in conversation with a third. They all looked clerkly, with sharp noses and ferrety features, lively darting eyes and hair carefully curled with Macassar oil. He walked past them casually, heading for the bar. A girl approached him, a merry looking wench with black bouncing curls, green eyes, and a grin across her round face.
“Can I help you, or are you sightseeing like the other bucks?”
“My friends? I fell behind, and I can’t seem to find them.”
“They’re through there, in the saloon. They’re up to some wheeze. You might want to be careful. Whether it’s sticking you head first in a fountain or removing your fine pantaloons, I couldn’t say.” The girl crossed her arms and leant back against a pillar to allow Freddie to pass.
“I say, would you help me?” He took out a shilling and held it before her. “There’ll be another of these if you will.” Then he dropped it down her cleavage and winked.
“Cheeky besom!” She reached down, extracted the coin, then bit it. “Well you’re no coin-clipper, that’s sure. What do you want me to do?”
“Go in there and listen. See if you can work out what they’re planning for me. I’ll wait here in this alcove. Come back in ten minutes or so once you’ve heard enough.”
“Very well. I’ll send Flora over with a little glass of something too.”
Freddie slipped into the booth directly behind that of the three men and watched his assistant sway back to the saloon. As a result of its status as a centre for Edinburgh’s dodgier inhabitants, the Fettered Cockerel was also a popular haunt of students and young gentlemen seeking the thrill of rubbing shoulders with men who might end up on the gallows. No doubt the helpful girl had taken him for one of those tourists, and if he bribed her sufficiently, she would eavesdrop on anyone he indicated. But their current arrangement left him in prime position to catch what was said in the neighboring booth. Deep in the shadows of his booth, he blew out the candle guttering on the table and raised himself slightly so he could more easily hear the discussion of the three dapper types in the next-door recess. Flora arrived quickly enough with a dram of whisky, and seemed ready to sit and flirt with him, except that he counted out his change for the whisky and made it plain that he’d wait for her friend.
At first, the rowdiness of the public house seemed too great for his mission, but as his ear became accustomed to the racket, he picked up occasional words and phrases. They spoke of Cockenzie, Gullane and Eyemouth, seeming to weigh up the merits of each harbor as a landing spot for contraband. One port was better suited to barrels of liquor, another was ideal for lighter goods, laces, trinkets and silks, but none was suitable for a person or persons. They needed a safer, more sheltered spot for the Phoenix.
Just then, there was a rustle of fabric and Freddie found himself invaded by the presence of his fair spy.
“You’re cozy in here, sir. You could make a happy woman of me and no one would be the wiser.” To ensure her meaning was quite clear, she reached a hand and started playing with the buttons of his trousers. He caught her hand and raised it to his lips.
“I’m honored, my treasure, but I need to know what my friends are planning for me. Besides, I’d rather savor a lady of your quality at my leisure than rush at you like a beast in heat.”
“I’ve a room where we can retire, if that’s your fancy.”
“What of my noisy companions? What do they plan for me?”
“They said nothing of any young man, sir. They’re aiming to give a serenade to some fine miss they say is too chilly, but that’s in the New Town. You’ll have to hurry off if you want to join them.”
Freddie sighed and made as if to leave. “We’ve been going to and fro all evening. It’s very tiresome, all this wandering about.”
“Stay a little,” wheedled the whore. She was unusually pretty, but Freddie was in no mood for dalliance. He wanted to shift the girl, but without having to leave his useful refuge. He looked at her archly, licked his little finger and smoothed it across his brow. “You’re a lovely girl, but....” He said nothing, but her eyes narrowed and she looked more closely at him. He ran his hand with a delicacy through his rumpled locks and cocked his head at her.
“You’re wanting a molly-house, ain’t you?” She was clearly irked. “You’d best be off to Mother Mackintosh’s, you’ll find plenty of your own kind and all the pretty boys you want.” She scooted out of the booth and brushed herself down. “Your loss, you poor Mary.”
Freddie watched her flounce off without regret. He was by nature fastidious when it came to women, and he had before used the same imposture to escape importunate offers without causing undue offence. It seemed to arouse less ire to claim a preference for his own sex than to refuse feminine wiles point blank, Freddie had found. He had been surprised to find over the years that he was the sort of man who did rouse the ladies to make advances.
Accustomed as he was to family jokes at his expense regarding his height (or lack thereof, in a family of men over six foot), the habitual dishevelment of his hair, the customary disarray of his clothes and his general incompetence, it had never occurred to him that his appearance was extremely appetizing. At school, he had been protected first by his elder brother from the darkest aspects of life in a virtually unregulated masculine society, and then by his friendship with Ivo Dunbar. But it was there that he had registered the mannerisms of young men who preferred their own kind.
Freddie turned his attention to the men in the neighboring booth once more, but it appeared they had finished their business, and he none the wiser as to which town they had ultimately decided on as most suitable a landing site for their mysterious Phoenix. There was the sound of tankards being emptied and bashed down upon the table, and the unmistakable shuffle which indicated that the gentlemen were on their way for the night. Freddie could not leave immediately, but he made ready to depart, and once the three men had left the inn by different doors, he made his way through the crowd as unobtrusively as he could. Whatever else happened, he mustn’t be late for his next engagement.
Once out of the confines of the tavern, he checked the knife in his boot, extracted the pistol he had concealed in his cloak and cut a purposeful figure as he walked back down the narrow alleyways of the Old Town towards the Mound and across Princes Street to the more genteel areas of the city. The men he had been following had come from offices in the newer quarter of town, the area where the more successful professional men had built their well-proportioned homes and established their offices in imposing temples to Mammon and the law inspired by classical ideals. The conspirators might work there, but that did not mean that they entirely accepted the new ways and ideas, ways of commerce and scientific enquiry, paths of economy and stalwart support for the Hanoverian monarchs who had brought stability to the kingdom.
Well, they were fools if they thought that anyone would support the overthrow of the king, even if he was a lunatic, only to replace him with the bastard of a feckless Stuart. Bonnie Prince Charlie’s illegitimate grandson, issue of Charlie’s bastard daughter. But someone appeared to be funding this little plot, and Freddie needed to find out who.
The light was better out in the New Town. The merchants and professional men had been prepared to pay for a scattering of oil lamps. The streets were also free of ordure and rubbish from the smart houses, for the inhabitants were also willing to fund nightly collections. It was altogether more salubrious than the Old Town up the hill where terrible epidemics of illness used to sweep through the city and had carried off two of his father’s sisters. The girl he’d kissed tonight was certainly safely stored away in one of the new houses. What had her name been? Miss Hero, the redoubtable maidservant had called her. An unusual name, especially up here in Edinburgh.
The last Hero he had encountered had been the dim girl in some comedy he’d seen in Drury Lane some months earlier. She had fainted dead away and had an equally silly lover by the name of Claudio.
What business had any parent foisting such a name on a girl? What business had any parent foisting such prettiness on a girl? She had been, even in the dusky light, an uncommonly fine-looking girl, with dancing eyes and golden hair under that fright of a bonnet. And her lips! Delicious. It was possible, he supposed, that he might bump into her again. Would she know him? Would she wish to acknowledge any acquaintance with him? With any sane woman, he would have dished his chances with his opportunistic kiss, but somehow, there was something about her that seemed not quite conventional. Not quite the blushing debutante. It was the way she had calmly demanded that he help her find those dreadful dogs. What a girl!
Freddie’s reverie about Miss Hero had distracted him from his surroundings. It was not quite a fatal distraction, for just as he was turning a corner, he registered that there were two or three men walking steadily behind him, and somehow, the rhythm of their steps had altered from the straightforward sound of men walking in a hurry to get in from the cold to the more delicate, careful tread of men engaged in stalking something. Or someone. Without warning, he leapt off the pavement and into the street, praying that he might avoid any horse manure that lay there and saw up on the pavement two men brandishing cudgels in an unmistakably threatening fashion with a third following up with what appeared to be a sack of some sort in one hand and a knife in the other.
“You nearly had me there, gentlemen. But I defy you to best me now.” Apparently casually, he reached into his cloak and drew out a pistol, cocking it carefully as he leveled it at them.
“I’m happy to dispatch one of you immediately and take my chances with the other two thereafter, since it will be only a matter of seconds before every inhabitant of this square opens up the windows to demand what in the blazes is going on out here. Do you want to risk taking me on, or would discretion be the better part of valor on this occasion?”
In the dark, he could scarcely make out more than their silhouettes, but the movement of their heads as they sought to establish their course of action was clear, as was their decision to drop back. They had been prepared to take on an unarmed dandy, but a pistol-wielding man was a different proposition.
Freddy carefully kept them in his sights as he stepped sideways towards the paving like a crab shifting for shelter in the sand. He knew that he could hold them off only temporarily, unless providence was kind enough to send him a passer-by of a helpful disposition. His attackers might be particularly stupid, but if they had a modicum of sense about them, they would be well aware that he had only one shot at his disposal, and shooting in the dark, he was as likely to miss as to hit his target. They had only to get him to discharge his weapon and they would have ample time to bundle him up before the good citizens of this locality were much aroused. It had been a useful opening bluff, but it was only a temporary stalling of their project which he assumed was to do away with him. He had been so sure earlier that he had shaken off the men set to trail him about Edinburgh. It was too much of a coincidence to believe that this was a fresh set of enemies. Which meant that someone had a fair idea of his movements and his mission.
He was not sure he could succeed against all three men, yet it went against his more gentlemanly inclinations to shoot point blank into the mass of darkness created by their huddle. Besides, he wanted to get a look at his assailants. Their bulk suggested they were somewhat larger than the fellows who had been following him earlier that evening. They could simply be opportunists from the Fettered Cockerel, or they could be men sent by the disappointed jade there. Still, felons were normally wary of entering the New Town, which was usually bustling and supported a fairly efficient watch. But not, it seemed, tonight. Perhaps it was too cold and too glum, even for the most hardened party-goers.
The stalemate was finally broken by the rumble of an approaching carriage. One of the men shouted out, “Not this time, lads--,” and the three of them scattered and melted away down three separate streets, leaving Freddy backing up towards one of the doors of the houses behind him. The carriage rattled away and he waited, his hand poised over the bell until it seemed clear that the men had disappeared entirely. Then he made his way, a little more cautiously than he had before, to his destination.
At the green door, he rattled at the knocker, rang the bell, and waited. There was a pause, and then a large footman opened the door and grinned at the sight of him. “Mr. Charteris, they’re all waiting for you.”
Freddie swung his cape from his shoulders and draped it over the man’s outstretched arms, then doffed his hat and stripped off his gloves before reaching into a pocket for his formal evening gloves.
“Are they, by heavens? I’d best make my way upstairs without delay.” He took the stairs two at a time as the footman shook out the cloak in bafflement at its unusual weight before leaping back in shock as the pistol tumbled onto a Turkey carpet, fortunately without discharging.
At the top of the stairs, Freddie paused before hearing a hubbub from the main salon at the front of the house. He tried to slip inconspicuously into the room, but was at once taken up by his sister-in-law Mary.
“At last, Freddie, where on earth have you been?” Without listening for his answer, she swept him into the room and pointed out a young man and woman standing by the window. “Lizzie and Val have been on pins and needles, and so have we all. Why how long is it since we were last together, all of us from the band of Mountquhidder brigands? Ten years, or eleven? And now finally, we are reunited, apart from Lillian, of course.”
“I saw her only a week or so ago, and looking as rosy as possible. I believe she’s expecting her third baby now,” interjected Freddie.
“Good for her, the brave girl. Have you told David yet? Probably not, you men never know what is truly important news. And look at you, Freddie, in boots at an evening party! I cannot ask where you were dragged up, as I know only too well it is your carelessness. You drive your mother to distraction, you know.”
“I do know, Mary, and I must apologize, but I was kept by business and had no chance to return to my rooms and change.” He sighed as his sister-in-law took a deep breath and prepared for her next diatribe. Mary was a dear girl, but she did lecture so. Freddie wondered how David bore it, except that he knew that Mary was rather more circumspect with her husband than with her younger relations.
Hoping to avoid further haranguing, Freddie made his way across the room to Lizzie and Valentine Wemyss. He bowed over Lizzie’s hand and shook Valentine’s with vigor. “How good it is to see you both in Edinburgh, an unexpected bonus to my trip northwards. How do you both do? And your mother? And your sisters?”
“You are become as bad as Mary for not letting one get a word in edgeways,” said Lizzie, smiling. “I believe we all do well. A little older and wiser perhaps, but otherwise, much the same. Except for Valentine, who has returned to us safely and garlanded with laurels.”
Freddie looked up at his old friend and did not think he appeared to be doing at all well. His golden hair was lank, his face drawn, dark circles had formed about his eyes and a fine beading of sweat shone along his hairline. Beside the rude vigor of the Charteris family and his own sister, Valentine seemed quite worn out. Freddie exchanged a dubious glance with Lizzie who gave a slight shrug and looked away, her eyes glistening with suppressed tears. Here was a to-do!
“I am delighted to see you back safe and sound after your soldiering adventures. But you do not wear your uniform?”
“I’ve sold up. The only opportunities now are for service overseas, and I no longer wish to travel. Mother and the girls need me.”
Not in this state, thought Freddie, but he was forestalled from probing further as the gathering was called into the ballroom to start their dancing, and he was directed by Mary to usher Lizzie onto the floor.
In low tones, he enquired after her brother. “Lizzie, have you any idea what’s up with the old fellow?” They took their places in an eightsome, and their toes started tapping out the rhythm as they waited for other couples to join them.
“None. I wish you could take him aside and discover what distresses him so. I’ve never seen him like this, not even when we thought we were washed up after Father died. He seems to get thinner and seedier with every passing day.”
“I shall make it my business to find out.” Freddie had his suspicions: he had seen men look so when their doctor prescribed a dose of mercury, but that of course, was hardly a subject one could discuss with a chap’s sister. Or it could be debts, he supposed. Late nights at the gaming table sometimes had the same effect, as did consumption.
“I wish you will, and let me know immediately what you discover. I am staying with the Macdonalds. You know them?”
“Only vaguely. He’s a pal of Papa’s, so of course I’ve met him, but not since I was a young loon intent on making an ass of myself.”
“So he’ll find you little changed, then.”
Freddie laughed out loud. “You certainly haven’t, Miss Wasp-tongue. How comes it that you are staying with these Macdonalds and not with all of us cousins?”
“Don’t you know about Valentine’s fiancée? Or rather, ex- fiancée.” Lizzie winced. “It’s all deeply uncomfortable, I must tell you. But not now, now you must turn to Aunt Killigrew on your left, and I to dear Uncle John.” The reel commenced and they had no further chance to converse.
Of course, Lizzie’s mention of a fiancée intrigued Freddie no end, but he was not to have the opportunity to quiz her about it that evening. Once he had danced with two aunts and a cousin, Freddie took the opportunity to draw Valentine aside. They entered a masculine preserve where their uncles were deep in talk with brother David on sundry matters of great importance. Freddie took a puff of his cheroot before glancing round the room and shaking his head.
“A dry bunch, ain’t they. Too much talk and not enough port to my mind.”
“I can take you somewhere a little more lively, if you choose. I suppose we must make our farewells to the ladies, but I know that Lizzie is to be taken up by Aunt Killigrew and returned to the Macdonalds. The old girl likes to leave early, so they’ll be on their way soon enough.”
“That might be amusing. I shall be happy to accompany you.”
“Are you up for play this night?”
“I’m always up for play, Val, you know that. Well, perhaps you don’t, since we haven’t crossed paths since the old days at Mountquhidder.”
It was half past eleven when Freddie found himself once again in the freezing Edinburgh night, the cold now intensifying.
“Do you mind a short walk?” asked Valentine.
“It’ll be warmer than any other alternative, I daresay,” replied Freddie and made to follow his cousin, hoping that he wouldn’t be led back towards the Fettered Cockerel. Instead, Valentine led them down George Street and then ducked into a mews behind Princes Street. “It’s very discreet you know.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Not that I know. I’ve only ever heard it referred to as Number Nine.”
They were admitted by a large man on whose pate sat an old-fashioned wig like a cherry on a fairy cake. But the man’s eyes were hollow, his shoulders massive, and he caused Freddie an instant of misgiving, for he seemed to share the build of one of the men who had attacked him earlier.
Once inside, as he bestowed his cloak on a young woman dressed in footman’s livery, Freddie recognized the type of place immediately. It was a combination of a gambling hell and discreet brothel, run by a woman of steely loveliness by the name of Alethea Sutcliff. She greeted Valentine with a speculative smile.
“Good evening, Lieutenant Wemyss.”
“You know I’ve sold out, Mistress Sutcliff.” He was gruff, almost barking at her, but the lady did not flinch, merely baring her teeth much as monkeys do when dealing with an aggressor. “I’ve brought my cousin, Mr. Charteris. Recently up from London. He likes a flutter.” Miss Sutcliff raised her eyebrows in silent enquiry, but Val gave a little shake of his head, and her smile deepened but did not reach her eyes at all which remained like chips of winter sky.
“How charming. Perhaps you will enjoy our faro table?”
Freddie was surprised to find himself unnerved by her. “Is there anywhere I may have a snifter first? We’ve come from such a stuffy evening, I still feel the shadow of our Aunt Killigrew over my shoulder. I cannot go straight to a gaming table with her specter lingering about me.” Miss Sutcliff slipped her hands into the crooks of their elbows and led them down a hallway past several open doors where men deep in play might be seen, accompanied by women who appeared entirely respectable apart from the flimsiness of their dresses.
Freddie was deposited like an unwanted parcel in a room occupied by a slight, dark-eyed child singing operatic arias as two rather older women divested themselves of various articles of dress, accompanied by approving growls from an audience of about fifteen men, some of whom he vaguely recognized. Valentine meanwhile, was hurried away for some urgent purpose of Miss Sutcliff’s. If he was entangled with this termagant, no wonder he was run ragged. Still, it was no hardship to listen to Handel, although the nubile nymphs somewhat interfered with Freddie’s concentration. A waiter came up with a glass of cognac, and he settled himself in his seat.
Chapter 3:
In which Miss Veasey considers Valentine
Encouraged by Lydia Macdonald’s reminder that every evening until Boxing Day was filled with at least one engagement, Hero retired early. Beattie helped her out of her clothes, lamenting the waste of such finery since Mr. Valentine had left so very early, swept off by that disagreeable old party known to all of Edinburgh’s below-stairs society as quite one of the stingiest and most disobliging individuals. Hero reprimanded Beattie. However enticing it might be to malign Mrs. Killigrew, it would not do.
Once she’d dismissed Beattie, Hero found herself still wakeful. She relit the sconces over the writing table, found a fresh nib and settled down to write to Rosamond. She wrote her heart out, as she would have spoken if her cousin had been sitting with her, brushing out her hair and making those sharp little comments that took no prisoners. That was also what she loved about Lizzie, she and Rosamond both said out loud the things that sometimes in her less charitable moments, Hero allowed to cross her mind. They were not vicious, but they were forthright. It would be delicious to be forthright, to speak as she found, never to suffer the platitudes and prattle of one’s acquaintance. But Hero could never bring herself to speak as she found, so she was doomed to nod politely and smile sweetly in response to the inanities she heard, inanities which seemed to increase with every passing day.
Once she’d written to Rosamond, Hero sanded and sealed her letter. Then she took her book and stretched out on the meridienne positioned in front of the fireplace. She gazed at the smoldering remains of the fire in the grate, then leafed through until she had found her place in the third volume of Madame D’Arblay’s Camilla. Rosamond had warned her that the book was interminable, but Hero found that she enjoyed it, for it was like hearing someone talk about one’s friends with insight and compassion as well as a little waspishness.
Soon lost in the travails of the Tyrold family, Hero lost track of time, but it was not very late when she heard a soft scratching at her door. Then Lizzie eased the door open and looked in. When she saw the candles ablaze, she straightened and entered with her customary energy. Hero shifted up the chaise longue and patted the cushion beside her. Lizzie swooped into position, unlaced her dancing slippers and curled up her knees, massaging her toes.
“How glad I am to find you not yet abed.”
“I could not sleep. I found myself wishing that Aunt Lydia had not decreed that I must stay home. I have written to Rosamond and read a good deal of Camilla, but as you can see, I have not rested. How was your evening?”
“Charming, as all such evenings are at the Charteris’. You will like them very much, I am sure of it, although cousin Mary can be a little managing. And cousin Freddie was there, which was an unexpected pleasure. I was sure he would never come north of the Border again, but there he was, and somehow, despite his air of fashion, as jolly as ever. I am in great hopes that he will winkle Val out of his current fit of the mopes.”
An uneasy silence fell. Then, as is the way with such things, both girls began speaking at once. Hero deferred to Lizzie.
“It is not your fault, you must not think that.”
Hero shook her head. “My head tells me that it is not, but in my heart, I wonder. You and I both know what Valentine can be so gallant, so charming. As he was four years since, when we first met. And even last year, before that dreadful Buchan deceived us all so, he was the same. But it’s been a fortnight since I arrived in Edinburgh and I have found him very altered. One moment he is harsh, the next moment he is all attention. He is more changeable than a weathercock and even less predictable. I hope your cousin Freddie is able to discover the cause of this, for I cannot think it is simply that I have failed to fall into his arms as easily as a pear off a tree.”
“If Freddie has overcome his indolence so far as to come to Edinburgh, he can certainly make a push to uncover all of Val’s darkest secrets. I told him as much, but whether he will exert himself is another question.”
Hero turned the subject, for sooner or later, she must confess to Lizzie that she had no intention of accepting any renewed offer from Valentine. She did not have the courage to deal with it. Besides, Christmas and the New Year were always such busy times in Edinburgh, the ideal opportunity for Lizzie to make the acquaintance of a suitable young man. Another fortnight or three weeks could make no significant difference to Valentine. “Is he so very idle, this cousin Freddie?”
“He didn’t used to be. Not as a boy. He was always up to something. But he is a great worry to all the Charteris clan, for since he left university he has cast this way and that but found no gainful occupation. He worked for a little while under Lord Sidmouth and then for Lord Castlereagh and then he gave up any work and has done nothing of note for two years or more.”
“You sound most disapproving. But if his only vice is not to work, he is hardly the only guilty party. Most of our acquaintance do as little. Unless he is massively in debt, gambling away a fortune or flaunting barques of frailty beneath the noses of his family, he does not seem so very wicked.”
Lizzie sighed. “I suppose when you put it like that, he is not. But so many of our friends are engaged in all sorts of activities which bring credit upon them and their families, whether in the military, the church, or as men of affairs. Freddie rather sticks out in his failure to stick at anything. That is why I am so surprised to see him in Edinburgh. He’s been avoiding his family and his true friends because he knows we would all be asking him uncomfortable questions about his intentions for the future. It is all very well being rich and young and able to indulge one’s fancies, but it is so contrary to Freddie’s nature. Perhaps that is what upsets us all so.”
Hero could not help feeling a twinge of sympathy for this unfortunate cousin: she had fended off so many tiresome and intrusive queries herself that she fully understood the temptation of withdrawing altogether from any arena where these might arise. It seemed, however, unlikely that this particular young man would be able to influence Valentine, except to laze away his time in empty pursuits.
“Perhaps your Freddie will find a sense of purpose in saving Valentine.”
“Perhaps.” Lizzie rose and gave Hero a goodnight kiss. “I mustn’t keep poor Agnes up any longer. Goodnight, my dear.”
If either girl had chanced to see Freddie at that very moment, sitting in Miss Sutcliff’s den of iniquity entirely unsure of what to do next, they would not have held out very great hopes for Valentine’s salvation. Freddie had now sat through the unveiling of four nubile women and numerous songs of an increasingly lewd and rollicking nature, all issuing from the mouth of the weary little child in a tight treble that Freddie suspected would be worn to shreds before much longer. There was no sign of Valentine. Miss Sutcliff had not given the impression that she and Valentine would be giving way to passionate intimacy, but Freddie was reluctant to seek them out in case he interrupted just such a scene. Yet to sit tight and watch this painful burlesque was unbearable. He stood, as if stretching his legs and made for the door. No one seemed to notice him. He strolled out of the room and down the corridor. He headed away from the gambling rooms, avoiding the stairs which would lead only to bedrooms.