The Riddle of the Deplorable Dandy
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Also by Patricia Veryan
Copyright
For Fred—Ever Faithful
Prologue
March 1749
The cold wave, refusing to roll on, tightened its grip on western Europe and gave no indication of imminent departure. Berlin was icy and depressed, London was frosty and a deeper grey than usual, and even lovely Paris shivered and was wrapped in gloom. As dusk fell the crowds on the boulevards and avenues of Montmartre thinned rapidly, and the rattle of wheels, the cries of street vendors, the hurrying footsteps quieted as Parisians made their way to home and fireside.
By the time it was full dark a certain narrow avenue not far from the river was deserted, only the sporadic whine of a bitter wind disturbing the silence.
A sedan chair turned the corner. The bearers, muffled to the ears, proceeded at a trot along the cobbles to halt before a tall house whose windows showed no gleam of light.
The stout chairman lowered the rear poles, rubbed his cold hands and peered at the house uncertainly. “You are sure of this, my Jules?”
His companion stamped his feet up and down, his breath visible in pale little clouds as he responded, “Of a certainty I am sure. It is perhaps that our gentleman is late.”
“Or dead.”
“Now why should he be dead? Have you ever a cheerful thought, Pierre, I vow I will fall down in a fit! Go you, and knock on the door before we turn to ice in this beast of a wind.”
Pierre started towards the house, grumbling that since Jules had taken the order, Jules should collect their customer. His sacrificial effort was not needed, however. The door of the house swung open, and although no light shone from within, a man ran lightly down the steps, his cloak billowing in a wind gust. Without a sound the door was closed behind him.
The prospective customer paused to glance swiftly up and down the avenue. One hand resting lightly on the hilt of his small-sword, he asked a low-voiced, “You are to convey Monsieur Vance?”
“That is so, monsieur.” Pierre’s uneasiness faded. The cultured voice had a faint English accent, the dim glow from a nearby flambeau illuminated a lean, well-featured face, and the flying cloak revealed a coat fashioned by a fine tailor. The gleam of a ruby in the laces at the young gentleman’s throat did much to reassure the chairman and he managed a smile as he ushered his customer to the chair.
Monsieur Vance bent to the low door that was held open for him.
“Hold!”
A sudden flurry of movement.
The stamp of boots.
A rush of uniformed figures across the pave.
A dismayed shout from Jules.
Monsieur Vance sprang back and whirled about. The sword emerged in a blurred flash from his scabbard.
Caught in a maelstrom of flying steel, fierce shouts and demands that the “treacherous spy” surrender, the bewildered Pierre thought a numbed, ‘Hussars! Help!’
Jules howled, “Come, you fool! Move!”
Pierre moved faster than he had done for several years. Despite his panic, he retained sufficient of his wits to snatch up the poles. The sedan chair was borne to the corner at the gallop and disappeared into the night.
Meanwhile, the struggle in the avenue grew ever more fierce. The light from the flambeau reflected in half a dozen flying blades, the cold air rang to the clash of steel on steel. A trooper went reeling back, his sabre falling as he clutched a bloodied wrist and muttered, “He knows how to fight, this one!” The reluctant admission was well founded; in view of the hopeless odds it was remarkable that the Englishman was still able to defend himself and there could be no doubt but that he was a splendid swordsman.
As the deadly seconds slipped past, oaths of frustration were snarled and tempers became heated, aware of which the officer in charge of the small troop howled, “On no account is the spy to be slain!”
Even as he spoke the sabre of a powerfully built sergeant struck home. The Englishman staggered and went to his knees. The sergeant, elated, whipped up his weapon for the finishing stroke, then swore as it was beaten aside.
“You are without the ears, perhaps?” roared the Captain, who had deflected his blade.
The spy crumpled to lie inert on the cobblestones.
“One of you men—see to him,” the Captain commanded. “And if he is dead, you, Sergeant, will be fortunate to become a private!”
A corporal bent over the motionless victim and announced with a sigh of relief that he was still breathing.
His fiery gaze transfixing the dismayed sergeant, the Captain snapped, “Search him!”
Eager to make amends, the sergeant obeyed but ventured to ask for what he was to search.
“A letter, you fool! A letter of great import. And you had best find it!”
Going through the Englishman’s pockets swiftly, the sergeant sprang up in triumph to announce that he had found the precious document.
“Good!” The Captain snatched the folded paper only to swear and fling it into the hapless sergeant’s face. “Dolt! This is some kind of sailing schedule. Does it look to have been penned by La Pompadour?”
At this point a lieutenant rode up and joined the small group. Dismounting, he called hopefully, “You have it, sir?”
“We do not,” growled the Captain.
The sergeant announced miserably that the injured man carried no other paper.
Glaring at him, the Captain failed to see a tall gentleman who came around the corner hurriedly only to jerk to a halt as he took in the scene, then jump back and out of sight.
The sergeant and two men were ordered to go into the house and find something to use for bandages, then search for anything that looked to be a letter. “And if they won’t open the door—kick it in,” commanded the Captain harshly.
The front door proved to be unlocked and the hussars stamped inside. The front windows were soon aglow with lamplight and a moment later a trooper emerged with some torn strips of linen, and the announcement that the house was deserted.
“As I expected,” said the Captain. “Get back to the search. You, Corporal, see what you can do for this fellow.”
Watching the crude medical efforts, the Lieutenant stepped back a pace to ask softly why the missing letter was so important.
The Captain glanced around and, lowering his voice, hissed, “It is from the Maitresse en titre. The confounded woman is at her meddling again!”
The Lieutenant frowned. “From—whom, Luc?”
“La Pompadour! The King’s mistress, you idiot! One would suppose she could be content to please King Louis and live in pampered luxury. But is she? No! Always she must busy herself with affairs that do not concern her. Sending off letters to the Generals, or to the Co
mte de Clermont.”
“But—why? What does she hope to gain?”
“Power, of course. Though the good Lord knows she has too much of that already! She plots and schemes and connives behind the scenes. It is said she is convinced she will be the means to bring about a greater France. More likely she’ll contrive to drive us all to our deaths!”
The Lieutenant shook his head and looked down at the casualty. “And—this one is her accomplice, think you?”
“No. The poor fool is a soldier of fortune merely, who was so unwise as to carry one of her letters.”
“Which we have not found.”
“Not yet. But he either knows where it is, or knows the contents. Heaven help him!”
“Ah. You mean he will be questioned.”
“Of a certainty.”
“From the look of him they must needs be careful, else he’s like to die before they can make him talk.”
The Captain grunted his agreement. “They will wait,” he said. “My Minister means to know what webs the ambitious lady is weaving this time. Our foolish spy will not be allowed to die until the Minister he is satisfied.” He shook his head and muttered, “A pity that he must die so young. He fought right bravely, but in the wrong cause. Now why must you purse up your mouth in that doubting fashion, Philippe? Is it perhaps that you think our Minister’s is the wrong cause? If that is in your mind—”
“No, no!” The Lieutenant said hesitantly, “It is only that I wonder sometimes if ever a soldier knows what he is really fighting for, and whether history will look back and judge his cause to have been justified.”
The Captain stepped closer and rapped him on the chest. Speaking very softly he said, “It is as well we are friends, Philippe, for your words might be misunderstood by others. Such thoughts belong to a lawyer rather than a soldier. It is not for us to question. Or to know. Only to do whatever circumstances and our superiors command. A soldier has need of his sword and his courage. For thoughts, he has no need!”
* * *
The morning dawned clear and with a pale sunlight that drew many citizens of Paris into the open air. The boulevards were brightened by the colourful gowns of ladies at their shopping, the absence of a breeze allowed hoods to be discarded, and plumes waved over elaborately styled wigs. Sedan chairs bustled about with their aristocratic cargoes. Weighed down with band boxes and packages, lackeys and maids followed their ladies.
In mid-afternoon luxurious carriages rumbled over the cobbles, gallant gentlemen displayed the successes of their tailors, their horsemanship and their fine thoroughbreds, while some there were who chose to walk out with friends, thanks to this welcome change in the weather.
Among the pedestrians Sir Brian Beech strolled beside his son. Of average height, Sir Brian was only in his late forties, but already inclining towards portliness. With the aid of a corset he wore his garments well, and they were of the very latest fashion: the foam of lace at his throat, the bunches of ribbons at his knees, a profusion of jewels in cravat, on plump fingers and the buckles of his high-heeled shoes proclaimed a decided tendency to dandyism. His son, Conrad, was tall with a loose-limbed athletic stride that he was obliged to adjust to his father’s mincing amble. Both exuded an air of prosperity, but there was little family resemblance between them. Save for a pair of large, rather soulful brown eyes, Sir Brian’s manner was affected but mild and lacking distinction. Conrad was judged handsome with his thickly curling brown hair and eyes of a sparkling hazel shade. Today, they wore powder, and Sir Brian affected a long amber cane which he wielded with a graceful flourish as he urged his son to have patience.
Conrad responded, “I am trying, sir. But—what did you mean when you said it is a sad circumstance? Do you refer to the fact that my cousin became a soldier of fortune?”
“Of course. And more to the point that he fell into La Pompadour’s toils with the result—” Sir Brian bowed respectfully and wished an opulent dowager good day. “With the result,” he continued, “that his neck is now to meet Madame Guillotine.”
“Is it, by Jove! Are you sure of that? I’ve heard nought of it. How has the Pompadour wrought his doom?”
“Keep your voice down, my boy,” cautioned Sir Brian. “There are ears everywhere—as I should know, since I employ many of ’em! To good purpose, else I’d not have learned that my gallant nephew was only last evening cut down and hauled off to be questioned.”
“Surely it does not follow that the guillotine is inevitable? He may well recover and return to England.”
“For that of course, we must pray. Ah, here is your young friend Monsieur Le Tellier. Smile, my son, and greet him fondly.”
Conrad’s smile and greeting were exemplary and they resumed their walk only to encounter Madame Louvois exercising her little dog and followed by a magnificent footman. Conrad swore under his breath but joined his sire in admiring Madame’s charming walking dress and waving away her apologies when the ageing and ill-tempered “Pom-Pom” snapped at Conrad’s caressing hand. “Wretched little cur,” he growled when they had left Madame’s locality. “I loathe poodles! Father, for heaven’s sake, tell me. Why should Vance Clayton be executed?”
“Because, dear boy, that very busy beauty La Pompadour is rumoured to now favour an alliance with Austria.”
“Gad! That would be a turn-about!”
“True, and is bitterly opposed by several ministers, but the wretched slut has become powerful and the wise tread carefully around her. I have learnt that your hapless cousin carried one of her letters. Probably to the Comte de Clermont. Or Voltaire, perhaps. Those who oppose her are doubtless hoping that this letter might be the means to bring Madame la Marquise, as she calls herself, tumbling down.”
Conrad said thoughtfully, “And my poor cousin with her.”
“As you say. Sad, is it not? When you think that poor Vance sold his sword in a noble attempt to save his family from destitution.”
“The Claytons are not quite destitute, are they, sir?”
“Well on the road, my son. Well on the road. Poor dear Vance. Such a fine boy.”
Conrad sighed. “And only think, he is the heir to a great fortune. Are you quite sure of that, father? From what I’ve heard of Mama’s eldest brother—”
“Ah, he was a wild one, was your Uncle Fulton. Who’d ever have believed that he would have sufficient wit to amass a fortune by importing spices? But so it is, child. Fate is indeed a capricious lady!”
1
“Did you hear that, Godmama?” Listening intently, Elspeth Clayton tilted her head. It was a pretty head: light-brown hair curled softly about delicate features and sent little tendrils to flirt with the small ears; the face was oval in shape, the cheekbones high, the nose straight, and the mouth full-lipped and generous. Too generous perhaps, and combining with a resolute jaw-line to defy the current edict demanding (according to Miss Clayton) that all females must appear witless and helpless. She considered herself to be neither witless nor helpless. But if she could not claim the appellation ‘Beauty,’ her figure was shapely, her outlook on life was buoyant and cheerful, and although at the perilous age of two and twenty she was still unmarried, she was not without several admirers who pronounced her very lovely indeed.
Madame Martha Elspeth Colbert, reclining on a rose velvet chaise in the cozy parlour of her fashionable London house, and ostensibly reading a history book, had fallen into a gentle doze. Startled, she jerked upright exclaiming, “Eh? Hear what? There is this wretched wind, of course, but save for that I hear nothing. It is, child, that you are not yet accustomed to London’s clatters and clamours. Indeed, ’tis fortunate that when your dear mama allowed you to visit the metropolis you were sent to me. South Audley Street is a relatively peaceful thoroughfare, and this house is, my clever brother assures me, of solid construction, so that if I cannot offer you the peace of your country cottage in Wales, you are more peaceful here than are many of London’s inhabitants.”
“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” agre
ed Elspeth, hurrying to the window and peering down into the street. “I am most grateful that you invited me to share your beautiful home, and I truly appreciate our location. It is just that I thought I heard the doorbell.”
Madame Martha settled back on the chaise and stretched forth a hand to the box of comfits on a small nearby table. A charming if rather too plump lady who retained her good looks although she was past fifty, she had fallen in love with the dashing young Monsieur Maurice Colbert while on a visit to Paris some thirty years since, and married him after a shockingly whirlwind courtship. She had not lost touch with her English friends and family, however, and two years ago had returned to London a wealthy widow. She had been welcomed by many former schoolmates, including her lifelong friend, Dora Clayton, and her daughter, to whom Madame stood as Godmother. Madame Colbert was well liked in London Town, and since she was a comely lady of good-natured and generous disposition, her tendency to foolishness was regarded with tolerant amusement and she was seldom without an invitation to some social function.
Now, nibbling a piece of Turkish Delight, she said rather indistinctly, “With all the bluster and howls this wind is creating I would be surprised indeed if you could have heard the bell. Besides, it is too late for a morning call, and too early for an afternoon visit, so—”
She was interrupted by a footman who entered soft-footed and, announcing that a gentleman had called, proffered a silver salver.
Madame took up the card and frowned at it. “Drew?” she muttered. “I think I have not the acquaintance of anyone named—”
“Nicholas!” exclaimed Elspeth, clapping her hands delightedly. “He is my brother’s very best friend, Godmama, and will have news of Vance I am sure, for they went to Paris together! We have known him forever. He is a year older than Vance and Papa used to say he was a good influence because although he is such a young fellow he is a proper sobersides. But he is the nicest boy. May I go down, please?”
Madame Martha refused this request, however, desiring instead that Mr. Drew be shown up to the parlour and that refreshments be served. “It is a most inappropriate hour to pay a call,” she grumbled, sitting up and straightening her gown. “But if he is a friend of your family, of course, we must receive him. I take it he is well born?”