Bad Miss Bennet Read online

  ‘Chicken balls, my dear!’ he declaimed, to my great embarrassment. ‘You must try some, they are effective for both men and women!’ Not content with behaving in this gauche and vulgar manner, he urged our neighbours at the table to join in. Cries of ‘chicken balls, balls, balls!’ could be heard around us as more offal was consumed with suggestive comments and leers.

  During a quieter moment I was obliged to listen to the elaborately painted harridan on my right who complained bitterly about the state of society in general. With a glance of contempt at my patron’s nodding head she asked me why I was consorting with such ‘a poor, drawling, cold-hearted, crazy-headed creature’. I assured her that Mr Getheridge was quite unlike her description and she turned away with a sneer. I concluded that her family must owe the bank a considerable sum or had been refused a loan.

  To reduce my embarrassment I fixed my eyes on a wonderful concoction in the middle of the table – a huge apple meringue hedgehog with almond spikes. I deflected my companion’s attempts to feed me the chicken balls with some difficulty, saying that only the apple meringue would pass my lips. He hid his disappointment and procured a dish for me. I was astonished at the speed at which the vast array of food was consumed by the guests, especially those at the top table. I was glad when we eventually rose and followed the royal party from the table, my escort having eaten enough for the pair of us.

  A crowd entered the breakfast room where the gaming took place and I followed them, having dispatched Mr Getheridge to search for a conveniently missing glove. I insinuated myself into a likely looking group and embarked on a bout of vingt-et-un. I concluded the game with two hundred pounds in hand but my favourite card trick was almost discovered by a sharp-eyed fellow who was only distracted when I accidentally poured red wine over his immaculate lap.

  At this point the heavy, perfumed air, the heat and the fumes of the wine caused me to mistrust my own eyes. I became convinced that one of the uniformed retainers bore a startling resemblance to Jerry Sartain. I blinked slowly, and when I opened my eyes I found a gentleman seated across the table was signalling to me in a coy but meaningful manner. I indicated with my fan that I was willing to speak with him and he escorted me from the room. There was no sign of Mr Getheridge.

  The gentleman’s intentions were obvious as he led me along a corridor into the bare, half finished part of the pavilion. I protested that I did not wish to dally on a building site when my unknown admirer turned abruptly towards a panelled wall and pressed a switch. The panel opened revealing a narrow, dark and uninviting staircase. I recoiled but my companion seized me by the waist and urged me forward.

  ‘This staircase leads to the King’s Head Inn. We will not be disturbed there, my dear. The prince had it constructed for that purpose.’ I broke free and gave the man a hard shove causing him to topple down the stairs with a loud yell. I closed the panel and sped off realising that I had solved the mystery of the noises at the inn. Selena would be gratified.

  Immediately I lost my way, taking many turnings in search of the revels before reaching a small anteroom. A door bearing the Royal Arms led into a larger chamber. The door was ajar and I could hear voices. I applied myself to the opening and saw Mr Getheridge talking in an agitated manner with the prince’s private secretary. I could only catch a few words but the name of Adam Von Mecks was mentioned several times.

  At that moment the sound of approaching footsteps forced me to flee again. Once more I rushed blindly along into the uninhabited section of the pavilion. As I turned back and ran around corners I could hear music in the distance. I must be heading in the right direction. My heart was pounding and I was becoming quite damp from my exertions. My hairdo would be ruined. It would collapse like one of Monsieur Careme’s sugar confections after the prince had prodded it with his fat finger.

  I slowed down and almost collided with a footman who appeared from nowhere. Dizzy with emotion and relief I seized the man’s lapels and begged him to conduct me back to the state rooms.

  ‘Are you in trouble again, my dear?’ the footman remarked as I looked up at the sardonic smile of Jerry Sartain.

  I gasped out, ‘So it was you! Whatever are you doing here?’

  ‘More to the point, what are you doing here? The arrangement was that you would remain in the gaming room earning money for both of us.’ I have been forced to follow you as you leapt around like a March hare.’ I knew I should not allow him to speak to me in this fashion but, against my will, I heard myself meekly apologising and explaining my adventures up to that moment.

  ‘Are you going to tell me why you are posing as a footman?’

  ‘To keep an eye on you, of course; you cannot be trusted not to get yourself into ridiculous predicaments.’ I did not believe this explanation for one minute. I wondered if he knew about the corpse on the sofa but he made no mention of it.

  ‘It is not a pleasant situation for me,’ he went on. ‘The footmen sleep nine to a room in folding beds and the atmosphere is far from fresh, I assure you.’ He took my reticule from my unresisting hand and removed the money. With some reluctance, I thought, he returned a portion of it to me.

  I smiled at him as he led me back to the state rooms. ‘The livery suits you well.’ He gave me a peck on the cheek and pushed me gently towards the gaming room.

  What a fool I was, simpering and complimenting him like a love-sick swain. Our positions have reversed. I was paying court to him and he knew it very well. I must take care that I do not propose marriage to him. This penchant for penniless villains must be overcome at all costs.

  As if summoned, Mr Getheridge appeared from the gaming room, mopping his brow and looking gloomy once again. He did not comment on my prolonged absence. I wondered if he had even noticed.

  ‘Ah, there you are my dear. Shall we take some cold drink and a little fresh air in the gardens? The heat is becoming oppressive.’ Indeed, the hot, jasmine laden air was playing havoc with my toilette and my constitution. Unfortunately, the contrast of the cold air outside was so great that we were soon shivering and retreating inside once more.

  By this time my patron was so overcome with anxiety and depression that he spoke of retiring to Bath for a while. I realised that the Von Mecks affair must have affected him profoundly if he was contemplating such a drastic step. I had it on good authority that Bath had become dreary beyond measure in recent times. He appeared to want me to accompany him. Jerry would not like that at all.

  ‘How long do you intend to remain in Bath, sir? Is it possible for the bank to manage without your presence?’ At the mention of the bank Getheridge’s face fell even more. He passed a hand across his eyes and murmured to himself, ‘The affairs of the world are pressing upon me. I need to get away for while; I must rest, perhaps take the waters.’ I recoiled in horror. To be in Bath would be ghastly enough after London and Brighton, but to take the vile tasting waters in the company of the elderly, scrofulous, broken down dregs of society was too awful to contemplate.

  I gave an unenthusiastic nod in answer to his remarks. It occurred to me that the inestimable Adelaide might have heard something concerning l’affaire Von Mecks and my patron’s part in it. I had a sudden yearning to be back in my bed, alone, if possible. The surroundings of the Royal Pavilion and my delightful gown notwithstanding, I was fatigued in the extreme. At least I had fifty guineas to show for the evening.

  ‘I find that I have an excruciating headache,’ I told him. In truth, I was wilting like one of Careme’s carved celery sticks at the end of the evening. Mr Getheridge agreed to summon the coach and seemed happy enough to deposit me at the door of the inn. He again complained of feeling unwell and I left him contemplating the mournful pleasures of the Bath spa waters.

  Chapter Nine

  I found Selena and Miles ensconced in my chamber, being served refreshments by Adelaide despite the late hour. As I sank down on the bed I noticed that my friend was in a state of great excitement which she was endeavouring to suppress with little succe
ss. I was mortified that she did not enquire about my evening. It is not every day that one is invited to a royal levée.

  ‘You will never guess what has happened in your absence, Lydia,’ she burst out.

  ‘Never guess,’ echoed Miles.

  ‘It’s true, madam, you’ll never guess,’ chorused Adelaide. I felt peeved and tired.

  ‘Have you all gone mad?’ I raised my voice in an unladylike manner. ‘Of course I cannot guess. I was elsewhere at the time – in the Royal Pavilion as a guest of the Prince Regent,’ I added for good measure. They brushed this aside.

  ‘We have solved the mystery of the cellar,’ Selena rushed on. ‘It is droll beyond words. There is a secret passage from the inn to somewhere, I don’t know where as yet. During the evening, just as we were having supper, a great noise came from under our feet.’

  ‘The innkeeper turned the colour of old liver sausage,’ Miles contributed. ‘He rushed off to investigate and came back with this queer old party in fancy dress, knee breeches and such, all covered in dust and in a fine temper. The innkeeper sent him off in a carriage and pretended it was nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘I know all about that,’ I said, watching their faces fall. ‘Now if you will excuse me I am exhausted and must go to my rest.’

  On the following morning we were so preoccupied with moving our belongings into Halfcrown House that I did not have an opportunity to speak to anyone until lunchtime. We assembled in the dining room and ate a picnic lunch obtained from a nearby hostelry and pie shop.

  As we ate I told my friends about my evening at the Royal Pavilion. Selena was agog for information about the gowns, the jewellery and the general ambience. Miles wanted to hear about the swells who milled around the Prince Regent. I did my best to entertain them while Adelaide’s ears twitched in the background.

  When I reached the part about my escapade in the corridors and the secret passageway to the inn, Selena almost fell off her chair with excitement. Of course, I did not mention my meeting with Jerry. I called to Adelaide and asked her if she had heard the name of Von Mecks mentioned anywhere. She shook her head saying that she had been too occupied with her duties concerning the move to go about the town. Selena frowned in an effort to remember something.

  ‘I caught a glimpse of a strange looking woman at the inn after you left, Lydia.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Surely you saw her, Miles? The creature had a hoisted up look about her. Her eyes were bloodshot and her lips parched. She looked as if her shoes were too tight.’

  Miles seemed doubtful, saying that the description might have applied to him after a night on the town. Selena turned to me impatiently. ‘Miles can never remember anything. The strange thing is that the woman was at the inn one moment and then she disappeared. I am sure she did not leave by the front entrance. She must have gone into the secret room.’

  ‘One of the prince’s floozies,’ Miles added. I agreed that this was intriguing, if not altogether surprising, given the prince’s known preferences, but it told us nothing about the murder of Von Mecks and my patron’s connection with it.

  ‘Getheridge is up to something, mark my words.’ Miles tried to look solemn for a moment. ‘Up to his ears in it, that fellow … not a gentleman, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘But he’s a banker!’ Selena and I chorused. Miles agreed that money counted for a great deal. The prince spent lavishly and his only daughter had just been married with great splendour.

  ‘They say that Prince Leopold hadn’t a penny when he married Princess Charlotte,’ Miles added. ‘When the Archbishop came to that bit in the marriage service about “For richer, for poorer”, Charlotte laughed out loud.’ Seeing our baffled expressions he added, ‘My point is that money – or the lack of it – is at the root of everything.’

  Selena agreed that it certainly was in his case.

  Adelaide begged leave to speak at this point saying that she knew someone who might ferret out the truth of this matter, ‘Being a lowlife hiself, in a manner of speaking, and acquainted with others of the same ilk.’ She gave me a meaningful look and I blushed furiously. I collected myself sufficiently to mutter an agreement.

  Miles conveniently changed the subject remarking that the house across the Steyne from our own belonged to Mrs Fitzherbert, the prince’s former mistress, the mother of his children – and his real wife, according to gossip.

  ‘What has she to do with this?’ Selena asked.

  ‘She receives Getheridge and half the beau monde of Brighton. I saw some of them arriving this morning.’ It was agreed that we would contrive to visit the lady as soon as possible. Adelaide would talk to the staff at the Royal Pavilion.

  At this point Miles, having finished his meat pie, sprang to the window exclaiming that someone should keep watch on the Fitzherbert house.

  ‘As you are so interested, I can survey the place from here. This window is an excellent vantage point.’

  Selena said she hoped that he would not take to loitering in alleyways. Miles looked aggrieved, saying that he was not some Johnny Raw up from the country. ‘Surveillance was part of my role as a military man, you know.’

  My friend and I immediately decided to leave a card at Mrs Fitzherbert’s home. We put on our bonnets and crossed the Steyne, accompanied by Adelaide. As we mounted the steps to the house I saw Miles watching us from the window and waving encouragement. It occurred to me that my highwayman friend might well decide to keep watch on Halfcrown House itself. The alleyway afforded an excellent view.

  As we retraced our steps a carriage rolled up. An unprepossessing woman wearing too many furs and furbelows descended and was admitted to the Fitzherbert residence. Selena clutched my arm excitedly. ‘That’s her, the woman from the inn last night. Who is she?’

  The inestimable Adelaide was quick with the answer. ‘That is Maria Bertram, ma’am. She’s well known in Brighton.’ I was horrified. She was none other than Mr Getheridge’s long standing mistress – the fearsome woman! It appeared that everyone was invited to the Fitzherbert house. All except Lydia Wickham.

  ‘We have only just arrived, my dear,’ said Selena in answer to my sudden howl of outrage.

  We rushed back to the house and Miles confirmed that he had witnessed the arrival of a strange-looking woman. ‘The plot thickens!’ he gurgled with predictable relish.

  Selena said she had one of her headaches and must lie down at once – always her reaction to a problem. I retired to the window seat in preparation for a long, tiresome afternoon and evening. Mr Getheridge had not called or sent a message. There were no invitations on the mantelpiece. Brighton was not taking us to her bosom.

  Adelaide announced that she too needed to retire promptly. The meat pie at lunch had been questionable and she was experiencing an attack of the wherry-go-nimbles. I sighed and picked up a copy of Pamela: or Virtue Rewarded.

  After two hours of this occupation, varied by staring out of the window, I was startled by a loud knocking at the front door. Several moments passed, followed by renewed knocking. Eventually, Adelaide appeared, looking wan, but collected.

  ‘There is a messenger here, ma’am, from Mrs Fitzherbert across the way. She urgently requests that you and Mrs Caruthers take tea with her this afternoon.’ I sprang from my seat with such alacrity that I almost knocked Adelaide against the wall. She turned green and rushed from the room so that I was obliged to answer the messenger myself, saying that we would be delighted to accept the invitation.

  I rushed to rouse Selena from her bed where she was not sleeping at all but reading a story by Mrs Thrale. We hurriedly prepared ourselves and left the house. As my maid was in no condition to accompany us, Miles escorted us to the door of Mrs Fitzherbert’s residence.

  The house was spacious and well-appointed and the lady herself was most affable in her manner. One or two gentlemen of the highest fashion, a type known as Corinthians, bowed to us as they were leaving. A young woman of my own age, dressed in blue muslin, also left the room quietly.
I wondered if she could be Maryanne Smythe, the unacknowledged daughter of Mrs Fitzherbert and the prince.

  I had a few moments in which to observe the lady. Although advanced in years, she bore the remains of the beauty that had captivated the Prince Regent. Her large hazel eyes and excellent skin were still in evidence and her once blonde hair, now grey, was still silky and fine. She had gained a great deal of weight in her middle age. The watered silk of her gown strained across her ample bosom and her ill-fitting false teeth clacked somewhat alarmingly as she patted the seat of a striped silk chaise longue and urged us to sit comfortably with her.

  ‘Now, my dears, tell me everything!’ she commanded. We were somewhat startled to hear these words issuing from the mouth of the woman who would be, if justice prevailed, the next queen of England. Selena and I stared at each other and then at our hostess.

  ‘We … we cannot imagine,’ I stammered, ‘to what you are referring, madam.’

  Mrs F laughed, leaned forward and patted my knee.

  ‘Very little happens in this town that does not reach my ears.’ I was impressed. Her network of spies must be formidable. I imagined a whole army of Adelaides stationed below stairs. As we drank tea and nibbled ginger leaves she set about enlightening us.

  ‘Mr Getheridge took tea here a few days ago. I thought he was not looking at all well. I hear his affairs at the bank are proceeding badly.’ My ears pricked up at this. ‘And, of course, there is his connection to the Prince Regent who is indebted to him.’ She leaned forward and patted my hand. ‘Take care, my dear. I fear it will not end well for him.’

  I almost choked on my ginger leaf. How could she know of my connection with Getheridge? I remembered the look on Mary Bertram’s face and shuddered.

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Fitzherbert continued, ‘the prince is indebted to half the merchants of London, but the news about Mr Getheridge’s affairs is very worrying.’ Selena came to life at this point. She reminded us about the matter of Von Mecks.