Beth arrived at Belvedere’s Tearooms at half-past seven that evening, in the yellow-and-black chaise that had awaited her at Henry Topweather’s door. By coincidence, the coachman was Billy Pointer, a post boy from the Swan, whose acquaintance she had made earlier in the day when admiring a red chariot for sale in the inn yard. He was a former jockey, lean, likeable and amiably monkey-faced, and boasted of being the best driver in London, a claim she thought justified as he skilfully wove the chaise through the crush to draw up right outside the brilliantly illuminated tearooms. A footman hastened to lower the rung for her to alight, and as she stepped down to the pavement she felt perfectly attired for her role. She had purloined some of Lady Harcotleigh’s wardrobe, an emerald green silk gown with a scooped neckline, a high-collared daffodil-yellow silk spencer, and a wide-brimmed openwork hat in the same emerald green as the gown, tied on with wired yellow ribbons. After a great deal of endeavour she had achieved an acceptable knot in her hair, and was satisfied she looked her part. It was wrong to wear garments that weren’t yet hers, but she told herself that soon everything that Madame de Sichel had sent to the Swan would be paid for, right down to the very last ribbon and silk flower. She was prepared for the evening in another way too, having been provided by Topweather with several thin canvas bags folded inside her reticule. They would be needed for all the winnings Topweather confidently predicted. She spoke anxiously to Billy. ‘You will wait for me, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will, ma’am,’ he answered in his cheerful London accent. ‘Don’t you fret, I’ll be here when you leave, and later I’m to take you back to the Swan as well.’
The doors of the tearooms were decorated in honour of the victory at Waterloo. Arrangements of flags and flowers flanked the entrance, and an arch of moss and laurel leaves spanned overhead. The people arriving here tonight were the cream of society, dukes, earls, duchesses and countesses, and all other ranks of the aristocracy. Dandies strolled toward the tearooms, some accompanied by fashionable ladies, some walking in loud drawling groups. Carriages of distinction thronged the street, and the drawl of superior voices filled the air, some so affected as to resemble the braying of donkeys. She was a little worried about attending on her own, and gladly tagged on to a group of ladies from the carriage behind hers. There was a deafening racket of conversation inside, and no one noticed as she left the ladies and walked alone down the long hallway. So many people crowded the staircase to the main tearoom on the first floor that it took some time to ascend, but at last she found herself in a lofty chamber with west-facing windows that caught the extraordinary prism-hued dazzle of the early evening sky.
There was a dais at the far end, where an imposing long-case clock stood against the wall and the gentlemen in charge of the betting were seated at a table. She queued to put down a considerable bet in the names of Harrison and Connor of Hampstead, and Alder of Scarborough, and was given three betting slips that she took to a small table in a corner. Her mind was racing and she felt a little sick, because at the very last moment she’d impulsively parted with all her remaining guineas. She was either the greatest of fools or the wisest of owls, and tried not to think of it as she sat back to watch London’s ton. Several times she encountered eyes that were quickly averted. Did any of them belong to someone Topweather sent to keep watch on her? The minutes ticked by, the room was now a press, although of Lord St Clair there was not a whisker. Clearly he did not wish to risk a public humiliation. As the clock began to chime eight, the chattering died away and the sound of running footsteps was heard on the staircase. A breathless footman in a white wig and gold livery appeared, holding a sealed note aloft as a path was made for him to reach the dais, where an elderly gentleman in grey velvet broke the seal and read. Then he glanced around the sea of impatient faces. ‘I have to tell you that Mr Justice Baynsdon finds … er, finds for Lady St Clair on every count, subject to an investigation into her ladyship’s legitimacy.’ The result was exactly as Topweather had said. There were gasps and groans, but Beth felt almost faint with excitement. She had just won almost 11,000 guineas for herself! Her fingers tightened over the precious betting slips as she got up to make her way through the suddenly noisy room. She was not alone in having wagered upon the exact wording of the verdict, for two young noblemen whooped with delight as they waved their slips at the presiding gentlemen. Beth soon found herself being jostled as the beau monde swarmed around the dais.
At last she tendered her slips, they were examined and approved, and bundles of banknotes were pushed toward her. She managed to cram it all into her reticule and the canvas bags, and then left hurriedly. Behind her the two young noblemen began to brandish their winnings tauntingly. Their gloating mirth was cut short when one of Belvedere’s famous cream cakes flew through the air and hit the shorter of them on his pointed nose. Then more cakes rained, and the ladies in the room squealed with delight as they joined the commotion.
Beth emerged thankfully to the warm evening air, lengthening shadows and glorious sky, and found Billy waiting about fifty yards along the street. As she climbed thankfully into the chaise, bets were already being laid in Belvedere’s as to how many cream cakes would be thrown before the riot was brought under control. Soon she was on her way back to Easterden Street, carefully separating her winnings from the rest. She had counted with scrupulous care, making sure she did not take so much as a farthing from the vast amounts won by Topweather and his partner. Sitting back at last, she marvelled that she now had the 11,000 guineas in her reticule. She could pay Madame de Sichel, and then go to the Dower House to live well on the remainder. How unbelievably different things had been only two days ago, when she’d left her hiding place by the boundary wall at Tremoille House, to get to the woods before Sir Guy Valmer’s carriage.
As the chaise drew up outside Topweather’s premises, she saw a berlin drawn up by a lamppost further along the street. Mr Justice Baynsdon, perchance? The door opened next to her and Topweather’s bloated face peered in. ‘So, Mrs Alder, I trust the evening went well for us?’ he said, his eyes gleaming as he saw the bulging canvas bags on the seat opposite her.
‘As you can see, it went very well indeed, sir,’ she replied, ‘and I trust that this finalizes our association?’
‘If that is your wish, but there could be other nights as profitable as this; they happen from time to time.’ His hot gaze was fixed on the curve of her breasts.
‘I want it to end here, Mr Topweather.’ A sixth sense made her glance swiftly out of the chaise’s tiny rear window. A green carriage came slowly around a corner into Easterden Street, and if she was not mistaken Dickon’s solid figure was at the ribbons! Her breath caught and she looked swiftly at Topweather again. ‘Well, I have completed my side of the bargain, and so bid you farewell.’
‘Look, it’s foolish to abandon what can clearly be a profitable association!’
Her frightened eyes were on the approaching carriage, and she slammed the door and called out to Billy to drive on just as Guy’s horses passed the window. Then Dickon came into view, but to her relief Billy roused the chaise team into action. For a terrifying moment she saw into the other vehicle. Guy was in evening attire, with a large topaz in his cravat, at least, she thought it was a topaz because it flashed yellow in the light from a street lamp. They stared at each other, but as he sat forward in astonishment, the chaise leapt away from the kerb. She looked from the back window and saw him leaning out to yell at Dickon to give chase. Topweather realized something was up, and melted away into the shadows, discretion always being the better part of his valour. Dickon, masterly as he was, proved no match for Billy Pointer, who wove through the streets like a demon needle, and pulled into the bustling yard of the Swan without any sign of pursuit. She alighted quickly, her reticule and shawl bundle in her arms. ‘Thank you, Billy. I wished to avoid—’
‘There’s no need to explain, Mrs Alder,’ he answered swiftly.
She pressed a coin into his hand. ‘I’m very grateful.’
He touched his hat and then stirred the horses into action again, skimmed past the red chariot that was for sale, and disappeared into Lad Lane. She turned thoughtfully toward the chariot, not noticing Mr Waterhouse nearby, enjoying a mug of ale. ‘An excellent bargain, madam,’ he observed.
‘I’m sure it is, sir.’
‘One hundred pounds gets you the chaise, and another sixty a pair of fine horses.’
‘I will consider it,’ she replied, for a notion had begun to form in her head. She had to get to the Dower House with her fine new wardrobe and how better to do it than in her own private vehicle? Especially if someone like Billy Pointer could be persuaded to leave London for the wilds of the seaside. She hurried up the gallery steps to her room, where she was brought to an abrupt halt on being confronted by an irate Madame de Sichel. The dressmaker had checked the inventory of Lady Harcotleigh’s wardrobe, and noticed the absence of an emerald silk gown and various accessories. When Beth entered, wearing the missing items, the dressmaker’s face hardened, and it was plain a very unpleasant scene was about to ensue. But Beth’s wits were still quick enough to save the situation. ‘Ah, here you are at last, madame. I thought you would never respond to my message.’
‘I received no message.’
‘No? Well, it doesn’t matter. I have to leave London urgently, and need to settle my account with you before I go.’
The dressmaker became unsure. ‘Settle it?’
‘Why yes. You surely did not imagine I was making free with garments for which I had no intention of paying? I am pleased with everything, and will take it all.’ Madame de Sichel’s lips opened and closed, reminding Beth of the occupants of Tremoille House’s ornamental pool. ‘Is something wrong, madame?’ Beth enquired.
‘Er, no, madam,’ The dressmaker dimpled self-consciously. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Do you have the bill?’
The woman handed over a sheet of paper that displayed alarmingly expensive reckonings, and Beth felt quite exultant as she counted out the total. Then it was her turn to direct a meaningful look. ‘There will be a receipt, of course?’
‘Oh, of course!’ The dressmaker went to the writing table in the corner, and used the Swan’s pen and ink to scribble the necessary acknowledgement and signature. ‘I trust you will honour me with your patronage in the future,’ she declared hopefully, and then sailed from the room, a different woman entirely from the gimlet-eyed Fury of moments before. As soon as the woman had gone, Beth hastened out to peer cautiously over the gallery balustrade for any sign of Guy. The now customary sunset splendour stained the sky, reaching down into the yard as a dull pink light. The inn was particularly busy because a number of coaches were due in or about to depart. There was no sign of Guy, but Billy had already returned, and was engaged in a heated argument with Mr Waterhouse. They were standing by the red chariot, shouting and gesticulating, although she couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the general noise. As she turned her attention to a Gloucester stagecoach, it suddenly dawned on her that she was lodging in a very obvious place. So many coaches from Wales and the West Country used the Swan that on reflection she was amazed Guy hadn’t come here already. She needed to leave London immediately. Tonight! The burgeoning thoughts of earlier returned as she looked at Billy still arguing with Mr Waterhouse. Judging by the choler of the disagreement, the post boy was almost certainly out of a job. She hurried along the gallery and down the steps, and then threaded her way toward the chariot.
Billy’s wrinkled face, crimson with fury, was dwarfed by the large brown beaver hat he’d tugged low over his greying hair. ‘And I tell you, Mr Fancy Waterhouse,’ he was yelling, ‘that you owe me five shillings!’
‘Get away, you poxy little sod, four shillings is all I owe!’
‘Excuse me,’ she interrupted, and both turned to look at her in surprise.
Billy snatched his hat off respectfully. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Yes, Mrs Alder?’ said the innkeeper a little testily, but still managing a smile of sorts.
‘It concerns the chariot and pair.’
‘Yes?’
‘I would like to purchase both, with a view to leaving for Scotland tonight, but I also need a permanent driver.’ She raised an eyebrow at Billy.
He leapt at the chance. ‘Will I do, ma’am?’
The innkeeper rounded on him furiously. ‘You work for me!’
‘Not any more, you scaly beggar! If this lady wants a driver, then I’ll go. Anything on God’s earth is better than working for crooks like you!’
She interrupted again. ‘Mr Waterhouse, about the chariot?’
He struggled to concentrate on her. ‘Very well, Mrs Alder, but it’s to be cash in hand.’
‘That’s agreeable to me,’ she replied. ‘I will take dinner here, and then settle my bill in full.’ This was the second time she’d uttered these golden words, and it felt as good now as it had before.
The disgruntled innkeeper began to stalk away, but was halted when Billy called after him, ‘Four shillings are better than nothing. I’ll take them!’
Waterhouse turned, his eyes like flint. ‘You’re breaking your contract by shoving off without notice!’
‘I haven’t got a contract, so don’t you try pulling that one. Four shillings, or I’ll report you. Don’t forget, I know more than you’d like about what goes on here.’ The implied threat carried weight, because the innkeeper fished in a leather purse and handed over the money. Then he continued to walk angrily away, venting his wrath on an unfortunate pieman who’d done nothing to warrant it.
Beth looked urgently at Billy. ‘I meant the offer, Mr Pointer.’
‘I know you meant it, ma’am. And just Billy will do. What are your terms?’
‘Terms?’ She thought back to the wages her father had paid for a coachman. ‘Twenty-six pounds ten shillings a year, a roof over your head, uniform and your meals provided,’ she said automatically.
He seemed well pleased. ‘That’s good enough for me, ma’am!’
‘Billy, I’m anxious to leave tonight, not for Scotland, but the north coast of Devon. A place called Lannermouth.’
‘Why, blow me, I know it! A few years back I took an elderly lady and her son posting there. A new road leads down into a river gorge that ends in a sea creek. Pretty as a picture.’
‘Please remember I want everyone to think I am going to Scotland,’ she said. ‘How long do you think it will take to get to Lannermouth?’
‘Three or four days. It depends on the weather,’ he replied. She hoped he was right, because if she closed her eyes, she could already smell the salt sea air. She smiled warmly. ‘How long will you need to have a meal and get the chariot ready?’
‘We can be out of here in an hour and a half, ma’am, but it’s not good to be on the road after dark,’ he cautioned.
‘I know, and I’m quite happy to stop at the first inn you recommend. The important thing is to be out of here.’
He searched her face. ‘Someone’s after you, eh? I’ll lose them for you, ma’am, don’t you fret about that. I know all the byways and inns.’
‘I have to pack all my belongings.’ She was thinking of her new wardrobe.
‘I’ll see that a good maid helps you, ma’am. After that, you have a good dinner, which is one thing the Swan does well, then we’ll kick our heels of London.’
Beth returned to her room feeling able to place her complete trust in him. The feeling grew when a few minutes later a neat maid presented herself to help with the packing of the wardrobe. Two waiters carried in an old trunk that had been lying forgotten in an attic, and soon Beth’s new clothes had not only been folded away, but the trunk had been taken down some back stairs to the red chariot, and a boy paid to keep an eye on it. Billy had soon sneaked into the kitchens, from where he’d have been ejected had Mr Waterhouse known, and then went to attend to the pair of geldings that went with the chariot.
It was later to prove fortunate that Beth decided to settle her now considerable bill before taking dinner, although she didn’t realize it at the time. She suffered the indignity of Mr Waterhouse’s excessive hair-splitting over the smallest thing, and when all was satisfactorily settled, she went through to the crowded, dimly lit dining-room. A waiter conducted her to a small table next to the inglenook fireplace, where copper and brass pans reflected the wavering flames of the candles. The windows all faced on to the yard, and the surrounding inn was quickly losing the last of the late evening light. Had it not been for the small candle in the centre of her table, the room would have been very shadowy indeed. Her dinner comprised vegetable soup, roast pork, peas and potatoes, followed by raspberry pudding, and was very good. There was a lively conversation at the next table, where half-a-dozen gentlemen, who’d dined well and consumed much wine, were discussing bloodstock, in particular the huge price paid that day for a two-year-old colt by Psalter. Beth was very interested because the colt was half-brother to Lancelot, and was from the Tremoille stud.
The sensation of being observed overtook her so slowly that at first she hardly noticed, but as the feeling intensified she began to glance around. Her heart almost arrested as she saw Guy, leaning elegantly against the jamb of the door to the entrance hall, tapping his three-cornered hat against white silk breeches of superb quality. His clothes were those she’d glimpsed earlier, a black velvet evening coat and a muted gold waistcoat that was partially unbuttoned to allow his shirt frills to push through. The chestnut of his hair had become tawny in the uncertain light, and he presented a matchless picture of male elegance, so handsome and confident, polished and relaxed, that he might almost have been a portrait by Thomas Lawrence.
She had been right, it was indeed a large topaz in his cravat, she observed numbly, as he straightened to cross the room toward her.