“My friend,” Richard said sadly, “has a penchant for play, as will perhaps not surprise you in a friend of mine. He had taken to frequenting a private establishment where the stakes were to his liking and the play was reportedly fair. He had the memorandum with him, having paused to try his luck en route to his destination—the memorandum was so important that he trusted its delivery to no one else.”
Here Lord Stirling interjected an opinion. “Cabbagehead!” he said.
“Precisely,” the corpulent gentleman agreed. “When my friend left the gaming house, it was minus the memorandum, as he discovered shortly before his destination was reached. He could hardly return to the house and demand a return of the list of spies or explain to the person who awaits its arrival why he didn’t deliver it. He
did
return to the gaming hell, thinking the owner of the establishment might know what was in the wind, and came away thinking that fellow might have managed the thing himself. Nothing was said outright; it was more a matter of feeling something was amiss—but then the house was closed down. As a result, my friend has had to feign sickness and barricade himself within his bedchamber.”
Lord Stirling had an unpleasant suspicion as to where these confidences were leading. “Your friend is damned imprudent.”
“Quite.” The corpulent gentleman looked rueful. “I neglected to explain the gaming house was a meeting place not only for reckless gamblers but for
émigrés,
and that the owner was involved in all manner of things he should not. We should probably be grateful that he broke his neck when he did, because there seems to be little doubt that the memorandum is still somewhere in Mountjoy House.”
“Mountjoy House.” It was as he had expected; Yves set down his glass. “Oh, no. I am devoted to you, Richard—upon my word, I am—but you will
not
persuade me to go near Mountjoy House. And now, if you’ll excuse me, a little opera dancer has been awaiting me this past hour.”
“She’ll have to wait a little longer yet.” The corpulent gentleman leaned forward, clamped a surprisingly strong hand around his godson’s wrist. “Is this my adventurous Yves? You stand in grave danger of becoming blasé, my lad.”
Lord Stirling looked at the fleshy hand that was sadly creasing his sleeve, and then at his godfather’s dissipated face, and smiled. “You are a fine one to talk of being blasé, Richard.”
The corpulent gentleman was not slow to press an advantage. “I was used to dandle you on my knee. Noisome brat that you were.”
“And now you will think me the best of good fellows, do I but try and restore this missing memorandum.” Yves supposed there was some truth in the accusation that he grew soft, sting as the accusation might. Certainly his adventures these days were most often of the boudoir variety. “Are you so certain the memorandum is still in Mountjoy House?”
“I’ll wager a pony on it—or would if I
had
one.” Richard released his godson, assured that Santander would not flee. “Had the memorandum fallen into enemy hands, we would have known by now. Yet we cannot go on indefinitely hoping that it doesn’t turn up to embarrass us. It must be restored.”
“So I am somehow to gain entrance to Mountjoy House.” Try as he might to persuade himself that adventure beckoned, Lord Stirling could drum up no enthusiasm. “Why don’t you undertake this delicate mission yourself?”
Richard looked down upon his bursting waistcoat. “My bulk prohibits my being furtive, and my empty purse from play.”
“The house is to be reopened?” Yves glimpsed last-minute reprieve. “I shall stake you. Then your problem is solved;
“Coward!” Richard said softly. “No, my lad, I can’t allow you to be so rash. Moreover, you’ll achieve the
entree
more easily than I ever could.”
Lord Stirling looked blank. “I will?”
“You were used to move in rather more, er, reckless circles than you do now.” The corpulent gentleman was capable of huge enjoyment, even with danger looming in the distance. “The young lady who inherited Mountjoy House is not unknown to you, I think.”
Known to him? Yves cast back his thoughts to the time when he had moved in those less genteel circles, had not been Stirling but merely Santander the rogue. He had known Marmaduke Mountjoy by reputation only, and but one member of that reckless family rather more. Member of the family— Yves frowned.
“My best wishes go with you, lad!” chuckled Richard.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Most unsuitable!” said Lionel once more as he reluctantly provided his charges their first view of Mountjoy House, mute evidence of some previous tenant’s fascination with the Gothic, as result of which the original appearance of the house could only be guessed at. In its present incarnation, the pink sandstone structure was enlivened by a row of battlements, broken buttresses and tall arched windows more suited to a ruined abbey, high detached pinnacles precariously perched on the backs of projecting gargoyles that carried rainwater in the hollowed troughs of their bodies and then spat it out. The solicitor gazed without the slightest appreciation upon the entrance front, fenestrated with large windows containing geometric traceries of cast iron, and positively glowered at a stone swan with outstretched wings, forever on the verge of flight.
“I wish you will reconsider. This isn’t an appropriate residence.” Lionel glanced at his companions, gauging their reactions to the funereal aspect of Mountjoy House.
Young Charlot was wide-eyed. “Crickey!” he observed.
“Precisely,” Lionel responded, dryly. “Perhaps now you will reconsider, Mademoiselle Beaufils.”
“Reconsider?” Vashti took firmer grip on her perforated box, from which issued a low and unrelenting growl. “I shall do no such thing, sir. Pray let us go inside.”
Wishing that he had chosen to pursue a different profession, Lionel approached the massive front door. That portal was opened by Orphanstrange. Solicitor and valet exchanged the compassionate glance of two eminently rational male creatures that suddenly find themselves at the mercy of the illogical opposite sex.
“Jupiter!” said Charles, who was still young enough to eschew logic. “This is
capital,
Vashti!” He scampered toward a staircase carved in a most singular manner with figures of dogs and monkeys and apes.
Mademoiselle Beaufils was slightly less enthusiastic, Lionel thought. Personally, he considered the overall effect of Mountjoy House about as cozy as a tomb. The interior of the structure was no less startling than its exterior, and boasted ceilings with plaster ribs in the interlacing curvilinear designs of the sixteenth century, arcading on a small scale of intersecting arches, and a great many Gothic doorways.
Through one such doorway Orphanstrange now conducted them, into a drawing room with tall dark windows and hideous old tapestries and a fireplace in the form of an arch. The oak walls, crowded with ancient pictures in antique gilded frames, had curious old-fashioned chandeliers affixed. On the floor was Brussels carpeting in a crimson-and-gold Persian pattern. The furnishings showed a strong Egyptian influence, incorporating sphinx-head bodies and models of mummies and crocodiles. Vashti and Charlot did not pay as much heed to these marvels as otherwise they might, had not the crocodile sofa possessed an occupant. Lionel hastily averted his gaze from that damsel, in her semi-transparent draperies. He still did not know how to explain Minette. Through his lips issued a moan.
“Vraiment?”
Minette arched a slender dark brow. “Does something pain you,
chéri? Non?
Then you must introduce me to your friends. This is Marmaduke’s little Vashti, I think—but who is her young
galant?”
Her green eyes sparkled inquisitively.
Little did Lionel relish these introductions, and quickly saw them made. Minette arose gracefully from the crocodile sofa and moved forward, hands outstretched. “How I have longed to meet you!” she enthused, saluting a startled Vashti on each cheek. That Charlot was not similarly complimented was due only to Bacchus, who chose that moment to emerge from Charlot’s pocket, whiskers atwitch. “He won’t hurt you!” explained Charlot as Orphanstrange shrieked in a very unvaletlike manner and Minette stepped back a pace.
No occupant of Mountjoy House could long remain unacquainted with the rodent family, but Minette shuddered all the same, an action that was very interesting indeed in her flimsy gown. The solicitor averted his gaze and flushed. Minette looked meaningfully at Orphanstrange.
“Mon ami,
here is the so-estimable Mr. Heath, to whom you wished to speak concerning the drains.”
“Drains?” Studiously looking everywhere but at Minette, Lionel wiped his brow. “I know nothing about drains.”
“Hein?
A solicitor who knows nothing of drains?” Minette affected consternation.
“Mon chou,
it is time you learn!”
Her darling, was he? Lionel was being manipulated by an expert. “But—” he said.
“I know a great deal about drains!” Charlot cheerfully volunteered. “Aunt Adder’s were always all amuck.”
“You must tell both Orphanstrange and Mr. Heath all about your aunt’s drains.” Minette shepherded the gentlemen before her into the hallway. “Orphanstrange will show you
our
drains, and perhaps between you, you may discover what is amiss.” Any protest the gentlemen might have made was lost, so firmly did she close the door. Then Minette turned back to survey her companion, who stood upon the hearth, clutching her perforated box, the Afghan hound lolling at her feet.
“Definitely you are respectable!” Minette took firm hold of Vashti’s arm and guided her to an oaken chair with lavishly carved back.
“
It would be
très
difficult to find anyone more respectable than you look. It is not what I expected of Marmaduke’s heiress.”
Vashti’s brief rebellion had flared up and died out as fast, leaving her feeling queerly flat. “What did
you expect?” she cautiously inquired. “And why? For that matter, just who are you? I don’t mean to be vulgarly inquisitive, but—”
“—but I am living in your house!” Minette leaned against a table with sphinx-shaped supports, decorated with water lily of the Nile. “It is not unreasonable that you should be a tiny bit curious,
n’est-ce pas?
The so-proper Mr. Heath did not explain, eh? He does not approve of me, I think.”
Vashti doubted that even Minette’s own mother would approve of the girl, which diminished her likability not one whit. “Mr. Heath didn’t mention you at all.”
“Aha!” Minette looked mischievous. “That is because he is
épris—
and does not realize! But you will not be interested in my
affaires de coeur,
Mademoiselle Beaufils. As to what I do here, I was your cousin’s ward.”
On the contrary, Vashti was inordinately interested in her companion’s
affaires de coeur,
though she should not have been. “Marmaduke’s ward?” she echoed, clutching more tightly to her perforated box.
Minette grew increasingly curious about that box and what it might contain. With the advent of Mademoiselle Beaufils and young Charlot, Mountjoy Houses’s resident wildlife had apparently been greatly increased.
“Mais oui,”
she said as she approached. “Marmaduke rescued me from a fate worse than death—he did, I assure you, and in the very nick of time! Moreover, he vowed he would leave me comfortably bestowed, and I could have wept with vexation when I discovered he had
not!”
She bent forward, her inquisitive nose wrinkled. “Pardon, Mademoiselle Beaufils, but what have you in the box?”
“In the—oh!” Entranced by Minette’s dramatic delivery, Vashti returned to the present with a start. “Calliope. My cat.”
“A cat.” Minette’s hopeful expression faded. “I had hoped it was some of the ready that you clutched so tightly to your breast—
not
that I comprehend why anyone should carry about money in a perforated box, but there is no accounting for tastes. Perhaps you should release this cat of yours, Mademoiselle Beaufils. It does not sound to be of the happiest disposition.”
Vashti looked doubtful. “If you’re sure.”
Minette shrugged, recalling Delphine’s dislike of felines. “What is to be sure of? Perhaps your Calliope may account for some of the vermin which overrun this house.”
Vashti was intent on the cautious opening of her box. “That accounts for the strange noises I heard earlier. A curious rustling noise, as if mice scampered within the walls.”
Minette cast the walls an unfriendly glance, in particular the wall upon which hung a portrait with extremely lifelike dark eyes. The expression in those dark eyes was as hostile as her own. “You might be surprised to discover what is hidden in this old house,” she muttered cryptically.
Vashti ignored her companion’s mutterings, intent on her perforated box, which, now that its occupant had discovered herself on solid ground, was rocking wildly back and forth. Cautiously Vashti grasped the lid, then in the same movement flung it aside and leapt back.
“Mon dieu!”
gasped Minette, and joined Vashti upon the crocodile sofa as a hideous multicolored ball of fur erupted from the box and streaked around the room. Under furniture and upon it Calliope leapt, darted into every corner, climbed halfway up the window hangings. At length the calico cat fetched up, snarling, beside Mohammed on the hearth. The hound opened one eye, wagged his tail, gave Calliope a great lick. Looking baleful, the cat subsided between the dog’s front paws.
“Alors!”
uttered Minette, as Vashti helped her to clamber down from the couch. “If you do not carry your money in a perforated box—not that I mean to infer you should have, for that would be conduct strange even in a relative of Marmaduke—how
do
you carry it, pray?”
“Carry—” For want of something better to do with her hands, Vashti smoothed her carefully mended gloves. “Did I carry money with me, I would doubtless put it in my reticule.”
“Ah!” Minette was ever-optimistic. “You have made other arrangements, perhaps through your bank. How very enterprising of you! You think I am overcurious, I can tell it—but you will not think so once you have discovered to what degree the larder is bare. I am forgetting! You have not yet read what Marmaduke left for you.” She drew forth a letter from the bodice of her gown and with a flourish held it forth.