Newt's Emerald

Chapter Seventeen Unsatisfactory Correspondence

Determined to do her best not to languish, Truthful threw herself into a social whirl in the next several days and found that while it did not make her entirely forget Major Harnett, such dissipations as a silver loo party at which she won thirteen guineas; a card party at which she lost three dozen new sixpences; a daily walk in the park; a picnic in Boxhill; and entertaining a constant stream of mainly gentlemen callers did make the time pass more quickly and provided some hint that perhaps at some point in the future she would once again be able to take an unalloyed pleasure in such things.

A slight blemish was put upon these bright amusements by the continued presence of Sergeant Ruggins and her other guardians, who contrived to accompany her in all outings and were constantly about the house and the Square. A greater blemish marred her enjoyment further in the shape of a belated note from Major Harnett, which did not arrive until the Tuesday afternoon. It utterly failed to reply to Truthful’s own letter, neglecting as it did to mention Miss Gough and his engagement at all and being rather vague about the pursuit of Lady Plathenden and the Emerald, in fact telling Truthful less than she had already gleaned from Stephen.

Dear Lady Truthful,

Lady Plathenden still eludes us, but we have reason to believe that she and the Emerald are hiding somewhere in the vicinity of Brighton. I have enlisted the assistance of your Newington-Lacy cousins, among other volunteers, the budget of our own department being not what it was during the times of War. I believe the danger to your person has lessened with Lady Plathenden being out of London, but as I understand you are shortly to remove to Brighton you must continue to be vigilant and your guard shall remain until such time as Lady Plathenden is securely in the Tower. Sergeant Ruggins may be relied on. He is considerably brighter than his appearance would indicate.

Yours etc

“He hasn’t signed it again!” said Truthful, throwing the letter down in disgust. “And he has been unkind about poor Sergeant Ruggins.”

“The same poor Sergeant Ruggins who yesterday you declared was the greatest block alive when he wouldn’t let you out of the house until the suspicious-looking flower-sellers had departed the Square?” asked Lady Badgery. She took up the letter and perused it, while Truthful had the grace to blush.

The two of them were in Lady Badgery’s bedroom with Parkins, overseeing the packing of the Dowager Countess’s clothes for Brighton, which in practice meant sitting together on the sofa, reading letters and drinking orgeat while Parkins and one of the undermaids laid out various dresses on the bed and Lady Badgery indicated whether she wanted them to be taken on the expedition or not.

“It does explain why we haven’t seen your Newington-Lacy cousins,” said Lady Badgery. “I wonder if they will be at Otterbrook’s masquerade, since they are in Brighton.”

“Why would they be?” asked Truthful, surprised. “Sir Robert might be acquainted with the Marquis, but I doubt any of the boys have ever met him.”

“Perhaps they might run across each other,” said Lady Badgery airily. “I daresay they would have many friends in common.”

“I suppose them to be incognito, attempting to find Lady Plathenden,” said Truthful. Her brow wrinkled. “I wonder how exactly they are going about the business?”

“Drinking in the Black Lion I would guess,” said Lady Badgery. “No, no that one, Parkins.”

“I should hope they have adopted some more scientific approach,” said Truthful. She took up the next letter and opened it with Lady Badgery’s Turkish dagger. “Here is Doctor Doyle’s report. It seems Father is doing quite well compared with last week mutatis mutandis . . . really I have asked him time and time again not to put these things in Latin. I suppose he means there has been no change. Oh, I do wish I had the Emerald. Then Father would be well, and I could have no more to do with . . . with such difficult matters.”

Lady Badgery nodded, possibly in agreement. Parkins laid the final dress out, which was greeted with a scowl and a definitively negative wave of the hand.

“Parkins will see to your dresses now,” said Lady Badgery. “And I shall have a nap. Signor Fraticelli has promised our costumes by six o’clock. We shall dine in tonight, for tomorrow we must leave very early. I do not like travelling in the heat of the day.”

“Yes, Aunt,” said Truthful dutifully.

It took little more than an hour for Parkins and her assistant to pack Truthful’s clothes. But when they were done, and dismissed, Truthful went to the locked chest by the foot of her bed and took out several other articles. These she bundled together in a cloak and put at the bottom of the larger case: the shirt, breeches, coat, hat and top boots of a country gentleman; her spare corset; a box with two pocket pistols, powder and shot; and in a snuff box, her ensorcelled moustache.

The drive to Brighton was a pleasant one, but it was not fast. There was no danger that Lady Badgery’s procession would come anywhere near Sir John Lade’s record run from London to the coastal town. In fact, it was a full eight hours after they set out near dawn that Lady Badgery’s modern and comfortable post-chaise-and-four clattered along the Marine Parade. It was followed by two older coaches: the first for Dworkin, Parkins and some lesser servants; and the second entirely loaded or even overloaded with luggage. The whole convoy was accompanied not only by Sergeant Ruggins and his four men on horseback, but also three of Lady Badgery’s grooms.

Lord Otterbrook’s house was as he described, an extremely large residence four floors in height and a frontage featuring two front doors, with a stableyard and some gardens behind. The house commanded an excellent view across the Parade, the curiously reddish pebbled beach, and the sea beyond.

Truthful and Lady Badgery were welcomed by the Marchioness, who apologised for the absence of the Marquis, who she said “was somewhere about the town”. After they had seen their comfortable rooms in the “right-hand house” as she called it, the “left-hand” house apparently being reserved for male guests, she offered them refreshments, which Lady Badgery accepted. Truthful declined, instead requesting that she might be allowed to walk to the Steine and look upon the Pavilion, which she had only glimpsed from the carriage window as they passed.

This was allowed, a maid being directed to follow her, along with Sergeant Ruggins and one of his cohorts. Truthful quickly supervised the unpacking of her cases, taking care to squirrel away one particular package, and changed her rather dull travelling dress of dove grey muslin for a more fetching promenade dress of pale green with a tall collar, matched with a charming merino coat in a darker shade of green with saffron edges and silver-buttoned epaulettes, topped with a charming straw bonnet adorned with a silver ribbon. Thus equipped to enrapture the gaze of gentlemen and attract the envy of gentlewomen, she went out into the street.

A strong sea wind was blowing in from the south-west, which threatened the bonnet, at least until they turned into the Steine, where some shelter was to be had from the surrounding buildings, even though it was quite a large open space, indicative of its origins as the green it had once been. Truthful, who had studied her guidebook, noted Steine House, the residence of Mrs Fitzherbert, but she was intent on making her way to the Marine Pavilion some little way off. This appeared smaller to her than she expected, though the large dome of the stables behind it was impressive, and she supposed it would be a grander building when the work that was currently in train was finished. At present there was a kind of iron scaffold going up around the small dome in the centre of the building, and a great many workmen were engaged in making a mess of the ground about the place. All in all, it was quite disappointing.

However, a view of the Pavilion was not Truthful’s main object.

“Where would I find the Black Lion Inn?” she asked Sergeant Ruggins, who was as usual surveying anyone who came within ten feet of her with a suspicious gaze.

“You don’t want to go there, milady,” said Ruggins. He pointed to the mass of closely-set buildings to the south and west of the Pavilion. “In them narrow lanes, anything could happen.”

“I see,” said Truthful. “Very well. We shall go back.”

The return walk took a little longer, as Truthful encountered several people she knew who could not be ignored, unseasonably in Brighton for the Otterbrook’s ball. One was the unfortunate Mister Trellingsworth, who had become emboldened by Truthful’s kindness at Lady Mournbeck’s ball and was fair to becoming a nuisance. Luckily he soon found that the shade of his green coat and green pantaloons clashed with Truthful’s own green ensemble, so he had to regretfully deny himself the privilege of walking with her.

On Truthful’s return she discovered both the Marchioness and the Dowager Countess had retired to recoup their energy before dinner, which was to be served at the compromise time between city and country hours of seven o’clock. Truthful yawned and declared to Parkins that she also would take advantage of a short nap, and there was no need for anyone to attend to her until half an hour before the appointed hour to dine.

But Truthful did not take to her bed. Instead she carefully dressed in her masculine attire, affixed her moustache, loaded her pistols and put them in the pockets of her driving coat. Then, disarraying her hair with clawed fingers, she pulled her hat down on her head and crept through the house to the stables at the rear, narrowly avoiding two of the maids.

As she had expected, one of Harnett’s men was watching the gate, and there were two grooms in the stableyard. Truthful considered them for several seconds, wondering how she could get past. One leaf of the gate was open, but the guard stood smack bang in the middle, and there was no way of crossing the yard without being seen by the grooms.

As she was pondering this problem, her eyes ran across the horse-boxes, and stopped as she saw one very familiar bay mare. But what on earth was Stephen’s horse doing here?

Truthful pursed her lips and wondered if she was going mad. The white patch was very distinctive, but there had to be at least a slim possibility that some other horse might have the same one.

She dismissed this puzzle as looking at the horses had given her an idea. Watching the men carefully, she quickly ducked out from her cover by the door, slid back the bolts fastening the closest horse-box and retreated to the shadows again.

The mare inside, a riding hack of no great nobility, watched as the gate of her horse-box slowly swung open. But she did not take advantage of this freedom, flicking her ears instead in irritation or even fear at this unlooked for motion.

“Oh you silly animal,” whispered Truthful. “Walk on. Walk on!”

Whether the horse heard her whisper, or felt some of Truthful’s magic, she did step out of the box. And stopped again, lowering her head to snatch up some fallen straw.

“Go!” whispered Truthful. “Make a fuss!”

The horse blinked and twitched her ears again. Seeing another swathe of straw, she idled over to it, but this time her hooves rang clear on the cobbled floor —finally catching the attention of the grooms.

“Here, Christie’s out!” called one. He came walking quickly back, his companion at his heels.

“Wolves!” whispered Truthful, investing her words with power. “Bears! Donkeys and wild dogs!”

Christie’s amiability disappeared at once. She reared violently, sending both grooms flying back on their behinds. As they struggled to get up, the mare dashed between them, heading for the open gate. The guard there, no coward, stood his ground until the last second, and snatched at the horse’s halter as she passed. Catching it, he was dragged through the gateway and off, cursing and bellowing for assistance.

Truthful ran past the grooms, calling out “Hold on!” as gruffly as she could manage. But once past the gate, she turned left, where horse and guard had bolted right, towards the seafront.

Walking briskly with her head down and one hand clapped on her hat to keep it in place, Truthful was soon back at the Steine. Cutting across it, she entered the narrow lanes of the old town, and began to look for the Black Lion.

It was darker here, where the buildings crowded together, and the people were not at all of the quality to be found promenading about the Steine. But Truthful was relieved to notice they were generally respectable citizens. This was an area of some industry, with shops and workshops in abundance, and much business being done. Truthful particularly noticed a tinsmith, a baker that smelled quite wonderful, and a shop full of the most interesting wooden toys.

And at last, there was the Black Lion. Truthful paused to eye the battered hanging sign and was considering whether she should enter or not when a hand suddenly gripped her elbow with considerable force.

“Stephen!” hissed a familiar voice close to her ear. “What are you doing! You mustn’t be seen here dressed like that!”