Читать книгу The Jewelled Moth - Katherine Woodfine - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

The Ladies’ Lounge at Sinclair’s was a most elegant place. Arrayed like a fashionable drawing room, it was decorated entirely in white and gold, with bowls of flowers set here and there, and plenty of soft chairs and comfortable sofas. It was no wonder it had become a favourite destination for London’s society ladies to meet after a busy day of shopping. That afternoon, the room was full of them: ladies drinking iced lemonade in tall glasses served to them by maids in frilled white aprons; ladies talking vigorously in lively groups; ladies sitting alone, studiously reading the newspaper. There was a low buzz of civilised conversation in the air, and the delicate chink of china and silverware. As Sophie and Lil entered the room, they could not help feeling a little awkward, unsure of exactly who they were looking for, or what they ought to do.

But almost at once, one of the maids came up to them, and directed them to a corner over by the window. Glancing at each other apprehensively, they hurried over. Sophie was not quite sure who she had expected to find, but it certainly was not the young lady who sat waiting, small but very upright, in a large velvet armchair, coolly drinking a cup of tea.

‘You are Miss Taylor and Miss Rose, I suppose,’ she said in a high, rather petulant voice, looking them up and down critically.

‘Yes, I’m Sophie Taylor. How do you do?’ said Sophie, holding out a hand. The young lady looked at it uncertainly for a moment, then gingerly took it in her own lace-gloved fingers.

‘And I’m Lilian Rose,’ said Lil, seizing the young lady’s hand in her turn and giving it such a hearty shake that she looked alarmed and pulled her hand hurriedly away.

‘My name is Veronica Whiteley. I am pleased to meet you,’ said the young lady, with a haughty nod. Sophie looked at her in surprise. The tone of her letter had conjured up a vision of an elderly spinster, but this girl was young – really, she couldn’t have been much older than Lil – and she was dressed very beautifully in a much ruffled, lace-trimmed ivory gown. She must be one of this season’s debutantes, and a particularly wealthy one at that. What was more, Sophie realised that she knew her. She was one of the three young ladies who had been in the Millinery Department the previous day – the one who had tried on the Paris hat.

But Miss Whiteley gave no indication that she recognised Sophie. ‘Do sit down,’ she said, giving a queenly waft of her hand towards the two hard chairs placed opposite her. As they took their seats, Sophie watched the young lady with interest. Although her clothes were expensive and beautifully made, Sophie couldn’t help thinking that they didn’t suit her very well. She was pretty, with china-white skin, a small pink mouth and carefully waved red-gold hair. But all the frills and flounces made her look rather like one of the expensive porcelain dolls that were on sale in the store’s Toy Department. Yet there was nothing at all doll-like about her expression: she was looking at them both with eyes like gimlets, a frown creasing up her white forehead as she sipped tea from a bone-china cup.

‘How can we help you?’ Sophie asked curiously.

‘I have been told that you were responsible for finding Mr Sinclair’s stolen jewels,’ Miss Whiteley began, assuming a very formal manner. Lil opened her mouth to say something, but Miss Whiteley was evidently not expecting there to be any interruptions, and swept onwards. ‘I contacted you because I wished to discuss a similar commission. It is of a highly confidential nature – I trust I can be assured of your complete discretion.’

They said she could, and she went on:

‘I was recently given a gift by a gentleman. It’s one of a kind and extremely valuable – a jewelled brooch in the shape of a moth, made especially for me. Last week it went missing, and I would like you to undertake to find it.’

Veronica found that her hand was shaking slightly as she replaced her teacup in its saucer. She had borrowed her haughty manner from the Dowager Countess of Alconborough, always so imperious in her black velvet and jet beads, assuming complete control of any conversation. Today, she wanted to be no less impressive. It was imperative that these girls took her seriously: she would not be dismissed as just another idiotic debutante.

Although, looking at them again, her lips pursed. She had not expected them to be so very young . Why, the smaller one looked even younger than she was herself ! She had expected them to be older: sophisticated and perhaps a little daring, women of the world, like the heroines of the rather scandalous novels she borrowed from Isabel, her stepmother, on the sly. These two looked more like a pair of schoolgirls than young lady detectives! But it was too late: she had already told them about the jewelled moth, and she would simply have to go on with it now.

It was quite a ridiculous position to find herself in, she thought crossly. If only she were an adult, she would have been able to hire a real detective to find the missing brooch for her. But being a debutante meant that every moment of the day was supervised, from the moment that her maid woke her in the morning, to the moment she went to bed at night after yet another ball or reception. Father and Isabel treated her as if she were a baby. She’d had far more freedom back in the schoolroom with her governess! Now, she was chaperoned every minute of the day, and there was no chance whatsoever that they would ever let her go off alone to a secret appointment with a private detective.

Thankfully Sinclair’s department store was different. Here, Isabel didn’t mind letting Veronica wander off on her own to look at the hats and gloves or the counters selling scent and powder, whilst she shopped and gossiped with her friends. It was here that Veronica had first had the idea of hiring someone to help her find the jewelled moth. She didn’t read the newspapers much – all dreadfully dull stuff about the navy and taxes – but it had been impossible to miss the stories about the dramatic robbery at Sinclair’s. Everyone in London had been talking about it, and she’d heard that Mr Sinclair’s private detective had been helped by two fearfully clever young ladies who worked at the store and who had been the ones to find the jewels. The idea of hiring them to find the jewelled moth had seemed rather a stroke of genius. After all, no one could possibly make a fuss about her talking to two other young ladies in Sinclair’s department store. She had felt as clever and daring as one of the characters in Isabel’s novels.

But now she wondered if it had been quite such a brilliant idea after all. They were so very ordinary. The tall one, Miss Rose, was rather unusual-looking, she supposed, but otherwise they could have been any old shop girls in plain, cheap-looking frocks and no ornaments at all. They didn’t look particularly clever either.

Well, she would simply have to hope they were brainier than they looked, she thought with a sigh. She had to get the moth back and would do anything to find it.

‘I must have the jewelled moth in time for my debutante ball next week,’ she said firmly, as she fixed the two girls with her most haughty, determined look. ‘You’ll be well rewarded, you may be assured – but you must return it to me .’

Half an hour later, Veronica was back with Isabel, up in the Marble Court restaurant, acting as if she had done nothing more that morning than look for a new fan. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the jewelled moth. Telling those girls about what had happened had made her uncomfortable all over again, and she found herself simply toying with the fish course instead of eating it. She felt tense and irritable. This was supposed to be the most thrilling time of her life, and now it was quite spoiled, all because of the loss of the brooch.

Of course, she reminded herself, it wasn’t as though everything about being a debutante was so very thrilling. There were the endless boring dress-fittings for new gowns, where she was stuck all over with pins as though she were a pincushion; the tedious dinner parties where she had to make polite conversation with fearful old bores; and the balls where she got lumbered with partners who trod all over her feet – but all the same, most of her first Season had been splendid. Now, all of a sudden it did not seem glittering and exciting; instead it was simply horrid.

She couldn’t even concentrate on the conversation going on amongst her luncheon companions, who were ranged around a table covered in spotless damask and arrayed with gleaming silver. Instead, she eyed them from under her eyelashes. First of all there was Isabel – Veronica’s very own not-so-wicked stepmother, her round blue eyes widening at something the Countess of Alconborough was saying. As usual, Isabel looked exactly like a fashion plate, with her crimped blonde hair, carefully rouged and powdered face, and outfit straight from the pages of La Mode Illustrée . Next, the Dowager Countess herself: tiny yet stately in her rustling black gown. Then, beside her, Lady Alice, the Countess’s daughter: taller, plumper and infinitely more insipid, nodding in agreement after every word her mother said.

With them were Veronica’s fellow debutantes: first of all Phyllis, Lady Alice’s eldest daughter and the Countess’s granddaughter. She had yellow hair and smiled a lot. Veronica thought contemptuously that she had probably never said two interesting words together in her life – though of course, Lady Alice and Isabel had decided between themselves that she and Phyllis were the very best and dearest of friends. Then there was Miss Emily Montague. Emily’s family lived next door to Lady Alice’s London residence, and Emily had been to finishing school with Phyllis, though the two of them were quite different. Where Phyllis was gentle and placid, Emily was quick and shrewd and sharp. At that very moment, Emily was staring around the restaurant, looking quite as bored by the conversation as Veronica was herself. She looked distracted and out of sorts, though Veronica suspected she was probably just sulking because she hadn’t yet managed to attract the attentions of any eligible beau.

‘So, my dears, how are you enjoying your first Season?’ the Countess asked suddenly, smiling indulgently at the three young ladies.

Lady Alice answered for them. ‘They’re having a simply delightful time!’ she bubbled. ‘There have been so many lovely parties for them to enjoy.’

‘Well of course, Lady Fitzmaurice’s ball is always quite an occasion,’ said the Countess, nodding in agreement. ‘Dear Sylvia is such a wonderful hostess. And Beaucastle’s garden party too – his grounds are quite spectacular.’

‘Then there is the York House ball tonight,’ went on Lady Alice. ‘Phyllis has a divine new dress for it, don’t you darling?’

Isabel had just noticed Veronica’s plate. ‘Veronica!’ she exclaimed, sharply. ‘You’ve hardly touched your luncheon!’

‘Is there something wrong with it?’ demanded the Countess, swivelling her flinty gaze back in Veronica’s direction, and peering through her eyeglass suspiciously at the fish.

‘No – nothing,’ said Veronica. ‘I’m not very hungry today, that’s all.’

‘She obviously has a modest appetite,’ said the Countess, staring at Veronica. Her eyes were like dark grey pebbles. ‘Well, a ladylike appetite can be an excellent thing, just as long as you keep your strength up. The Season can be exhausting, you know, especially for the more delicate young girls.’ She turned to Isabel. ‘Is she delicate? She looks rather . . . peaky.’

They all peered at her over the table: the Countess critical, Lady Alice concerned, Emily smirking with amusement and Isabel just annoyed. Veronica burned with indignation under their gaze, whilst beside her, Phyllis continued eating her stuffed grouse quite cheerfully, apparently not noticing that anything was wrong.

‘She’s probably just excited about the dance tonight,’ said Lady Alice, kindly. ‘I remember how excited I used to be before a ball. Why, I could never eat a thing at supper! Perhaps she’d be better off with something sweet – an ice, perhaps? You love your sweets, don’t you Phyllis?’

‘Yes, Mama,’ lisped Phyllis happily.

The Countess glanced at Phyllis for a moment, her lips pursed, looking rather displeased, then turned back to pin her steely gaze upon Veronica. ‘Well, from what I hear, she has rather good reasons for being excited,’ she said archly, addressing Isabel and Lady Alice, although her eyes remained fixed on Veronica. ‘I understand that Beaucastle has been paying her attentions,’ she went on in a suspicious tone, rather as if she suspected Veronica of having somehow tricked him into it.

Isabel was positively delighted by this change of subject. She jumped in at once: ‘Yes, Veronica is a dreadfully lucky girl. Lord Beaucastle has been so very attentive and kind.’

Veronica couldn’t help feeling pleased to see that both the Countess and Lady Alice were looking rather peeved. She suspected that they were disappointed that Lord Beaucastle – who was, after all, one of London’s most eligible bachelors – had chosen to pay attention to her over their dear little Phyllis.

‘He gave her the most wonderful gift, you know, to mark her presentation at court,’ Isabel was saying blithely.

‘The jewelled moth – yes, I heard about it,’ said the Countess, rather shortly. ‘A very special piece, I understand. Not at all the sort of present one would give to a young girl. I would have thought a nice pearl string more suitable.’

‘Papa gave me a pearl necklace for my debut, didn’t he Mama?’ said Phyllis, with a smile. Everyone ignored her.

‘I must say, I was surprised that he would give away a treasure like that. I hope you’re taking very good care of it, my dear,’ the Countess snapped out to Veronica.

Her words were like a gush of cold water. Veronica reeled for a moment. Surely the Countess could not possibly know the truth about what had happened to the jewelled moth? The Countess was still talking, and Veronica realised gradually that her comment had no special significance. But the ice-cold feeling still lingered and there was a rushing in her ears that seemed to drown out everything else being said.

The truth was that Veronica had disliked the moth brooch on sight. It was so big and heavy: it had quite spoilt the look of her white satin court dress, and had torn an ugly hole in the beautiful rose-coloured gown she had worn to Lady Fitzmaurice’s ball. She knew the brooch was expensive and fashionable, and had been made especially for her by the most elegant London jewellers, and that was all very well – but she did think there was something a bit creepy about it.

Of course, she had been terribly proud when Lord Beaucastle had given it to her. It meant he wanted to marry her, and it went without saying that she was pleased about that. After all, he was rich, titled and a society favourite – everyone knew him and liked him. It was a tremendous compliment to have been singled out by a man like him! None of the other girls in her ‘set’ was even close to a proposal, and here she was, with one of society’s most eligible gentlemen showering her with attention. She knew that the others were all terribly envious of her. Why even now she could see Emily watching her with the oddest expression; and the other girls were forever making snide remarks that smacked of jealousy.

And yet . . . it had all happened so quickly. She had barely been out in society for a month! One minute Lord Beaucastle had been just a friend of her father’s – rather old, though awfully nice, of course – and the next he had been sending her bouquets of hothouse flowers, taking her into supper at balls, and then presenting her with this extravagant gift. Although she had dreamed about finding a husband during her first Season – that was what all the girls hoped for; no one wanted to be left on the shelf until next year – she had imagined it happening so differently: meeting a handsome young man in a ballroom, drinking champagne on a moonlit balcony, falling head over heels in love and then having a triumphant wedding, all ivory lace and orange blossom, and living happily ever after. Lord Beaucastle was perfectly pleasant, and certainly very generous – but she was not in love with him. The thought of it made her squirm.

Perhaps that was why she hadn’t wanted to wear the brooch at Lord Beaucastle’s garden party. Isabel had been nagging her about taking care of it, but instead of doing what she was told, she had left it inside the house, pinned to her silk shawl. Now, she cursed herself for being so reckless. For when she had come back in from the garden, the shawl was lying exactly where she had left it – but the jewelled moth had vanished.

She dared not tell anyone what had happened. She couldn’t tell Isabel – she would be simply furious if she knew that Veronica had left Lord Beaucastle’s valuable gift so carelessly unattended – and the other girls would be sure to crow over her if they knew. She could all too clearly imagine the cutting little jibes that Emily would make. She had known that she must find a way to get the brooch back – and quickly. If she lost the gift that Lord Beaucastle had given her, he might be so offended that she would lose her chance at an offer of marriage from him. He would probably never speak to her again! Everyone would know about it, and she would be utterly shamed.

Her coming-out ball was due to take place in less than a fortnight. Lord Beaucastle had offered to host it at his own splendid mansion, and everyone was whispering that he was going to propose. They would all expect to see her wearing the jewelled moth. She simply had to get it back!

‘But I’ve always said, Beaucastle knows his own mind,’ the Countess was saying, her voice suddenly loud again in Veronica’s ears. ‘We all thought he was quite set on bachelor life, but evidently that is not the case. I must say, though, I’m surprised to see him paying his addresses to a debutante. Why, he must be twice her age!’

‘Well, those matches can work, you know,’ said Isabel, hastily, turning rather pink.

Veronica’s father was almost twice Isabel’s age, come to that, Veronica thought.

The Countess waved her hand, as if swatting Isabel’s words away. ‘Oh, I quite understand. There could scarcely be a finer suitor. Why, the man has everything: a title, a fine income, that beautiful estate. And such a distinguished military record! He joined the army when he was a very young man, you know,’ she added in a conspiratorial tone. ‘He never did see eye to eye with his father – a nasty, cantankerous old fellow, if you ask me.’ She paused for a moment, as if daring the others to disagree with her, but of course, no one did.

‘Was he really?’ fluttered Lady Alice.

‘He was indeed,’ confirmed the Countess. ‘But the army was the making of Beaucastle –’

Isabel interrupted suddenly, changing the subject. ‘Look – over there! Isn’t that Edward Sinclair?’

They all turned to look, even the Countess. The owner of Sinclair’s department store was something of a celebrity, even amongst London’s society set. Beautifully dressed, with his signature orchid in his buttonhole, he bowed to a distinguished customer, and then went to talk to the Head Waiter.

‘He’s rather handsome, isn’t he?’ said Isabel, looking over at him with interest.

‘Hmmm,’ said the Countess, peering through her eyeglass. ‘Too showy, if you ask me. These Americans always are. And he’s new money of course.’

Veronica saw that Isabel’s cheeks were going pink again. No one could be more ‘new money’ than Charles Whiteley, Isabel’s husband and Veronica’s father. He might now live in Mayfair and dine with the city’s most eminent families, but London society would never quite forget that he was not an aristocrat. He was an industrialist: the wealthy owner of several very lucrative mines in South Africa. Isabel, on the other hand, was from real society stock, which was exactly why Veronica’s father had married her, after Veronica’s mother died. That, and because he liked having a beautiful, expensively dressed young wife on his arm. And Isabel had married him for his wealth, and for as much shopping at Sinclair’s as even she could ever desire, thought Veronica with a shudder.

‘They say he’s quite the ladies’ man,’ Lady Alice was commenting, still watching Mr Sinclair. ‘Why, Mrs Balfour told me . . .’ She leaned forwards, and began murmuring something under her breath, whilst Phyllis craned around curiously, and even Emily looked over at Sinclair with interest. But Veronica didn’t even bother to glance in his direction. What did she care for some ridiculous American shopkeeper? She was simply grateful for the distraction, which allowed the waiter to take her plate away without anyone noticing that she hadn’t taken a single bite more.