Miss Tonks Turns to Crime Read online

  Lord Eston waited grimly.

  In a few minutes, Bonnard himself appeared. “My lord!” he cried. “I am just this moment returned. A glass of wine? We have some fine claret. You will not find better—”

  “Is there somewhere we can be private?” said Lord Eston. “I wish to talk business.”

  Bonnard’s eyes gleamed. “Come this way, my lord. I have a private parlour upstairs.”

  As the hotelier led Lord Eston upstairs, he experienced a sudden qualm and was conscious of the girl he had locked securely in one of the attics. This Eston had been a friend of the supposed Hungarian ladies, which followed that Eston must have known what they were up to. He turned and looked back. Lord Eston smiled at him blandly. Bonnard gave a mental shrug. What could this well-barbered, well-tailored lily of the field do to such as himself?

  He led the way into his parlour but left the door open.

  “Now, my lord,” he began.

  Lord Eston drew the pistol from his pocket and levelled it at the startled hotelier.

  “Now, Bonnard,” he said, “you will take me quietly to where you have Miss Cassandra Blessop hidden or I will blow your brains out.”

  “Who?”

  Lord Eston moved like lightning and punched him savagely on the side of his face. “I have no time for your lies.”

  “What are you doing? I have only to call for help.”

  “You’d be dead before anyone reached this room. Kidnapping is a hanging offence. Move!”

  Bonnard looked at him grimly. If he led this lord to where Cassandra was, then he, Bonnard, would stand trial and be hanged. So why should he fear a bullet through the brain?

  Lord Eston put the pistol in his pocket. “I see you no longer fear death by shooting. But I shall beat the intelligence I require out of you.”

  Bonnard darted for the door. Lord Eston tripped him up and he went flying.

  “Now,” said Lord Eston, kneeling on his chest and seizing an oil-lamp from the desk. “Let’s just empty this over you and set you alight and see if you might scream the truth in your death agonies.” He poured the oil over Mr. Bonnard’s face and then, holding him down with one hand, took out his tinder-box and struck it.

  “No,” screamed Bonnard. “The attic!”

  Lord Eston jumped to his feet. He seized the key from the lock and locked Mr. Bonnard in and then ran for the stairs.

  “Cassandra!” he shouted when he reached the top of the house. He tried door after door until he found a locked one and, standing back, kicked at the lock with his boot until the door splintered and sagged open, hanging crazily on its hinges.

  Cassandra was tied to a chair in the middle of the room, with a cruel gag about her mouth.

  He untied the gag and kissed her, kissed her with all the pent-up longing and passion of wasted months. “Please untie me,” said Cassandra when she could. “Oh, I am so glad to see you. I have been so very frightened. I feel dirty and I am so hungry.” He released her bonds and raised her to her feet and caught her in his arms. He wound the long strands of her red hair in his fingers and smiled down at her freckled face. “You are beautiful,” he said. “Marry me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you.”

  “Then why are you engaged to Miss Boyle?”

  “I’m a fool. Kiss me, Cassandra.”

  She looked searchingly into his eyes and then, with a little sigh, she wound her arms about him and kissed him full on the mouth. He felt the attic room whirling about him and clung tightly to her as if for support. Then he said raggedly, “We must go. I locked Bonnard in his parlour. If he gets out, he may come after us. How did he get you?”

  “I went out to the shops and a closed carriage came alongside. The door opened and then a man grabbed me and dragged me in. Bonnard was in the carriage and held a knife to my throat.”

  “I’ll see him hang at Newgate.” He lifted her in his arms and carried her out. “Very romantic,” giggled Cassandra, “but not enough room on this narrow stair for you to carry me. I can walk.”

  They went down together, his arm about her shoulders. Cassandra felt the nightmare was over.

  And then, when they reached the head of the main staircase leading down to the hall, they found themselves face-to-face with Bonnard. Behind him were the most evil-looking of his servants. He was carrying a great horse pistol.

  “Take them,” he ordered, as Lord Eston thrust Cassandra behind him.

  And then suddenly there was a huge angry howl and a shattering of glass. “The mob,” screamed a servant who was farther down the staircase. “They’ve shattered the doors.”

  “Kill the Bonapartist bastard,” called a voice and the cry was taken up from below and then reverberated along the street outside.

  Bonnard’s servants scattered. The hotelier turned an ugly colour with fright. He suddenly dropped his pistol and thrust his way past Lord Eston and Cassandra and leaped for the upper staircase.

  “I do not know which is the more terrifying, Bonnard or the mob,” said Lord Eston. “Keep close to me and walk very slowly and bravely towards them.”

  The hall was swarming with drunken men who were smashing everything in sight. Slowly Cassandra and Lord Eston walked down.

  And then a voice shouted, “Make way for Lord Eston, the hero of the Peninsula!”

  A great roar of “Aye. A hero,” went up.

  The mob parted as they walked through the hall, doffing their caps and grinning.

  It was like walking through wild beasts, thought Lord Eston. The mob outside cheered them as well, surging forward as they passed, all trying to get into the hotel.

  And then suddenly they were clear. “The militia will be along in a minute,” said Lord Eston. “Nearly home. There’s my brave girl. Thank God some fool took me for a hero.”

  “Not some fool,” said Cassandra between laughter and tears. “That dirty old man who was leading the mob was Sir Philip Sommerville.”

  * * *

  “Nonsense,” said Lady Fortescue, pouring tea with a steady hand. “Sir Philip did very well. Now you must admit, Lord Eston, that you would have been hard put to it to take Cassandra out of there without Sir Philip’s help.”

  “But the guests,” exclaimed Lord Eston. “What of the hotel guests?”

  “Well, you know,” said Lady Fortescue, “there were only two parties and Sir Philip warned them earlier that Bonnard was a Bonapartist spy and to leave quietly and take their belongings without telling anyone why they were leaving.”

  “And is Bonnard a Bonapartist spy?”

  “I neither know nor care,” said Lady Fortescue. “I doubt the man is even French. Such a good idea of Sir Philip’s. So easy to rouse the mob these days. They are always rioting about something. Do try the seed-cake, Lord Eston.”

  “Where is Cassandra now?” asked Mrs. Budley.

  “She is with her aunt. She is washing and changing. She will be with us presently. As, I trust, will Sir Philip, although I think the idea of leading a riot appeals to him. I do hope he does not go too far.”

  “Lady Fortescue,” said Lord Eston severely, “I think they can go no further. No doubt by now they have wrecked the hotel and hanged Bonnard from his own chandelier.”

  “Which will save the state paying for it,” said Colonel Sandhurst.

  The door opened and Cassandra and Miss Tonks came in. Lord Eston stood up and opened his arms and Cassandra ran into them.

  Lady Fortescue’s voice was acid. “Remember where you are, Lord Eston, and release Miss Blessop immediately.”

  Lord Eston swung round and, holding Cassandra by the hand, said, “We are to be married.”

  “Indeed! You are sure?” Lady Fortescue surveyed the couple and then smiled. “Yes, I can see you are sure. Goodness, here is Sir Philip in time to hear the good news.

  Sir Philip, Lord Eston and Miss Blessop are to be married.” Sir Philip, a small bundle of foul-smelling rags, sank wearily into a chair. “Oh,” he said indifferently. “W
ell, to more exciting news. My mob took Tupple’s apart. Bonnard’s fled. No one was hurt. I told ’em to leave the servants alone. I got everyone dispersed before the militia rode up.”

  “Had we not better now inform the authorities of the kidnapping of Miss Blessop?” asked Lord Eston.

  Sir Philip flicked him a contemptuous look. “Start too many scandals and inquiries. I’m not a hanging man myself, even for such a cur as Bonnard. Too much hanging. Too …” His eyes closed and he fell asleep and began to snore.

  Chapter Eight

  I’ll frighten her

  into marriage.

  —JOHN BENN JOHNSTONE

  IN THE cold light of day, Lord Eston realized that somehow he must see Amanda alone and get her to break the engagement. If she would not, then he would have to break it himself and he felt sure that Boyle would immediately and gleefully sue him for breach of promise. He waited in Mr. Davenport’s large but singularly unornamented house while the butler went to see whether Miss Boyle would receive him. Lighter spaces on the walls showed where pictures had hung. There were hardly any ornaments. Obviously Mr. Davenport was taking no chances with the light-fingered Mr. Boyle in residence. The butler was gone a long time and there were sounds of an altercation coming from abovestairs.

  At last the butler returned and said the ladies would be pleased to receive him. When he entered the drawing-room, Amanda was playing with her pug, Rupert, her cheeks pink, and Mrs. Boyle was looking militant.

  “I wonder if I might have a few words with my fiancée … alone,” said Lord Eston. “Just a few,” said Mrs. Boyle, rising to her feet and ignoring her daughter’s squeak of protest. She went out and left the door open.

  “My Rupert is very brave,” said Amanda, holding up the wheezing pug. “And … and very jealous. He does not like it when gentlemen come near me.”

  “Then I shall stay here on the other side of the room and say what I have to say.” Lord Eston looked at her curiously. She was as adorable as ever in appearance but he wondered what he had ever seen in her.

  “My dear,” he began, and then stopped. For the first time, he noticed that Amanda was really afraid of him and not just playing some silly flirtatious game.

  Hope began to rise. “Amanda,” he said, “do pay attention to me. I feel somehow that you are not looking forward to our marriage. This is the first time we have been alone in a long time. Would you not like to release me from the engagement?”

  Amanda kept her head down and stroked the little dog’s coat. “Mama and Papa want me to have a title,” she said finally.

  “But you do not want me and I do not want an unwilling bride. I think I know how to go about it. Let me have a talk with your mother and I feel I can arrange things.”

  “Oh, could you?” she breathed. “I would be most grateful. We are not at all suited, you know.”

  “As a matter of interest, what is it about me that disgusts you?”

  Amanda coloured prettily. “You do not disgust me. There is just something …”

  “Never mind. When your mother returns, leave us together.”

  Just at that moment, Mrs. Boyle entered the room. Amanda murmured something, scooped up her dog and left them.

  “I fear I have distressed your daughter,” said Lord Eston, “but she must be made to see sense. Just because there is no longer going to be a large wedding …”

  “Why on earth not?” demanded Mrs. Boyle sharply.

  Mr. Boyle came into the room and joined them.

  “Hear this, Mr. Boyle,” said his wife. “Eston has just been telling me that our Amanda isn’t to have a big wedding.”

  “Why not?”

  “The fact is I have been speculating wildly,” said Lord Eston, “and left a great hole in my fortune. I will have to sell my town house and live quietly in the country. But with hard work and great economies, I know I can come about.” Mr. Davenport, who had been about to join them, listened eagerly just outside the door.

  “This is not what we planned for our daughter,” exclaimed Mr. Boyle.

  “It is not what any of us had planned, Mr. Boyle, but I cannot conjure up a fortune just like that. It will take years of hard drudgery on my estates to repair the damage. Amanda will have to live quietly in the country.” Mr. Davenport turned slightly. Amanda had crept up beside him and was listening as well.

  “She will of course not be bored. She can perform many good works,” said Lord Eston, gleefully hammering the last nail in the coffin of his engagement.

  Mr. Davenport took Amanda firmly by the hand and led her into the room. “Lord Eston,” he said, “this is not the time for you to be thinking of marrying such a frail and beautiful lady and exposing her to the indignity of debt and duns.”

  “I suppose you want to marry her yourself,” said Lord Eston.

  The Boyles, all of them, looked at Mr. Davenport with hope.

  “If Miss Boyle will release you from your engagement, then I will marry her,” he said. “The wedding is arranged. But let it go ahead. I will be the bridegroom.”

  “Oh, that would be much more sensible,” lisped Amanda.

  “It’s a good thing I didn’t pay over your dowry,” said Mr. Boyle. “I’m disappointed in you, Eston.”

  “It seems to me that Miss Boyle wishes to be released,” said Lord Eston. “I will send a notice to the newspapers to that effect.”

  “What a narrow escape!” cried Mr. Boyle, when Lord Eston, acting suitably downcast, had taken his leave. He rubbed his hands with glee. What pickings he would have out of Davenport’s vast fortune.

  Honoria Blessop was a most unhappy woman. Her conscience, which had previously never troubled her overmuch, was rampant. She was haunted by pictures of her daughter lying dead in some ditch. Pride had stopped her from telling the authorities to start a search. She had been so sure Cassandra would come to her senses.

  Guilt weighed heavily on her. She had been a bad woman. She had told Edward that Letitia had no dowry so that Edward would transfer his affections to her, which he had done. She had told her dying parents that a simple will was enough. She as the elder would handle everything, make Letitia a generous allowance and give her a Season in London. And she had not.

  After five miscarriages, she had at last produced a son, named Edward after his father, and, a year later, a daughter, Cassandra, and had dreamt of social triumphs when her daughter grew to beauty. She had set her heart on this ambition so much that she had only put up a token protest when, at the age of sixteen, young Edward had left to join the navy. As a young child, Cassandra had been blessed with glossy brown hair. But by her sixth year, it had turned red and continued to grow redder and redder. She had never quite been able to forgive Cassandra for having such red hair. Now she had driven her only daughter to ruin. A lifetime of despising Letitia could not be changed. How could such a feckless weakling as Letitia protect a young girl?

  Her husband came in and found her at her usual position by the window, waiting for the post-boy, waiting for news.

  He was sober for the first time in a long time and he looked at her seriously. “Mrs. Blessop,” he said quietly, “enough is enough. A search for Cassandra must begin immediately.”

  Honoria nodded dumbly and took out a small handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

  The post-boy’s horn sounded at the end of the drive and one of the little maids went scampering down to meet him.

  Honoria went very still as she watched the girl returning holding a letter. If only God would give her back her lost daughter, then she would make amends to Edward and Letitia for all her cruelty.

  She rose as the maid entered the room, and snatched the letter and broke the seal.

  She scanned the contents and then slowly sank into a chair and read the letter slowly and carefully, her face darkening with anger.

  “What is it?” asked Edward.

  She held out the letter. “It’s from Letitia,” she said in a colourless voice.

  He read it through and then
he began to laugh. “Good old Letitia,” he cried. “She’s done what you could never do. She’s gone and got Cassandra engaged to Lord Eston. Why, woman, what ails you? Our girl is safe and well and happy. Eston is coming here to ask my permission, and Letitia is bringing Cassandra home!”

  I will never forgive Letitia, thought Honoria. She did this to spite me!

  Some days later Amanda and Mr. Davenport were driving through the Park, each dressed in the height of fashion. “So you forgive me for having taken you away from Eston?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” said Amanda with a little shudder. “You saved me. He was so disappointed, of course, so furious, that he went off and got engaged to that Hungarian who is not a Hungarian at all, but a hurly-burly girl who likes to play tricks.”

  “They will be well suited, my little love.”

  “I rather liked Miss Blessop. Perhaps I should warn her about Eston as you warned me.”

  “Oh, no,” said Mr. Davenport with a sudden picture of pistols at dawn. “Do not do that. Think of our wedding instead!”

  The wedding of Lord Eston to Miss Cassandra Blessop was a quiet affair, punctuated by the sobbing of her mother. Honoria felt that Lord Eston should have known better than to have invited those freaks from the hotel. Cassandra had sealed her mother’s misery by making her aunt a maid of honour.

  Cassandra was aware of only her husband at the wedding breakfast. She was married and she would live happily ever after.

  Amanda, her parents, and Mr. Davenport were also guests, the quietness of the wedding seeming to bear out Lord Eston’s story about penury. Amanda was still to be married, and although she sometimes wished she were to have a title, for such as Cassandra would take precedence over her at social functions, she was happy with her adoring Aubrey Davenport. But she felt sorry for Cassandra, who seemed a good-hearted, jolly sort of lady. The fact that Cassandra was cursed with unfashionable red hair made Amanda feel even warmer towards her. Poor innocent, thought Amanda, I really ought to warn her. Whatever Aubrey may say, I should have warned her before about Eston.