A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [1]
Clara was only half listening, however, because her own mention of Parliament had recalled Harold to her again. Parliament was his ambition, and whatever he wanted she did, too, passionately.
It was hopeless, she repeated to herself. Utterly hopeless.
And for the silliest reason! It wasn’t because he didn’t reciprocate her affection. He did, which made her heart flutter to contemplate. Unfortunately, he hadn’t any money, and though it didn’t matter a whit to her, her parents, who controlled her own marriage portion, had forbidden the match. Thus she was in Paris, out of London, her home city, and with her tedious, countrified aunt, who lived primarily in Kent and spent only a month of the year in town. “It will be nice for her and nice for you,” her parents had said. They weren’t cruel people—but oh, how cruelly they were behaving!
“I remember now,” said her aunt. “George Barnard was the Master of the Mint, and he was trying to steal from it. But surely it was Scotland Yard who solved that mystery, wasn’t it? Yes, I remember very definitely that it was Scotland Yard.”
“But everyone in London knows that it was really Charlie Lenox,” said Clara. “He never takes the credit. And he goes to the best places, I promise you.”
“What the world’s coming to!” said Bess, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Of course it’s only because he’s taking advantage of poor Lady Jane—charmed her, I’m sure, with his slick ways, and now she’s burdened with him for good. Oh, dear, the thought of it!” Bess fanned herself fretfully.
“They’re lifelong friends, I believe. They lived in houses side by side for years before he proposed. I think it’s wonderfully romantic.”
“Clara Woodward, you’re determined to vex me, aren’t you? Why won’t girls listen to sense these days. A detective, no matter what society he sees or how many Parliaments he’s in, is the least savory, vilest, most evil-minded—”
But here she broke off, because the unsavory, vile, evil-minded man himself was walking toward them from across the hall.
It was a wide room, dotted with tables and sofas, with gold leaf everywhere and vast trees dimming the noise—or at any rate Bess prayed they dimmed the noise. The man’s face was friendly enough. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her.
“How do you do? I’m afraid that I must presume on very slight acquaintance to reintroduce myself to your niece. I’m Charles Lenox.”
“How do you do, Mr. Lenox. My name is Bess Telford. You’ve met my niece?”
“Once, yes, but only very briefly, as I recall, and I’m ashamed to say I don’t remember her name. Your name, ma’am?” he said, turning to Clara.
“This is Clara Woodward,” said Bess, simpering a little. The Earls of Houghton, after all. And now she seemed to recall something about an older brother, too. Was it Edward Lenox? Edmund Lenox? A leading man in Parliament.
“As I say, I must apologize for presuming upon our very brief first meeting, but I was wondering whether either of you had seen my wife here. I was five minutes late to meet her, and now it’s been fifteen minutes. The clerks didn’t spy her, but I thought you might have.”
“Oh! How worrisome! I haven’t seen her, I’m sorry to say, and in this city what might happen to an honest Englishwoman is anybody’s—”
“I haven’t seen her either,” said Clara to save her aunt’s solecism. For her efforts she earned a reproving look from her relation. “Did you see the Robinsons before you left London?”
This was their mutual acquaintance. “I did, yes, they—”
Determined not to be superseded by her niece, however, Bess said, “Remind me, Mr. Lenox, about the affair at the Mint—wasn’t it you who sent that wicked man Barnard away to prison, and saved all of our money?”
Lenox turned red, and Clara felt she could have sunk into the ground. “Ah—I remember—I recall the incident to which I believe you’re referring, ma’am, but it was not I, it was Scotland Yard, that apprehended the criminal.”
“And that September Society—”
Thankfully