A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [54]
“Are these shoes fine?”
“Oh, I daresay they’ll pass.” She smiled. “Yes, quite shiny, of course. I think Graham had the boots around to shine them five times yesterday.”
“Graham! I haven’t even thought of him today!”
“You’re lucky to have me, then. I congratulated him and gave him the morning off, then told him to come back at three so we could greet you together and hear all about it.”
Lenox frowned. “You can’t give my political secretary the day off.”
“I’ll give him the week off if I like.”
Now he smiled. “You know, I am lucky to have you.”
It was the first awkward note. She handled it by going to the hook where he kept his cloak and taking it down. “You are, of course,” she said lightly.
“Emily Pendle will be cheered by three, then?” he asked, trying to restore the tone the conversation had had.
“It won’t be for lack of trying if she’s not.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then they were saved from truly talking by the doorbell. Kirk’s footsteps echoed down the front hallways, and both of them peered curiously at the door.
Was it a message about Clarke, Lenox wondered wildly? Who was guilty? What had happened?
But no—it was his brother’s reddish, cheerful face that popped through the door. “Hallo, Member for Stirrington,” he said brightly. “You, too, Charles.” At his own joke he laughed loudly. “Imagine, Jane giving her speech in Parliament.”
“I think I’d do a fair job,” said Lady Jane with mock hurt. “Better than some of the gentlemen I’ve heard from the galleries.”
“You would! I don’t doubt it! Only—the figure of a woman—the benches—a dress!” Edmund dissolved into laughter. “It’s exceedingly comical, you must admit.”
“Not so comical as all that, Edmund you great oaf,” said Lady Jane, frowning. “After all, the Queen is speaking there today.”
“It’s true, you’re quite right.” Edmund looked at his watch. “Lord, Charles, we must be on our way. The crush of carriages around Whitehall, you wouldn’t believe it. The Queen’s only an hour away; we should already be seated!”
Lady Jane bestowed a kiss on Charles—still such a thrill, after all this time!—and the two brothers hurried out of the door.
When they were sitting in the carriage together, Edmund asked about Ludo Starling. “They’ve arrested somebody?” He had always taken a deep interest in his brother’s work and liked to solve the crimes of his small village—a missing silver plate, for example, or a stolen horse—using only the evidence in the newspaper. He would bring his deductions to Charles with frankly unbecoming pride and boastfulness.
“The butler.”
“I’ve never liked Ludo Starling, not that it’s here nor there.”
They were in Whitehall now, and it was indeed crowded. The mall from Buckingham Palace was entirely cut off for the Queen. “Oh, bother murders. What are we to do today, Edmund?”
The question was more complicated than it seemed. This was one of those many days in England when a host of old traditions come back to life, and ceremonies with obscure and absurd origins are carried out with the utmost seriousness.
“You and I will start by going to the House—the House of Commons.”
“Won’t it be jammed?”
“Here, let’s go out on foot. It’s crowded. No, it won’t be too jammed. Do you really not know this ceremony? Right at the moment, the Yeomen of the Guard—that’s what we call the Beefeaters when we like to be formal—anyway, those chaps in red uniforms, who get a ration of beef every day—they’re poking around the cellars in case somebody wants to emulate Guy Fawkes and blow us all up.”
“What a relief,” murmured Lenox with a grin.
They were halfway down toward Parliament now, and the crowds were growing denser. “At just this moment an MP—this year it’s Peter Frogg, the lucky blighter—is being taken prisoner.”
Lenox laughed. “What can you mean?”
“In case we try to kidnap Queen Victoria, of course. He sits in the palace and gorges himself on wine and