Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [37]
“Miss Levine, may I say, is a most unusual companion.”
“Excuse me.” Rose got up and made her way to the corner of the room where Daisy was standing. “Why are you making all those funny faces?”
“I phoned Becket to say I was back in town,” whispered Daisy. “The captain sent you a full letter of apology. Your father must have torn it up.”
Rose was suddenly furiously angry. She knew that her father would bluster and deny that she had been sent any such letter.
“You know, Daisy, I sometimes feel like marrying anyone just to have my own home and freedom.” Rose looked thoughtfully across the room at Peter.
“Bad idea,” said Daisy. “Men you marry can turn into heavy fathers.”
“How would you know that, pray?”
“Observation.”
Daisy watched anxiously as Rose went back to join Peter and saw the ease with which Rose chatted and smiled at him. But the captain would surely call that evening.
Harry arrived home late. Becket helped him out of his coat and told him about the destroyed letter.
“I will see Lady Rose tomorrow,” said Harry.
“We are leaving early for Oxford, sir,” Becket reminded him.
“I shall call on her when we return.”
Rose was prepared for bed by her maid. She picked up a book to read before going to sleep and then crossed to the window, parted the curtains and looked down into the square.
Two men were standing over by the gardens, black silhouettes in the night. Something made her let the curtain fall and turn off the gaslight. She returned to the window and parted the curtains an inch and looked down again. The two men had moved into a pool of lamplight. Cyril Banks and Lord Berrow. As she watched, they both looked up at the house.
She dropped the curtain quickly and stood there, her heart beating hard, suddenly frightened. Where was Harry?
The next morning, Harry parked his motor car at Paddington Station and he and Becket took the train to Oxford. They sat in the dining-car and ordered breakfast as the train gave a great hiss and moved out of the station into a black and rainy morning.
When the train stopped at Slough, Harry suddenly said, “I really do not know what to do about this engagement of mine.”
“To Lady Rose?”
“Who else? Perhaps, if I had not gone along with her plan, she might have enjoyed India and met some handsome officer.”
“I think Lady Rose would be made unhappy by a conventional husband,” said Becket. “If I may make so bold, sir, I think you and my lady are ideally suited.”
“Nonsense. We would fight the whole time.”
Harry stared gloomily out onto the platform. Opposite was a tin advertisement: “They come as a boon and a blessing to men, the Pickwick, the Owl, and the Waverley pen.”
“I wonder who thinks up these advertisements,” said Harry. “Some failed poet?” And Becket knew the subject was closed.
But at a telephone-box at Oxford Station, Harry telephoned Matthew and asked which social engagement Rose had for that evening.
“A fancy dress party at the Sowerbys,” said Matthew.
“Tell Lady Rose I shall be there to escort her.” Harry rang off. “I shall be going to a fancy dress party tonight, Becket. Do I have fancy dress?”
“No, but perhaps we could improvise.”
They walked down from the station and climbed into a hansom carriage. “Is Phil doing well?” asked Harry.
“Yes, he is very diligent. The house has never been so clean.”
“How does he pass his leisure time?”
“He reads. He enjoys books.”
“I am thinking of starting a charity to help the poor of the East End. Perhaps we will get Phil involved. Instead of lords and ladies playing the part of bountiful benefactors, perhaps someone like Phil would be good at finding out the truly deserving. We have more than enough money now. Do I pay you enough, Becket?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“Would it be possible to continue to work for you were I married?”
“You, Becket?”
“You must have noticed my fondness for Miss Levine.”
“We will see. Lady Rose without Daisy would be completely unprotected.”
“Perhaps the ideal solution would be for you to