Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [4]
“And the problem?”
“He hasn’t proposed. Rose is my only child. Would like some discreet chap to check up on Blandon. Find out if he’s the thing. I mean, does he have a mistress who might turn awkward? That sort of business.”
Having got it out, the little earl turned scarlet with embarrassment and took a gulp of sherry.
“I am not much out in the world these days,” said the captain, “but knowing how gossip flies about, I would have thought if there was anything unsavoury about the man, you’d have heard it.”
“Blandon’s been in America for the past four years, came back in time for this season. Might be something nobody knows about. Handy says he’s a gambler.”
Captain Cathcart studied him for a long moment and then said, “A thousand pounds.”
“What, what?” gabbled the earl.
“That is my fee for research and discretion.”
The earl was shocked. This captain was a baron’s son and yet here he was asking for money like a tradesman. And yet, why hadn’t Blandon declared his intentions? He was spoiling Rose’s chances of finding another suitor.
The captain let the silence last. A carriage rattled over the cobbles on the street outside and a small fire crackled on the hearth. A clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes.
“Very well,” said the earl with a cold stare.
“In advance,” said the captain mildly.
The earl goggled at him. “You have my word.”
The captain smiled and said nothing.
The earl capitulated. “I’ll give you a draft on my bank.”
“You may use my desk.”
The earl went over to a desk at the window and scribbled busily. He handed the draft to the captain and said angrily, “If there’s nothing wrong, it’ll be a waste of money.”
“I should think to be reassured on the subject of your only daughter would be worth anything.”
“Harrumph. I’m going. Report to me as soon as you can,” snapped the earl.
The captain waited until Becket had ushered the earl out and then smiled at his manservant. “My coat and hat, Becket. I am going to the bank. I will have your overdue wages when I get back.”
“That is most gratifying, sir.”
At that moment, Rose was taking tea at the home of her mother’s friend, Mrs. Cummings, in Belgrave Square. She looked dismally at the small butter stain on one of her kid gloves, and, for seemingly the hundredth time, damned the mad rules of society, one of which was that a lady should not remove her gloves when taking tea. Although the bread and butter had been carefully rolled, a spot had got onto one of her gloves> Most ladies avoided the problem by simply not eating. What insanity, thought Rose bitterly. She had a healthy appetite and the spread before her was of the usual staggering proportions. Apart from the bread-and-butter, there were ham, tongue, anchovy, egg-and-cress and foie gras sandwiches; chicken cutlets and oyster canapes. And then the cakes: Savoy, Madeira, Victoria and Genoa, along with French pastries, to be followed by petits fours, banana cream, chocolate cream and strawberry ice cream. And all of it sitting there mostly untouched so that the ladies would not soil their gloves.
Did no one but herself notice the poor on the streets of London? she wondered. And again she felt that uncomfortable feeling of isolation as she assumed she was probably the only person in society who did notice. Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey, did have some idea. He had told her that only the other day, the Duke of Devonshire had been visiting a bazaar with his agent and had stopped at a stall displaying wooden napkin rings and the duke had asked his agent what they were for.
“Napkin rings,” said the agent. “Middle-class people keep them on the table to put their table napkins in between meals.”
Said the astounded duke, “Do you mean that people actually wrap up their napkins and use them again for another meal?”
“Certainly,” said the agent.
The duke gasped as he looked at the stall, “Good God!” he exclaimed. “I never knew such poverty existed.”
How Geoffrey had laughed at such idiocy. If only he would propose. She knew her parents were beginning