A Dangerous Fortune

than idle banter. “Go on.”

April said suggestively: “We’re always interested in business propositions.” But Maisie had a feeling Sammles was not after what April had in mind.

“You see, Redboy’s for sale,” the man began. “But you don’t sell horses by keeping them indoors. Whereas, if you was to ride him around the park for an hour or so, a lady such as yourself, looking, if I may be so bold, as pretty as a pitcher, you’d attract a deal of attention, and chances are that sooner or later someone would ask you how much you wanted for the horse.”

Was there money in this, Maisie wondered? Did it offer her a way of paying the rent without selling her body or her soul? But she did not ask the question that was on her mind. Instead she said: “And then I’d tell the person: ‘Away and see Mr. Sammles in the Curzon Mews, for the nag’s his.’ Is that what you mean?”

“Exackly so, except that, rather than call Redboy a nag, you might term him ‘this magnificent creature,’ or ‘this fine specimen of horseflesh,’ or such.”

“Maybe,” said Maisie, thinking to herself that she would use her own words, not Sammles’s. “Now then, to business.” She could no longer pretend to be casual about the money. “How much would you pay?”

“What do you think it’s worth?”

Maisie picked a ridiculous sum. “A pound a day.”

“Too much,” he said promptly. “I’ll give you half that.”

She could hardly believe her luck. Ten shillings a day was an enormous wage: girls of her age who worked as housemaids were lucky to get a shilling a day. Her heart beat faster. “Done,” she said quickly, afraid he might change his mind. “When do I start?”

“Come tomorrow at half-past ten.”

“I’ll be here.”

They shook hands and the girls moved off. Sammles called after her: “Mind you wear the dress you’ve got on today — it’s fetching.”

“Have no fear,” Maisie said. It was the only one she had. But she did not tell Sammles that.

3

TRAFFIC IN THE PARK

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES

Sir,

— There has been noted in Hyde Park, in recent days, at about half-past eleven o’clock each morning, a jamb of carriages, so large, that there has been no getting forward for up to an hour. Numerous explanations have been suggested; as, that too many Country residents come up to Town for the Season; or, that the prosperity of London is now such that even tradesmen’s wives keep carriages and drive in the Park; but the real truth has nowhere been mentioned. The fault lies with a lady, whose name is unknown, but whom men term “The Lioness,” doubtless on account of the tawny colour of her hair; a charming creature, beautifully dressed, who rides, with ease and spirit, horses that would daunt many males; and drives, with equal facility, a carriage, drawn by perfectly matched pairs. The fame of her beauty and equestrian daring is such that all London migrates to the Park at the hour when she is expected; and, once there, finds it cannot move. Could not you, sir, whose business it is to know everything and everyone, and who possibly, therefore, may know the true identity of The Lioness, prevail upon her to desist, so that the Park may return to its normal state of quiet decorum and ease of passage?

I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

AN OBSERVER.

The letter had to be a joke, Hugh thought as he put down the newspaper. The Lioness was real enough — he had heard the clerks at the bank talking about her — but she was not the cause of carriage congestion. All the same he was intrigued. He gazed through the leaded windows of Whitehaven House to the park. Today was a holiday. The sun was shining and there were already lots of people walking, riding and driving carriages. Hugh thought he might just go to the park in the hope of seeing what the fuss was all about.

Aunt Augusta was also planning to go into the park. Her barouche was drawn up in front of the house. The coachman was wearing his wig and the liveried footman was ready to ride behind. She drove in the park at this time most mornings, as did all upper-class women and idle men. They said they did it for fresh air and exercise, but more importantly it was a place to see and be seen. The real cause of congestion was people stopping their carriages to gossip, and blocking the road.

Hugh heard his aunt’s voice. He got up from the breakfast table and went into the hall. As usual, Aunt Augusta was beautifully dressed. Today she wore a purple day gown with a tight jacket bodice and yards of ruffles below. The hat was a mistake, though: it was a miniature straw boater, no more than three inches across, perched on top of her coiffure at the front. It was the latest fashion, and on pretty girls it was sweet; but Augusta was anything but sweet, and on her it was ludicrous. She did not often make such errors, but when she did it was usually because she was following fashion too faithfully.

She was talking to Uncle Joseph. He had the harassed air he often wore when Augusta was talking to him. He stood in front of her, half turning away, stroking his bushy side-whiskers impatiently. Hugh wondered whether there was any affection between them. There must have been at one time, he supposed, for they had conceived Edward and Clementine. They rarely showed fondness, but every now and again, Hugh reflected, Augusta would do something thoughtful for Joseph. Yes, he thought they probably still loved each other.

Augusta carried on speaking as if Hugh were not there, which was her usual way. “The whole family is worried,” she was saying insistently, as if Uncle Joseph had suggested the opposite. “There could be a scandal.”

“But the situation — whatever it may be — has been going on for years, and no one has ever thought it scandalous.”

“Because Samuel is not the Senior Partner. An ordinary person can do many things without attracting notice. But the Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank is a public figure.”

“Well, the matter may not be urgent. Uncle Seth is still alive and shows every sign of hanging on indefinitely.”

“I know,” Augusta said, and there was a telling note of frustration in her voice. “I sometimes wish….” She stopped before revealing herself too much. “Sooner or later he will hand over the reins. It could happen tomorrow. Cousin Samuel cannot pretend there is nothing to worry about.”

“Perhaps,” said Joseph. “But if he does so pretend, I’m not sure what can be done.”

“Seth may have to be told about the problem.”

Hugh wondered how much old Seth knew about his son’s life. In his heart he probably knew the truth, but perhaps he never admitted it, even to himself.

Joseph looked uneasy. “Heaven forbid.”

“It would certainly be unfortunate,” Augusta said with brisk hypocrisy. “But you must make Samuel understand that unless he gives way his father will have to be brought in, and if that happens Seth must have all the facts.”

Hugh could not help admiring her cunning and ruthlessness. She was sending Samuel a message: Give up your secretary or we’ll force your father to confront the reality that his son is more or less married to a man.

In truth she did not care a straw about Samuel and his secretary. She just wanted to make it impossible for him to become Senior Partner — so that the mantle would fall on her husband. It was pretty low, and Hugh wondered whether Joseph fully understood what Augusta was doing.

Now Joseph said uneasily: “I should like to resolve matters without such drastic action.”

Augusta lowered her voice to an intimate murmur. When she did this, Hugh always thought, she was transparently insincere, like a dragon trying to purr. “I’m quite sure you’ll find a way to do just that,” she said. She smiled beseechingly. “Will you drive with me today? I should so like your company.”

He shook his head. “I must go to the bank.”

“What a shame, to be shut up in a dusty office on a beautiful day like this.”

“There has been a panic in Bologna.”