As Bea had every intention of interrogating the master of the house, she nodded smoothly and asked either of them if they knew when Esther had finished in the scullery.
“Not long after me, maybe one-thirty?” Gertrude said. “We share a bed, and I had just fallen asleep when she came in. The door scrapes when you open it. But you will have to confirm the time with her when she awakens. I am sure it won’t be long now.”
But her tone was satirical, indicating that she thought the very opposite.
“Had Monsieur Alphonse mentioned his plans to leave?” Bea asked.
Gertrude’s square face sharpened in response. “Monsieur Alphonse was planning to leave? He said nothing about it to me. Did you know, Mr. Parsons?”
But the butler was already shaking his head vigorously in denial. “I am certain that is not true. He had no reason to leave. His situation here was very comfortable, and Mr. Mayhew endeavored to accommodate him whenever possible. He rarely denied him anything, and Monsieur Alphonse certainly didn’t deny himself much.”
Although Parsons spoke evenly, without any indication of antipathy or resentment, Bea thought she detected a simmering dislike in his words. Before she could ask him to elaborate, however, Henry appeared to announce that Mr. Mayhew was ready to see her now.
Chapter Seven
Having occupied only the farthest fringe of society for more than half a decade, Bea knew little of the less illustrious members of the ton.
Beau Brummell, of course, was well familiar to her, his extravagance, both in personal style and contempt for the regent, having drawn her notice. In the same vein, she had followed the career of Lord Byron, admiring his work (and eagerly awaiting the next canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage like everyone else) while flinching over the many questionable choices he had made in pursuit of personal satisfaction. She could recognize all the patronesses of Almack’s and had even conversed with Lady Cowper at the Leland ball, thanks to Lady Abercrombie’s determined efforts to bring her into fashion.
But only the light from the brightest stars in the firmament had managed to penetrate the darkness that surrounded her on the periphery, and as a result, she knew nothing about Mr. Mayhew.
No matter!
He was only too delighted to rectify the situation.
“Our principal seat is Helston Park, which my paternal grandfather, Samuel Mayhew, acquired after its owner defaulted on the mortgage, leaving the stately country estate in abject disrepair. My father, Richard Mayhew, hired Robert Adam to remodel the home, a massive undertaking that in some respects continues today, the efforts of which were more than worth it, as I am sure you will see when you and the duke consent to visit,” he said firmly, issuing a summons, not an invitation.
The entire conversation had been conducted thusly, with the banker and member of Parliament from Aylesbury assuring her of one thing or another: She would adore his wife, greatly admire his children, look with awe upon his art collection, highly esteem his business acumen and stare in wonder at his deft command of his horses.
Mayhew and Co.—the banking concern established by his great-grandfather—was equally a bastion of accomplishment: It began distributing banknotes more than eight decades ago and was the very first institution in the world to provide its customers with printed cheques to increase the efficiency of the system.
Knowing nothing of the Mayhew family or the architectural wonders of its family seat, Bea could not judge the accuracy of the vast majority of his claims. It seemed unlikely to her that all the superlatives he used could uniformly apply based simply on the law of averages. Surely, at least one of the portraits in his collection was not quite stellar or his ability to sweep a tight corner with four in hand not entirely the vision of grace and beauty he insisted it was. Nevertheless, she was willing to allow him the benefit of the doubt.
On the history of banking, however, she could extend no such courtesy, as she knew the year the Bank of England issued its first form cheque and it was a full six before Harold Mayhew established his company.
It was, she thought, a reckless boast, for anyone with even a cursory knowledge of financial innovation knew printed cheques were an invention of the Bank of England. Needless to say, Bea’s interest in the topic was more than just passing, as she had read all three volumes in Jasper Penwilk’s masterful study on European banking systems and the advantages of free competition.
Faintly contemptuous, Bea made no effort to correct Mr. Mayhew’s error for the same reason she had made no effort to interrupt his endless pontification: She could perceive no value in alienating Mr. Réjane’s employer.
Well, she amended with silent humor, there would be some value, for she would enjoy taking the wind out of the insufferable popinjay’s sails.
Kesgrave might also be given to ostentatious displays of knowledge, but his information, although frequently as dull, had the advantage of always being accurate.
Additionally, it had less to do with his own personal self-aggrandizement than with particular facts about the world.
As Mr. Mayhew launched into a description of his grandfather’s tenure as Lord Mayor of London (1741–44), Bea wondered how much longer she was expected to listen to his speech before she could ask about the destruction of le peu guillotine, his conversation with the constable and his feelings on his chef’s refusal to remain in his employ. It had already been fifteen…no, she thought, glancing at the clock…twenty minutes, and at some point, her silent submission to his ceaseless prattle would begin to seem insulting. Only a partially insensible woman could listen without protesting.
Five minutes more, she thought, turning away from the sight of Mr. Mayhew in all his splendor—the chartreuse-colored waistcoat, the snug silk breeches, the buckled pumps with a low heel, wide whiskers—to examine the simple plasterwork on the ceiling.
A moment later, however, her eyes were drawn again to the figure sitting across from her in the drawing
