5

STRATEGY AND TACTICS

IT TOOK LESS THAN five minutes over the cake plate at Rumm’s for Minnie to realize the depths of her father’s treachery.

“Your style is very good, my dear,” said Lady Buford. The chaperone was a thin, gray-haired lady with an aristocratically long nose and sharp gray eyes under heavy lids that had probably been languorously appealing in her youth. She gave a small, approving nod at the delicate white daisies embroidered on Minnie’s pink linen jacket. “I had thought, with your portion, that we might set our sights on a London merchant, but with your personal attractions, it might be possible to aim a little higher.”

“My…portion?”

“Yes, five thousand pounds is quite attractive—we’ll have a good selection, I assure you. You could have your pick of army officers”—she made an elegantly dismissive gesture, then wrapped long, bony fingers around the handle of her teacup—“and there are a few that are quite appealing, I admit. But there’s the perpetual absences to be considered…and postings in insalubrious spots, should your husband wish you to accompany him. Now, if he’s killed, there’s a reasonable pension, but it’s nothing to what a sound merchant might leave—and if he should be wounded to such an extent as to exclude him from service…” She took a long, considering sip, then shook her head.

“No. We can certainly do better than the army. Or the navy, God help us. Sailors tend to be somewhat…un. Couth,” she said, leaning toward Minnie and pursing her wrinkled lips in a whisper.

“God help us,” Minnie repeated in a pious tone, though her fist was knotted in the folds of the tablecloth. You utter weasel! she thought toward her absent father. Establish a social life for me, eh?

Despite her astonished annoyance, though, she had to admit to being somewhat impressed. Five thousand pounds?

If he actually meant it…the cynical part of her mind put in. But he likely did. It would be just like him. He’d see it as killing two birds with one stone: getting her access to likely sources of salable information and simultaneously marrying her off to one of them, with Lady Buford as his unwitting accomplice.

And he had, to be fair, told her that he wanted an Englishman for her. She just hadn’t thought he’d meant now. Really, she had to admire her father’s twisted genius; who but a marriage procuress would know more—and have less hesitation in revealing what she knew—about the intimate familial and financial details of wealthy men?

Taking a deep breath, she let go of the fistful of tablecloth and did her best to look interested, in a demure sort of way.

“We’ll avoid the navy, then,” she said. “Do you think…I hope I am not immodest in suggesting it, but after all, five thousand pounds…What about minor—very minor,” she added hastily, “members of the peerage?”

Lady Buford blinked but not as though taken aback; merely reordering her mental index, Minnie thought.

“Well, there are impoverished knights and baronets by the score,” she said. “And if you are set on a title…But really, my dear, I wouldn’t recommend that avenue unless you will have independent means of your own. Your portion would be instantly swallowed in sustaining some crumbling manor and you yourself would molder inside it, never getting to London or having a new dress from one year’s end to the next.”

“To be sure. I, um, do possess a, er…small competence, shall we say?”

“Indeed.” Lady Buford’s wispy brows rose in interest. “How small?”

“A thousand a year,” Minnie said, wildly exaggerating the income from her small private ventures, which totaled less than a tenth of that sum. Still, it hardly mattered, as she wasn’t actually marrying any of these theoretical impoverished baronets; she only needed to enter the social circles they—they and their more interesting brethren—inhabited.

“Hmm.” Lady Buford assumed an inward look and drank tea. After a few moments’ contemplation, she set down the cup with decision.

“You speak good French, your father says?”

“Mais oui.”

Lady Buford looked at her sharply, but Minnie kept a straight face.

“Well, then. We’ll begin with Lady Jonas’s Thursday salon. It’s literary and intellectual, but she usually has a good mix of available gentlemen, including European—though your father did specify an Englishman….Well, we’ll see. Then perhaps a play on Saturday evening….We’ll have a box; it’s important that you be seen—have you something appropriate to wear?”

“I don’t know,” Minnie said honestly. “I’ve never been to a play; what is appropriate?”

Half an hour, two pots of China tea, and a dozen tea cakes (with cream) later, she made her way out into the street, a scribbled list of engagements in her hand and her head spinning with tippets, panniers, mantuas, swags, fans—she had a nice fan, luckily—and other items necessary to the pursuit and bagging of a wealthy and influential husband.

“A gun would be simpler,” she muttered, thrusting the list into her pocket. “And certainly less expensive.”

“What kind of gun?” said Mick O’Higgins with interest, appearing out of a nearby doorway.

“Never mind,” she said. “We’re going to a milliner’s.”

“Oh, a milliner’s, is it?” He bowed and offered her his arm. “Nay bother, then. Sure, the bird’ll be dead before they put it on your hat.”

A week later…

HER APPOINTMENT BOOK was a pleasure to look at, a glory to hold. Made in Florence, the leather cover was the color of rich chocolate, with a pressed gilt design of looping vines and a glorious, explosive-looking flower in the center. Her father had informed her that the Chinese called it “Chu” and that it was a symbol of happiness. He’d given her the book for her seventeenth birthday.

He’d given her another one, too, before she left Paris: a rough-cut notebook such as an artist might use for sketching notes—and sketches were just what decorated its pages, made by her own hand. And coded into the sketches were the appointments made for those clients whose names were never spoken aloud.

The first few pages were decoys; the first aide-memoire was on the fifth page (the appointment being for the fifth of the month): a sketch of trees overhanging a path, with the legend Vauxhall Gardens underneath. There were footprints on the path, leading the way into the shadows—three of them clearly marked, and half of another. Half-three in Vauxhall Gardens, on the third of June. On the facing page, a sketch of a wrapped parcel, like a birthday present. To be received…

That was for tomorrow. She set the sketchbook aside and picked up the chuppointment book, where the less-private clients were listed—those merely wanting to buy or sell books. Eight ticked off since her arrival in London; she’d been very efficient.

She rubbed a thumb gently over the exuberant bloom on the cover. She’d never seen a real chu flower. Perhaps she might come across a botanist in London who would have such a plant; she’d love to know what they smelled like.

At the back of the appointment book, between the creamy blank pages and the soft leather cover, was the letter. She had written and rewritten it several times. Wanting to be sure, but knowing there could be no surety in this.

In the morning, she’d give it to one of the O’Higginses. She’d known them long enough now to be sure they’d carry out her errands without question—well, without a lot of questions. She sent a good many notes and letters in the course of business; there was no reason why this one should seem at all odd.

Mrs. Simpson, Parson’s Green, Peterborough Road

Her fingers were damp; she put the letter back before the ink of the direction should smear and closed the book upon it.

From the Chu Diary

Monday, June 1

11:00—Mr. H. R. Wallace, to view Philologus Hebraeus (Johannes Leusden). Offer also Histoire de la Guerre des Juifs Contre les Romains (Joseph Flavius) and De Sacrificiis Libri Duo Quorum Altero Explicantur Omnia Judæorum, Nonnulla Gentium Profanarum Sacrificia (William Owtram)

1:00—Misses Emma and Pauline Jones, to discuss catalog of late father’s library. In Swansea(!) How blood helly will I get those shipped?

2:00—fitting at Myers, peach silk suit

4:00—Lady Buford, tea here, then Mrs. Montague’s salon

8:00—Drury Lane Theatre, Mahomet the Imposter

Tuesday, June 2

9:00—bath

10:00—hairdresser

1:00—Lady Buford, for Viscountess Baldo’s luncheon

5:00—the Hon. Horace Walpole, to view Italian titles (arrange tea)

Wednesday, June 3

10:00—boating on Thames with Sir George Vance, Kt., luncheon

3:30—Deer Park

7:00—Mrs. Annabelle Wrigley’s rout

Note: Sir George young but boring; told L. Buford to cross him off. Met a promising gentleman named Hanksleigh at rout, knowledgeable about finance; seeing him for tea next week.

Note: Vauxhall Gardens charming (visit again next week)

Thursday, June 4

9:00—bath

10:00—body groomer (ouch)

11:00—hairdresser

1:00—measurements, Madame Alexander’s, eau-de-nil ball gown

3:00—promenade in Hyde Park with Sir Robert Abdy, Bt.

8:00—supper party, Lady Wilford

Note: Lady Wilford’s party well supplied. Two engagements for next week, and a promising conversation with the Marquess of Tewksbury about hocus-pocus in House of Lords.

Note: Also met Duke of Beaufort at supper, chatted briefly over asparagus mayonnaise. Asked me to ride with him in Rotten Row next Tuesday. Declined on grounds that I have no horse, only to have him offer me one. Accepted. How hard can it be?

Friday, June 5

11:00—Baron Edgerly, to view French titles, elephant folio atlas

1:30—Visit Mr. Smethurst, bookseller in Piccadilly, worm list of clients out of him if poss.

4:30—Lady Buford, tea with Mrs. Randolph and her two daughters

Note: supper alone, thank God. Don’t want to hear one more word spoken. Randolph girls complete emmerdeuses.

Note: reply from Mrs. Simpson. Monday, two o’clock.

Saturday, June 6

Beginning to attract clients desiring information rather than books. Father’s work. Two this week. Said no to one, yes to Sir Roger Barrymore (request re character of man seeking to wed his daughter; met said man last week and could have told Sir Roger he’s a wrong ’un on the spot, but will give him news next week to justify bill).

Sunday, June 7

Morning service, St. George’s, Hanover Square, with Mr. Jaken (Exchange)—fond of organ music

4:00—tea, Lady Buford, review of progress

7:00—Evensong, St. Clement’s, Mr. Hopworth, banker