Simon Hawke - A Mystery Of Errors

Smythe grinned, self-consciously. “She said that I was handsome. Did you hear? And did you see the way she winked at me?”

“Aye, and so did Drummond. And you can be sure that he will report it to his master.”

“Mr. Anthony Gresham,” Smythe said.

“I believe that was the name she mentioned,” said Shakespeare, wryly.

“You realize that she made a particular point of telling us whose coach it was?”

“I realize that she is trouble on the hoof,” said Shakespeare. “I have seen her sort before. She is the type that likes to stir things up. She has a rich gentleman sending a fancy coach to bring her to the theatre, where she will enjoy the production from the intimacy of a private box screened off from the remainder of the audience, and yet she takes the time to flirt with a mere ostler, and in so obvious a manner that the servant of the gentleman who squires her cannot help but notice. So, if you can stop being blinded by Miss Darcie’s admittedly radiant charms long enough to think clearly for a moment, then what conclusion can you draw from this?”

“You believe that she was flirting with me in front of the servant on purpose, only to make this Gresham jealous?”

“Well, far be it from me to pretend I know a woman’s motives for anything she does,” said Shakespeare, wryly. “As for her doing it in front of Drummond on purpose, there can be, I think, no doubt of that. ‘Twas clear to her you had a bone to pick with the owner of the coach that nearly ran you down. And so, as you observed, she made a point of telling you his name, when there was no need at all for her to do so. Especially after I had told her it could easily have been another coach that merely looked like this one. It seems clear to me she is intent on pointing you toward Gresham… and at the same time, giving Gresham ample reason to bear a grudge against you.”

“But why? What reason could she have for causing trouble between the two of us?” said Smythe, as they led the horses to the paddock. “She does not even know me.”

“Who is to say? She may have taken offence at your manner. Or else it had nothing to do with you at all. Perhaps she simply enjoys making Gresham jealous. Some women like to see men demonstrate their power, the more so if ‘tis done on their behalf. In any event, the rhyme or reason of it really does not matter. The potential consequences do, for they represent nothing but trouble. Stay away from these people, Tuck. As I said before, they are not like us. And we mean less to them than the dirt clods they crush beneath their boots.”

Smythe sighed. “I see the sense in what you say. You are right, of course. What possible interest could a lady such as that have in a lowly ostler?”

“Be of good cheer, Tuck. She was right in one respect at least; you are a handsome fellow, and this is London, after all, with opportunities at every corner. There shall be sweet young girls aplenty for you in good time. Just see to it that you are not incautious, and that you do not shoot your bolts at targets far beyond your reach.”

“I defer to your superior wisdom, Father Shakespeare,” Smythe said, with an elaborate, mocking bow.

Shakespeare threw a dirt clod at him.

An evening at the playhouse was not what Elizabeth had expected. However, she had not really been sure what to expect. A coach ride along the Strand? Supper or high tea at Gresham ’s home, or perhaps an outing in the park? The invitation had been mysteriously and frustratingly unspecific. Her mother had not been pleased about that, and she had been even less pleased about Elizabeth accepting it. Had it come from anyone else, there would have been no question about it, but Edwina Darcie knew how much her husband wanted this marriage to take place and, in his absence, had not been confident enough to stand upon her own authority.

She had found her daughter becoming much more willful of late and was not quite certain what to do about it. As a result, she had her own reasons for wanting the marriage to take place, and as soon as possible. Elizabeth was not a child anymore and her mother did not enjoy having another grown woman around the house to threaten, however indirectly, her domain. Aside from that, the social circles into which an alliance with the Gresham name would introduce them made her giddy with anticipation. Consequently, Elizabeth knew that her objections to the presumptive invitation were little more than posturing.

She, however, had her own reasons for accepting the invitation, and they had nothing at all to do with her regard for the proper way of doing things or for Mr. Anthony Gresham, for that matter. Indeed, he was falling lower in her estimation by the minute.

First, she thought, he sends a rather imperious invitation, on uncommonly short notice, which was both inconsiderate and rude in its presumption. Second, he had not even bothered to tell her where this assignation would take place, so that she could at least attempt to dress accordingly. As a result, she had chosen one of her best dresses, reasoning that it was better to be overdressed than underdressed for any occasion. And third, once she had arrived at the playhouse, he had not even bothered to meet her himself, instead sending a mere servant to escort her to his private box up in the galleries, where he waited like some potentate condescending to, grant a common petitioner an audience. Mr. Gresham certainly seemed to think rather highly of himself. Well, she labored under no illusions that she was going to change that. Nor did she care to. But she could certainly do something about how he thought of her.

She had already decided that she was going to flirt in Mr. Gresham’s presence with every man who caught her eye, but she had not yet even laid eyes upon her haughty host when she had started flirting with that handsome ostler who had so abruptly flung open the coach door and started shouting before he even knew who was within. Obviously, it had been a case of mistaken identity. But even so, that still said something about him, in that he did not hesitate to assert himself, and rather strongly, in the face of someone of superior social standing. It was, after all, clearly a gentleman’s coach. For that matter, there was every possibility that he had not been mistaken, and that it was Anthony Gresham against whom he held a grudge. How could he have known that it was not Gresham in the coach? There had been such fire in his eyes! In all honesty, she had to admit to herself that her exchange with him had not been part of her original plan.

Drummond had witnessed it, of course, and he would surely report it to his master, for that was no more than his duty, and so it was just as well. It had worked out exactly as if that was the way she’d planned it. Save that she hadn’t planned it and she hadn’t known that Drummond would be there to see it. She would not make excuses to herself. There was no denying that the young man had an effect upon her. She had flirted with him because she wanted to.

What was his name? Smythe-something. No, Something-Smythe. Symington Smythe. That was it! It sound so euphonious. He certainly was handsome. And those shoulders! He seemed well-spoken, too, not at all thick, coarse, and rough-mannered, like so many of these common louts who worked around the Theatre, with their incomprehensible burrs and brogues and slurring speech and nose-wiping and forelock-tugging gruntings. She had, of course, been to the Theatre many times before, since her father was one of the investors whose money had helped build it, but this was the first time she had ever seen this rather striking young man. He must have been newly employed. Pity he was just an ostler. There could be no question, really, of her becoming more intimately acquainted with anyone like that. Her parents would both throw fits. Which, it occurred to her, was a tantalizing idea in itself.