Read Online Gather Ye Rosebuds by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page A

a nice cup of tea.
    As soon as Mama finished her water, we left to walk the length of the promenade before returning to our hotel to rest and change for dinner. It was just in front of King Charles the Martyr Church that we met Lord Weylin. Had we seen him first, I would have darted into a shop, and he would have done the same had his eyes been sharper.
    But we spotted each other at the same instant. Our eyes met, we both stared, caught between shame and anger. He swallowed his annoyance and came pacing forward, forcing a rictus-like smile onto his face.
    I had barely time to warn Mama before he was making his bows. While I despised his duplicity, I could not but admire the smooth manner in which he carried off the embarrassing meeting. There is something to be said for breeding after all.
    Without a blink of embarrassment, he said, “Ladies, what a delightful surprise. I am just on my way to London, and stopped off on the chance of discovering some clue to our mystery.”
    London, I need hardly say, is north of Aldershot. Tunbridge Wells is due east. One does not require much geometry to know that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and not a trip around a right angle.
    “We have just been trying the water,” I replied blandly.
    “You are brave.” He smiled.
    “We are on our way to our hotel,” was my next effort at civility.
    “I shall walk along with you. Where are you staying?”
    “Bishop’s Down.”
    His smile grew more strained by the moment. “I am putting up there myself,” he said.
    “Oh, then you are not proceeding to London today!” I exclaimed, in no joyful way. “I understood you had urgent business there.”
    “Politics is seldom urgent. Like the mills of the gods, Whitehall grinds slowly.”
    “But it grinds exceedingly small,” Mama said. She is a keen devotee of her Bible.
    Weylin laughed as though it were a famous joke and replied, “I don’t know about that.” That eruption of laughter told me he was quite as embarrassed as I at being caught out in his lie.
    He did not offer his arm, but he walked between us toward the hotel and at the corner put his hand on Mama’s elbow, which she later said was very prettily done. She had not thought him so obliging.
    As we walked along, not a word was mentioned about what had really brought us all to this resort of valetudinarians. Lord Weylin inquired how the Book Society was coming along, and I confessed that no major strides had been made during the twenty-odd hours since our last meeting. He mentioned Mrs. Radcliffe as an author who might appeal to the ladies. I said that we had all enjoyed her gothic tales very much in our youth, but were interested in more worthwhile literature now.
    He peered down and said, “In your youth! I don’t see any gray hairs, Miss Barron.”
    Mama informed him I was a quarter of a century old. He examined my face as minutely as our brisk pace allowed. When we came to the next corner, I felt his hand at my elbow, but as it fell away as soon as we reached the safety of the walkway, I was forced to conclude it was my advanced state of decrepitude that occasioned the gesture.
    We were soon at the hotel. We thanked Lord Weylin for his escort, and were about to escape when he gave a frustrated tsk and said, “This is foolishness. Why are we treading on eggs? We all know why we are here. Let us get our heads together and see what can be done about finding the necklace.”
    “We are not looking for your aunt’s necklace,” I said. “We are trying to discover what happened to my uncle’s money.”
    “Five thousand pounds,” Mama said importantly.
    “Presumably the two are mixed up somehow. Money, however, is anonymous. Once in circulation, it is indistinguishable from any other money. A unique necklace, on the other hand, might be traced, and might have some bearing on Mr. McShane’s money. What do you say, ladies? Shall we discuss it over dinner? I have hired a private parlor, and would