Carola Dunn Page 10

  “It makes no sense to me,” the Jinnee said frankly, “but I must take your word for it. Which leaves me with the question, what do we do next to bring a happy conclusion to their love?”

  The united scrutiny of the Jinnee, Mrs. Dinsmuir, and Miss Dirdle brought Bea and Alan out of their rosy haze.

  “Er, what?” said Alan, with less than his usual intelligence.

  “I await your commands, O master,” announced the Jinnee indulgently.

  “What shall we do next, dearest?” asked Mrs. Dinsmuir.

  “Good Lord, I haven’t the faintest idea. Bea, darling?”

  “Oh Alan, I simply do not know!”

  “Then listen to me,” said Miss Dirdle. “I have a splendid notion!”

  Chapter IV

  “Dash it, Bea, a gentleman don’t come up to Oxford to study,” Tom protested. “Just to knock up a few larks, and get to know the right sort of people before going on the Town.”

  Lord Wendover nodded.

  “Then you refuse to help, because Alan is cleverer than you?” Bea asked scornfully, slashing with her riding whip at an inoffensive hedgerow. May-petals flew. Her mare and Lord Wendover started.

  “Nothing of the sort!” her cousin denied. “Dash it, Bea, the fellow’s nobody, and you’re the daughter of the Marquis of Hinksey.”

  Lord Wendover nodded.

  “That is why we need you,” Bea pointed out. “Colonel McMahon is bound at least to give you the courtesy of a hearing, as you are Papa’s heir. And even more so if Lord Wendover goes with you, as he already has a title.”

  Lord Wendover nodded.

  “Dash it, Bea, you can’t expect Windy to help when he’s in love with you himself.”

  Lord Wendover nodded.

  Bea said seriously, “Lord Wendover, if I were to tell you I will marry you in three weeks’ time, as soon as the banns can be read, what would you do?”

  “Oh, I say, Lady Beatrice,” his lordship bleated in alarm. “Not quite ready for marriage, don’t you know. Desperately in love with you and all that, but I was thinking of waiting a few years.”

  “Well I cannot wait, even if I wanted to marry you. I should be an old maid by then. Anyway, it is Alan Dinsmuir I want to marry. If you truly love me, you must want me to be happy, and I cannot be happy without Alan. I love him desperately.”

  “Can’t see what you see in the fellow,” Tom grumbled.

  “He saved Miss Dirdle from drowning.”

  “I’d have pulled you out first, Lady Beatrice,” Lord Wendover assured her.

  “It was your fault she fell in,” Tom reminded his friend, “but all the same, Windy’s right, Bea. No gallant beau in his senses would rescue an old crow—an elderly, ill-favoured lady,” he amended hastily, catching Bea’s kindling eye, “—before he saved the pretty young lady.”

  “Precisely,” said Bea.

  Tom and Lord Wendover looked at each other blankly, and shrugged. “There’s no understanding females,” said Tom. “Maggots in their heads, the lot of them. The fact remains, Dinsmuir’s nobody.”

  “But if Miss Dirdle’s plan works, with your help, he will not be nobody,” Bea said persuasively. “She says it is well known that the Prince Regent hands out titles right and left to people who ‘lend’ him money, without expecting repayment.”

  Lord Wendover nodded.

  “But Dinsmuir’s poor as a church mouse,” Tom objected.

  “Not any more. He has come into a vast fortune, quite unexpectedly, only you know Papa will not be swayed by mere wealth.”

  Tom was suspicious. “Where did all this rhino come from all of a sudden?”

  “From the Orient,” Bea said warily. The conspirators had decided to stick to the truth as far as was humanly possible.

  Lord Wendover nodded, knowledgeably this time. “Long lost uncle turned out to be an India nabob, I daresay.”

  “Something like that. But Alan cannot simply send Prinny a bank draught with a note asking for a title in exchange.”

  “Lord no!” Tom exclaimed, horrified. “They’d send him to the Tower for lèse majesté. You have to do the thing up a bit more subtly than that, Bea, get an audience with Prinny and drop a few subtle hints, that sort of thing.”

  “McMahon’s the chap,” observed Lord Wendover. “Prinny’s Private Secretary, don’t you know. I say, Tom, it’d be a bit of a lark to see if we could persuade Colonel McMahon to let in a nobody like Dinsmuir to see the Prince Regent.”

  “Lord yes, what a caper! I wonder if he’s in London now, or down in Brighton?”

  Bea smiled a secret smile and listened to their plotting, putting in a word here and there to turn them from their more extravagant flights of fancy. When it came to the fantastic, the Jinnee was the best in the business.

  * * * *

  With all the magical resources at his command, the Jinnee was disgusted by Alan’s refusal to permit him to counterfeit coin of the realm. Instead, while his master conned his books and took his final examinations, the Jinnee went through a great deal of tedious—and in his view unnecessary—fuss and bother in London.

  Mrs. Dinsmuir, in her widow’s weeds, would arrive at a goldsmith’s or dealer’s premises, her turbaned servant following a pace behind. None were so distrustful or discourteous as to enquire as to the provenance of the articles of gold and silver this dark-skinned but obviously trusted menial produced for sale. It was perfectly obvious that the lady’s late husband must have been in the India service, in a most remunerative position. The right-hand man of some nawab, no doubt, struck down by one of those virulent tropical fevers.

  Goldsmiths and dealers were gently sympathetic, and perhaps a touch more generous than usual. The goods, after all, were of unusually pure precious metals. Mrs. Henrietta Dinsmuir opened substantial accounts at Child’s Bank, Coutts’ Bank, and Rothschild’s Bank.

  “Thus we shall avoid arousing suspicion,” she explained to the Jinnee as they left the last, “besides not risking all our eggs in one basket.”

  “All money-changers and usurers are alike,” he grumbled, handing her into the carriage. He had conjured up this modest but comfortable vehicle earlier, along with horses and driver, in a secluded spot on the outskirts of the metropolis. “Far better to keep your gold in iron chests in a vault under your own control, madam.”

  “I wish you will not call me ‘madam,’ Mr. Jinnee,” she said earnestly as he took the opposite seat. “Miss Dirdle, who understands the ways of the world, advises that you should hold the position of my son’s secretary, not his valet. A secretary is a gentleman, not a mere servant. As such you may properly address me by name, or at least as ‘ma’am.’“

  “I did not wish to presume, Henrietta.”

  Mrs. Dinsmuir blushed, as she had not in decades. “Not my christian name,” she said hurriedly, then added, for she had no wish to hurt him, “or only when we are quite private.”

  The Jinnee positively flickered with delight. Mrs. Dinsmuir accepted this somewhat unnerving spectacle with equanimity— sometimes she was amazed at how quickly she had grown accustomed to the manifestations of magic.

  They drove south, into Surrey, to ensure that no one could connect the flood of gold and silver with the poor Oxford student. As soon as they were in the country, the carriage turned into a deserted lane and disappeared, horses, coachman, occupants and all. A few seconds later, Mrs. Dinsmuir was home in her cottage again.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile, Tom and Lord Wendover had returned from London with Colonel McMahon’s consent to Mr. Dinsmuir’s proposal. They were both promptly sent down for the rest of the term, for unauthorized absence from their college. Undismayed, they went straight back to Town to enjoy the amusements of the end of the Season.

  As soon as Alan finished his legal studies, Bea and her governess tutored him in the proper etiquette for approaching the Prince Regent. Now they came to the cottage to wish him good luck.

  “Luck!” muttered the Jinnee. “There’s no need of lu
ck with me to guide him.”

  Alan was not listening, since Bea’s notion of speeding him on his way involved considerable bodily contact. Miss Dirdle’s scandalized cluckings had no effect. In the end, urged by Mrs. Dinsmuir, the Jinnee plucked him bodily—or rather, magically— from his beloved’s embrace. He found himself in a carriage entering London, seated next to his mother and opposite his ‘secretary.’

  “You did not let me say goodbye properly,” he said indignantly.

  His mother exchanged a complicitous glance with the Jinnee. “I thought that was what you were doing,” she said. “Five minutes seemed to me long enough.”

  “It wasn’t anywhere near five minutes.”

  “To be precise, seven minutes, forty-seven seconds,” the Jinnee confirmed blandly.

  “Well it seemed more like just forty-seven seconds.” Alan lapsed into a daydream in which Bea’s warm, supple body was still in his arms, her sweet lips still soft as satin on his own.

  He emerged from his dream to sign the papers which added his name to Mrs. Dinsmuir’s various bank accounts, and others which ordered the purchase of Government Bonds. He was rich beyond his wildest dreams. Yet all the wealth of the Indies—which was, in fact, at his command through the Jinnee—meant nothing to him if it did not win him Bea’s hand. And all the wealth of the Indies counted for nothing in Lord Hinksey’s eyes if his daughter’s suitor had no title to lend it legitimacy.

  “Mother, suppose the Prince won’t accept my gifts?”

  “They say he is constantly at Point Non Plus, dearest.”

  “Suppose he considers me unworthy of being ennobled?”

  “My own grandmother was the daughter of a baron, though the line has died out. You are a gentleman and the son of a gentleman.”

  “The son of a schoolmaster and grandson of a clergyman.”

  “Who was the younger son of a baronet.”

  “Back in the mists of time.”

  “The mists of time?” the Jinnee cackled. “A century or less! When you have existed for millennia, young man, you may speak of the mists of time.”

  Abashed, Alan gave voice to a fear he had scarcely acknowledged to himself: “Suppose everyone laughs at our entertainment?”

  The Jinnee swelled with wrath until his turban touched the carriage roof. “Laugh?” he said awfully. “At my entertainment? I’ll turn them into cockroaches!”

  “That certainly would land Alan in the Tower, Mr. Jinnee,” said Mrs. Dinsmuir, patting his huge brown hand soothingly. He subsided a little. “Miss Dirdle and dear Bea agree that the Prince Regent takes his oriental palace very seriously. If he chooses to stage an oriental pageant in his music room, not the slightest titter will be heard, you may depend upon it.”

  “All the same,” Alan said with fervour, “I wouldn’t go through this for anyone but Bea. I had rather slay any number of dragons.”

  “Is that a command, O Master?” asked the Jinnee, and rumbled with laughter at the horrified face Alan turned to him.

  The carriage stopped. The Jinnee whisked Mrs. Dinsmuir home, and returned to transport Alan and his equipage to a lonely spot on the South Downs above Brighton. Sheep scattered, bleating, as the coach and four materialized in their midst. A shepherd rubbed his eyes and stared again, while his dogs barked and nipped the wheels in an effort to drive off the intruder.

  It took the hint, rolling away along the chalky track, down into the wooded hollow where the London road descended towards the town.

  Mr. Dinsmuir and his secretary took rooms at the first respectable inn they came to. It was no part of Miss Dirdle’s plan for him to make a display of his vast wealth to anyone but the Prince Regent. Alan was relieved, but it had taken the combined efforts of Mrs. Dinsmuir and Bea to persuade the Jinnee of the necessity for reticence on the subject. He was still disgruntled.

  Once settled at the inn, Alan and the Jinnee strolled into the centre of Brighton. The first sight of the Royal Pavilion stunned Alan. Studded with onion domes, spires, and minarets, the façade all slender pillars and arched windows topped with lacy stone fretwork, it looked like something straight out of the Arabian Nights.

  The Jinnee was delighted. “By the Great Roc, that’s what a royal palace should look like,” he approved. “Something of the Muscovite, something of Hindostan, a touch of Baghdad and a hint of China. Not your square, solid English piles, with the rows of square windows, and square chimneys, and columns strong enough to hold up a mountain. The prince who built this will certainly appreciate my entertainment.”

  “No scantily-clad dancers,” Alan reminded him anxiously. “We are still in England. There will be ladies present.”

  “A strange custom,” the Jinnee mused with a sigh, brightening as he continued, “though not without its advantages.”

  They found the side door to which they had been directed, and enquired for Colonel McMahon. The Regent’s trusted personal aide came to them, rather than having them brought to him, and he greeted them with rather affected courtesy. Alan wondered just what his beloved’s cousin had told the ugly little man in the blue and buff uniform to lead to such complaisance.

  As McMahon led them into the Pavilion, Alan was too apprehensive to pay much heed to the apartments they passed through. He was aware of the Jinnee’s approving grunts, but he concentrated on what the colonel was saying.

  “I have been given to understand that you propose to offer an entertainment for His Royal Highness and his guests, Mr. Dinsmuir? And that in the course of the pageant, a number of... ah...objets d’art will be presented to His Highness?”

  “Yes,” Alan affirmed, continuing as tutored by Miss Dirdle, “I can think of no one who is more capable of appreciating the beauty and value of the oriental treasures in my possession. It will be a pleasure to add to the magnificent collection for which His Royal Highness is famous.”

  McMahon nodded, with a cynical smile. “His Highness will assuredly find a way to express his gratitude, assuming the gifts are bestowed in a suitably...ah...decorous fashion. I shall need to know the details of your pageant in advance.”

  “For that, you must consult my secretary, Mr. Jinnee, who has arranged the whole. If any part of his plans seems to you inappropriate, please tell him and he will be glad to alter it.” As he said this, Alan fixed the Jinnee with a stern eye.

  The Jinnee’s black eyes gleamed in response, but he bowed respectfully. “I am at your command, Colonel.”

  “Very good,” said McMahon. “I take it, Mr. Dinsmuir, that you will wish to be present?”

  Alan felt he had far rather be a thousand miles away, but Miss Dirdle had been unequivocal and Bea inflexible. “Yes, I should like to attend,” he said, suppressing a sigh, “but on no account do I desire a public acknowledgment of my presence.”

  “Excellent,” the colonel said smoothly. “Though naturally I cannot answer for His Highness’s...ah...eagerness to show his appreciation, I shall advise him that you would prefer a private audience.”

  A private audience with the Prince Regent? All too easy to make some shocking mistake in etiquette! Though Alan wanted to turn tail and run, he did not dare demur. He managed to squeak out something which sounded like thanks.

  “This is the Music Room, where the entertainment will take place,” announced the colonel as they entered a huge chamber.

  Alan stopped dead, dumfounded. The walls were painted with Chinese landscapes in gold on crimson, framed by gigantic trompe l’oeil serpents and winged, fire-breathing dragons. High above was an octagonal cornice, richly carved and gilded, and still higher, elliptical windows of coloured glass and then a tier patterned in blue and gold. Over all, a dome formed of gilded scallop-shells rose to an elaborate centerpiece from which hung a huge chandelier, with four gold dragons in flight below the glass lustre, presently unlit. There were several more chandeliers, only slightly less elaborate, their glass panels painted with Chinese figures.

  Developing a crick in his neck, Alan lowered his gaze. Between the land
scape panels stood porcelain pagodas some fifteen feet tall. The floor was covered with a vast blue carpet spangled with gold stars and fabulous oriental creatures. Even the furniture was all gilt, with mythical beasts holding up the arms.

  Surely the Emperor of China himself could not boast more splendour! Alan began to fear even the Jinnee could not provide gifts to match such magnificence, not without falling into vulgar ostentation.

  “Just between us,” said Colonel McMahon, regarding him with sly amusement, “there are those who decry the place as mere vulgar ostentation, and shockingly extravagant besides. Of course, almost everything here is of English provenance. His Highness wishes to support our own manufactories. But on the other hand, he is always delighted to acquire genuine artifacts from the East, to be properly displayed in the more...ah...restrained apartments.”

  Alan seized his chance. “The cost to display, guard, and care for such valuables must be high,” he said. “I shall be happy to help defray the expense.”

  The colonel nodded approvingly. “I shall so inform His Highness. No doubt his gratitude will increase commensurately.”

  With luck that meant no mere baronetcy, Alan hoped. Lord Hinksey would scarcely be impressed by anything less than a peerage. He had to win the marquis’s favour. Bea, the darling girl, was quite willing to marry him without, but only a blackguard would let her cut herself off from her family for his sake.

  Nothing must go wrong, and all depended on Colonel Sir John McMahon, Private Secretary and Keeper of the Privy Purse. In accordance with Miss Dirdle’s instructions, Alan said, “I should not wish you to be out of pocket, Colonel, in making arrangements for our spectacle. You must let me have an account of your expenses.”

  The colonel bowed.

  “This apartment will be the perfect setting for what we have in mind,” rumbled the Jinnee. “I am at your disposal, Colonel, to discuss the details.”