Read Online An Old Betrayal: A Charles Lenox Mystery (Charles Lenox Mysteries) by Charles Finch - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Finch
Ads: Link
Member of Parliament. Do you have a card?”
“Of course.” Lenox took one from the thin silver case Jane had given him three Christmases before. “At your service.”
Padden took the card and inspected it, then looked up. “If you don’t mind, I’ll look into your story for myself and call upon you in the next day or two, should I find that all’s in order, like.”
Lenox nodded at once. “I understand, though I would appreciate your haste. The matter may be pressing.”
“Yes,” said Padden. “She was more agitated than I’d seen her before.”
At the other end of the room Lenox’s first friend here—the man with the pink face and the toothbrush mustache—folded his paper. “Right, chaps,” he said. “The 8:29 to Clapham Junction waits for no man, unless I should stumble and fall into the tracks and have my head stoved in by a train. Which it’s very possible, clumsy as I am, and if it happens be generous when they pass the hat for the widow Parker. None of your ha’pennies, I want to hear a rattle of crowns, or I’ll haunt you proper.”
He tipped his cap, and there was a chorus of good-byes, Padden lifting a hand. “I’d better go myself, then,” he said to Lenox, glancing up at the clock. “I don’t like to leave it quite so late.”
Lenox stood. “Thank you,” he said. “Please call upon me as soon as you can. I shall be in Parliament after two, perhaps even earlier. I owe you a cup of tea. Or I’m happy to return here, if you send word round.”
“I fancy seeing the inside of Parliament,” said Padden, smiling slightly. He put his conductor’s hat on. “This afternoon.”
“I’ll have one of the runners give you a tour after we speak. Only be quick about it, please.”
As Lenox left Charing Cross he checked his own watch, before realizing that of course he knew what time it was—just far enough shy of 8:38, anyhow. He had, as ever, a great deal to do in Parliament, but he decided that he could put it off for another few hours. With any luck Audley and LeMaire would both be at work already; unlike Dallington (who had given him their addresses), they had proper offices, not far from each other in the West End.
As he walked out of Charing Cross Lenox pondered what the conductor had said about the young woman—that she was more agitated, on the train trip the previous week, than he had seen her before. For the dozenth time he pondered as well the motivations of the man calling himself Archie Godwin, and what he might have to do with her.
It was useless to speculate. Better to keep his mind clear of possibilities, and hope that he received more information soon.
As he walked toward the mall he saw flutters of spring everywhere. Flower sellers on the pavement, sweet little blossoms dotting some of the trees outside of Charing Cross, rather wind-shaken but sturdy enough to have survived to their bloom. Patrols of red squirrels were outside and vigilant again, after their sleepy winters.
He associated all of these things in his mind with the London season, which was to begin very soon now—always the Monday after Easter, just a week or so away. In every part of the country, young girls, accustomed to the drear of fox hunts and country balls, would be packing excitedly for the grander stages of the capital, trading letters with each other about how it would be, preparing to stay in town for the first time, and soon they would be crowding into the ballrooms of London to look for husbands, as gallant young fools nearby worked up the nerve to ask for dances and stodgy whiskered men looked on at them fondly from the dim corners, murmuring to each other over the punch in their cups. The London girls would feign boredom and superiority. In the first week there would be twenty engagements, a fifth of which would be tactfully canceled in the second, and in the third still more, the very plain girls and the very beautiful ones, settling and picking respectively. Though the season
“Of course.” Lenox took one from the thin silver case Jane had given him three Christmases before. “At your service.”
Padden took the card and inspected it, then looked up. “If you don’t mind, I’ll look into your story for myself and call upon you in the next day or two, should I find that all’s in order, like.”
Lenox nodded at once. “I understand, though I would appreciate your haste. The matter may be pressing.”
“Yes,” said Padden. “She was more agitated than I’d seen her before.”
At the other end of the room Lenox’s first friend here—the man with the pink face and the toothbrush mustache—folded his paper. “Right, chaps,” he said. “The 8:29 to Clapham Junction waits for no man, unless I should stumble and fall into the tracks and have my head stoved in by a train. Which it’s very possible, clumsy as I am, and if it happens be generous when they pass the hat for the widow Parker. None of your ha’pennies, I want to hear a rattle of crowns, or I’ll haunt you proper.”
He tipped his cap, and there was a chorus of good-byes, Padden lifting a hand. “I’d better go myself, then,” he said to Lenox, glancing up at the clock. “I don’t like to leave it quite so late.”
Lenox stood. “Thank you,” he said. “Please call upon me as soon as you can. I shall be in Parliament after two, perhaps even earlier. I owe you a cup of tea. Or I’m happy to return here, if you send word round.”
“I fancy seeing the inside of Parliament,” said Padden, smiling slightly. He put his conductor’s hat on. “This afternoon.”
“I’ll have one of the runners give you a tour after we speak. Only be quick about it, please.”
As Lenox left Charing Cross he checked his own watch, before realizing that of course he knew what time it was—just far enough shy of 8:38, anyhow. He had, as ever, a great deal to do in Parliament, but he decided that he could put it off for another few hours. With any luck Audley and LeMaire would both be at work already; unlike Dallington (who had given him their addresses), they had proper offices, not far from each other in the West End.
As he walked out of Charing Cross Lenox pondered what the conductor had said about the young woman—that she was more agitated, on the train trip the previous week, than he had seen her before. For the dozenth time he pondered as well the motivations of the man calling himself Archie Godwin, and what he might have to do with her.
It was useless to speculate. Better to keep his mind clear of possibilities, and hope that he received more information soon.
As he walked toward the mall he saw flutters of spring everywhere. Flower sellers on the pavement, sweet little blossoms dotting some of the trees outside of Charing Cross, rather wind-shaken but sturdy enough to have survived to their bloom. Patrols of red squirrels were outside and vigilant again, after their sleepy winters.
He associated all of these things in his mind with the London season, which was to begin very soon now—always the Monday after Easter, just a week or so away. In every part of the country, young girls, accustomed to the drear of fox hunts and country balls, would be packing excitedly for the grander stages of the capital, trading letters with each other about how it would be, preparing to stay in town for the first time, and soon they would be crowding into the ballrooms of London to look for husbands, as gallant young fools nearby worked up the nerve to ask for dances and stodgy whiskered men looked on at them fondly from the dim corners, murmuring to each other over the punch in their cups. The London girls would feign boredom and superiority. In the first week there would be twenty engagements, a fifth of which would be tactfully canceled in the second, and in the third still more, the very plain girls and the very beautiful ones, settling and picking respectively. Though the season
Similar Books
![Bind Me [Pact of Seduction 1]](/res/dh/book4.jpg)
