Little Coquette by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

the kettle. I believe Prissie gave her servant a holiday before she left.”
    “I see. Then it seems you’re right,” he said grudgingly
    She went to the window behind him and closed it.
    “Leave it open a crack in case—”
    She gave him an impatient look. Glancing at the window, he saw she had left it open an inch at the bottom to facilitate entrance in case they should want to return.
    “You must not assume, just because I am a female, that I am an idiot, Beaumont,” she said, and strode out of the kitchen with her head high and her back as stiff as a board. She continued along a corridor to the parlor, which was not large or grand enough to be called a saloon.
    In style, the decor was closer to Trevelyn Hall than the house on Grosvenor Square. Lydia thought her papa must have felt quite at home here, with all those dried flowers and the surfeit of ornaments on the wall. Though not even her mama would have permitted that garish red-and-blue-patterned carpet with a green-and-yellow-striped sofa. One wall held watercolors, mostly of smiling young women. The opposite wall was hung with decorative plates from various resorts. Tunbridge Wells, Brighton, Weymouth. The sort of thing tourists bought because they were there, and had the sense to consign to a cupboard or put a potted plant on when they got home.
    Half a dozen fashion magazines were fanned out on the sofa table beside an empty wine decanter and a crystal bonbon dish with a domed lid. There was nothing to indicate a more serious turn of mind. No books, no journals. What on earth had attracted her papa to such a woman? He was intelligent, worldly, worked with the most important gentlemen in England—and came to this tawdry place for his amusement.
    She just shook her head and continued her exploration. One door led her to a spartan chamber that was obviously a maid’s room. Across the hall she saw Beaumont standing at a clothespress, examining the gowns. She went to the bedroom and stood, gazing around. It was done in white and pink and reminded her of a birthday present. A large bed occupied one corner. Flounces of white lace formed the canopy and seemed to drape the entire bed. A tumble of small pink satin cushions were at the head of the bed. As Lydia walked toward it, she noticed a strong scent of that same musky perfume she had smelled in Prissie’s room at the inn.
    A mental picture of her father and Prissie on that bed caused her to wince and turn quickly away. On the other side of the chamber, a pink damask chaise longue sat by the grate with a white-and-gold table in the French style beside it. The dresser and desk matched the table. A telltale shaving set and a gentleman’s brushes rested beside the feminine cosmetics and brushes on the toilet table.
    At the clothespress, Beaumont continued rooting through the gowns. Lydia went up behind him, looking for jackets. She didn’t see any. He took out some black, filmy thing and held up the skirt.
    “What on earth is that?” she asked.
    “It is a black lace peignoir. Rather dashing.”
    “I didn’t realize there was such a thing as a mourning peignoir.”
    “It is an evening peignoir, I should think.”
    “I meant mourning, with a u, as in bereavement.”
    “Black has more interesting associations as well.”
    She lilted an eyebrow in derision. “I was joking, actually.”
    “Ah, that is a change. You don’t usually show much sense of humor.”
    She glared and said in a tight voice, “Unlike you, I fail to see the humor in this appalling situation.”
    “Point taken,” he said at once, mentally berating himself for insensitivity. All this was a rude awakening for Lydia. She had always adored her papa.
    He moved to the dresser and began nipping through the silken dainties there: satin nightgowns, embroidered lingerie, silk stockings in various shades.
    “Such extravagance!” Lydia complained.
    Her harping on the money Sir John spent on his woman annoyed him. The Trevelyns were far from