Talk of the Town by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

book that Sir Alfred Dwyer had been in France at the time, was there? Lady Dwyer was not at all understanding, to say nothing of Mr. Acres. It was futile to say once again it was not that kind of a book. The word was out that it was that kind, and the money poured in to buy Mrs. Pealing’s silence.
     

Chapter 5
     
    The windfall of what now amounted to close to five thousand pounds was soon being done with what Effie considered money ought to be done with—spent. Horses were hired to pull the carriage and, with an easy conveyance available, the ladies naturally took to the roads. Daphne must be shown the Standington mansion on the corner of Half Moon Street and Piccadilly, the Eglinton mansion a block up the street, and various other mansions where Effie had once been accepted and entertained. The young lady expressed no interest in the St. Felix mansion, and the aunt did not offer to point it out.
    After their tour they went to Bond Street to peruse the shops. Every ell of blue material drew Aunt Effie’s attention, and before they went home several had been purchased. In vain did Miss Ingleside hint at the efficacy of putting something aside for a rainy day. She was just being James’s daughter and as such was not heeded in the least.
    This foray into the world was taken as a hint by the tardy debtors to pay up, and they came in an ever-increasing stream to renew acquaintance with Mrs. Pealing and to shower her with gold. She had a box of it in her room—many avoided cheques—and was soon calling in a decorator to tear down the drapes, lift up the carpets, recover the sofa and chairs and find new lamps.
    One cheque, however, caused some little consternation. “Here is a cheque for one thousand pounds from Lady Elizabeth,” Effie said.
    “The price has doubled,” Daphne replied. “St. Felix mentioned five hundred. Now what can it mean?”
    “I told you Larry owes me nothing.”
    “And I told you St. Felix thinks we are blackmailing people.”
    “Oh, my dear, and St. Felix of all people! I would not have him think ill of us.”
    “What is so special about him?”
    “His father was a very dear friend. I told you, Daphne.”
    “Your eyes tell me he was a good deal more. Come now, Auntie, cut line and tell me the whole of it, if you please.” The diaries had contained a good many references to St. Felix, and later, George, who were one and the same, but they had been couched in an unaccustomed discreetness. “George came this evening,” for instance, occurred frequently, and on those evenings there seemed to be no other callers admitted, which was unusual, but two of the diary pages had been ripped out. The jagged edge and lapse of time in the Fall of 1785 held a promise of some great happening, but Effie was an oyster on the subject.
    “There is nothing to tell. Just friends. But what shall I do with the cheque?”
    “Return it. Then he will see we are not blackmailing anyone."
    “I can’t write to her.”
    “It is a strange way to treat a dear old friend’s children—to avoid them as though they were the plague.”
    “He was so very nice, Daphne. I hate to think of his children having such a low opinion of me. You write a little note, will you, dear, with some of those punctuation marks you do so well, and I’ll sign it.”
    “Very well, I shall.”
    The note was written, the cheque enclosed and received as a threatening letter the next day at Charles Street, where Lady Elizabeth went into a fit of strong hysterics and sent for her brother to come at once.
    On this occasion, he answered the summons promptly. “They have sent it back,” Bess moaned, waving the cheque under Richard’s nose.
    He scanned the elegantly phrased little note and rightly imagined the hand of Miss Ingleside in the reference to “a mistake in your accounting.”
    “They’re holding out for an invitation to the house,” Richard declared. “Don’t do it, Bess. Don’t let our family be the one to let that pair get a