Prince of Secrets Read online

  On the top shelf was a brown bowler hat of the kind which she had seen artisans wearing when, out for the day, they wished to imitate the gentry. Beside it was neatly arranged—everything was neat, as he always was—a pile of mufflers, some of wool, some of silk, and all of them shabby. There were also a pair of carefully folded brown and yellow check woollen trousers, a short brown woollen jacket and a pair of heavy boots. Doubled up beside them was a large doll with brilliantly painted red cheeks and a wide grin. Its wooden head was on a peg which fitted into a cloth body.

  Dinah felt like the lady in the story of Blubeard who had entered the forbidden room to discover strange and terrible things. There was nothing terrible about these things, but they were certainly strange. Memory teased her, until, suddenly, she knew that if she had not found the key to Cobie, she had certainly found the key to explain all these objects—they were the stock-in-trade of a stage magician.

  She had sat in drawing rooms when she had been a little girl, oohing and aahing and clapping her hands while the visiting conjuror or magician performed his tricks with paraphernalia similar to that which was so neatly laid out before her. The big doll was undoubtedly a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  What in the world was Cobie doing with them, hidden away as they were? She thought of him, grave, charming, always perfectly turned out, the complete patrician, remarkable for the excellence of his manners in a society where such things were highly valued. Nothing about him suggested that he would have a secret hoard of objects such as these—or be able to use them.

  Why? She gave them one last stare before she shut the cupboard door and manoeuvred it so that it locked again, even though imperfectly. What else was he concealing? Who was the man who used these strange toys, for their appearance told her that they had been used, that this was no private museum. What else lay hidden behind the locked cupboard doors of his room?

  And the odd clothing. What was that doing there? For the life of her she couldn’t visualise him wearing it. Then, when she shut the door of the room, a little frightened, as well as a little ashamed of having spied on him, memory struck.

  Before they had married he had visited her in her dreams. Now that she was his wife, and shared at least a part of his life with him, he had ceased to do so. But the memory of that recurring dream, almost forgotten, came back to her—as well as the strange visions which she sometimes had during and after their love-making.

  In the dream he had been quite unlike the civilised urbane man whom she and the world knew, the golden Apollo of the Prince of Wales’s set. He had been wild, feral, not even clean. His hair had been long, his face unshaven, and the hand he had extended to her had been grimy. She also remembered that he had never offered her his right hand in the dream, only his left. But he was right-handed, surely? Another puzzle.

  What was important, though, was that she could imagine that man being a magician, a conjuror. That man could be anything. But why had she seen him in such a guise? Why, occasionally, during their love-making, when it was at its wildest—as it had lately become—had she had flashes in which she had seen the wild man again?

  Could that man be carrying on a secret liaison with Susanna? She could imagine that man doing anything, anything at all. She would not like that man to know that she had been prowling curiously around his room, drawn there by the doubts that not only Violet had put in her head, but by his own conduct.

  Not that, if questioned by a barrister, she could have said exactly what it was about him that disturbed her, but because she knew that she was beginning to sense that the inwardness of him was quite different from the bland image which he showed to English society.

  She remembered what he had said to her before they were married. ‘Appearances often deceive, Dinah.’ All the way to Markendale, her mind worried at the problem which was Cobie Grant like a dog worrying a bone.

  But she was the magician’s true pupil because nothing showed.

  Chapter Three

  After Sandringham and the season, living at Markendale was like falling into a warm bath. Nothing was required of one, Dinah decided, but to lie back and enjoy one’s self. That this also was not enough for her was a subject for internal annoyance. Really, what do I want? she asked herself. If I were honest, a different kind of life altogether, but that would mean being no longer Lady Dinah Grant—and do I want that? Could I bear to lose Cobie—even though in no true sense can I be said to have him!

  He remained an enigma. She could be sure of nothing. He might—or might not—be having an affaire with Susanna. He might—or might not—be doing a thousand other things, some of which might—or might not—involve him in using the magician’s tricks which she had found in the cupboard in his room.

  For no reason at all she thought that he was in some way involved with the police—but how and why she had no idea. She also had no idea whether or not he was enjoying himself in England, and whether he intended to stay, or whether he meant to return to the United States—and if so, when?

  Markendale was even bigger than Moorings. It had been built early in the eighteenth century and had little of Moorings’ airy charm. It was a barracks of a place, furnished heavily by William Kent, and looked out across the moors.

  Its attraction for Lord Kenilworth and his guests was its nearness to the railway line which led to Doncaster, where the autumn race meeting was held. Dinah found racing boring, and she was pretty certain that Cobie felt the same. He had once said to her when she had asked him why he didn’t buy any horses to race that his interest in horses was confined to riding them, not watching midgets doing it for him.

  ‘Now that is for your ears only,’ he told her, lightly. ‘They would probably drum me out of English society forever if they found out that I thought any such thing!’

  Dinah could lose herself by wandering through the corridors at Markendale, admiring the paintings on the walls, and visiting the library, which was excellent, although there was no sign that anyone in the house-party ever used it other than to read the daily papers in it, or write the occasional letter there.

  By doing so she could avoid the idle chit-chat of the other women. Never mind what the Marquise had taught her, she deserved a little time to herself, and so she told her husband when he came to find her, late one afternoon, curled up on the window seat in the library, half-hidden by the curtain. She was not reading anything improving, but was deep in Mr Henry James’s novel, The Princess Casamassima.

  She looked up at him, impudence written on her face. ‘I hope that you have not come to reprimand me.’

  ‘For what?’ He was brief. She had noticed that when they were alone this was more his style than effusiveness was.

  ‘For not joining in, for hiding myself away.’

  He sat down opposite to her in one of William Kent’s chairs, and shrugged. ‘You deserve a little time of your own.’ He nodded his head at her book, ‘Something serious?’

  Dinah knew from his tone that he was roasting her—she was reading his voice more and more easily, and knew that his subtle double-entendres were always intended, never accidental.

  She decided to return the compliment, ‘You might say so.’ She showed him the title-page. ‘It is, after all, about us, I mean our society.’

  He nodded agreement. ‘You should read The American—and then tell me whether you think Mr James describes us correctly.’

  Her answer was oblique. ‘Most of the Americans I have met are not at all like you.’

  ‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’

  ‘If you like.’ Her smile at him was as sweet as those which he usually offered her.

  Cobie laughed, rose and came over to her, to bend over her, to put his hand on her neck and kiss her tenderly.

  ‘You learn quickly,’ he told her, ‘and now, you must learn something else—a little patience with the inanities of this life. We are going to the races at Doncaster tomorrow, and I have said that you will accompany me. You would rather do so, would you not, than remain b
ehind with most of the other women?’

  Dinah made a little face. ‘I would rather neither, if you follow me. But, yes, I would prefer to go with you.’

  ‘Good, and now come with me. It is almost tea-time, and the Prince is asking for you. I see that you are dressed for it.’ He directed an approving look at her cream and pale violet silk tea-gown.

  ‘Dressed for everything,’ remarked Dinah irrepressibly, ‘Do you know, I calculate that I change my clothing on an average of nearly six times a day?’

  ‘At that rate,’ Cobie returned, ‘I believe that you surpass me, which I would have thought difficult.’

  Dinah had to prevent herself from asking him if one of his many changes when they were in London was into his curious brown suit, and if so, where he went in it. Her silence he took for agreement, and companionably—for they were nothing if not that, she thought ruefully—they passed into the Great Hall, which was now used as a drawing room. It was the middle bar of an H, the two newer wings being the outside ones.

  There was a huge hearth with a great fire roaring in it. Assembled there was the entire house party, including those members of it who had arrived only a few hours earlier: Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Heneage, Arthur and Susanna Winthrop and Mr Hendrick Van Deusen, who was the only member of the party to attend without a large retinue of his own.

  Afterwards Dinah thought that there was something symbolic about the company, who were never all to meet under the same roof again. As though her and Cobie’s arrival was some sort of signal, Violet rang for tea to be served, while Cobie steered Dinah towards the Prince who was seated in a huge armchair, near to the fire. His Princess was a few yards away in another, her complexion shielded by a large tapestry screen mounted on a pole.

  ‘As you commanded, sir,’ said Cobie. Dinah, bowing gracefully, had her hand taken by the Prince.

  ‘None of that formal nonsense here, Lady Dinah,’ he boomed. ‘We are all friends together, no more and no less. Where do you hide yourself, these days, hey?’

  ‘In the library, sir.’ Dinah thought that he deserved no more and no less than the truth. She could see Violet rolling her eyes and frowning at her, could feel the eyes of half a dozen jealous women boring into her back.

  ‘In the library, hey! I thought as much, and what do you find to amuse yourself there? And what does your husband think about having a blue-stocking for a wife?’

  Dinah was demure, ‘I think that he rather likes the idea, sir.’

  ‘But you’re not sure,’ he offered her shrewdly. ‘A man of action, your husband. Violet tells me that you wished to go to Oxford, to be a lady scholar. Is that true? You are too charming, I will not say pretty, to be wasted in the cloisters.’

  He sat back and smiled at her scarlet face, ‘D’you mind me not calling you pretty, hey?’

  ‘No, sir, if that is what you think.’ But she did, a little.

  ‘Sensible girl, aren’t you? Not many women would have given me that answer. No, you’re not pretty, but you are becoming beautiful—which is better than pretty and will last longer. Clever man, your husband.’

  This was a trifle oblique, but Dinah thought she took the Prince’s meaning—that it was Cobie who had transformed, and was still transforming, her.

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘He is proud of his young wife, I am sure.’

  Dinah wasn’t sure, but she said, politely, ‘Oh, yes, and I am proud of him. I wouldn’t like to do anything to distress him. He has been very kind to me, you know, sir.’

  Tea had arrived while they were talking and he waved Dinah to a chair beside the Princess who made something of a fuss of her. She complimented her on not over-eating, asked her if she intended to join them at Doncaster on the morrow, and created among those assembled there more jealousy of the raw chit who had been the sensation of the season, and now looked like outdoing her own sister.

  Conversation became general. The Prince rose, which had everyone else on their feet, and Dinah found herself talking to Mr Van Deusen who had been sitting quietly by the fire, diagonally from her, enjoying the delights of the most enormous spread which she had ever seen a man eat.

  ‘Enjoying yourself, Lady Dinah?’

  ‘I think that I should like notice of that question, Mr Van Deusen.’

  He gave a gusty laugh. ‘You look as though you are.’

  ‘Appearances often deceive, Mr Van Deusen.’

  He now gave her the sharpest look. He had doubtless, in the dubious past—she was sure that it was dubious—which he shared with Cobie, heard him say that. Perhaps more than once.

  Before he could answer her, she added, ‘It depends, I think, on what one means by enjoy.’

  A slow smile crossed his broad face, ‘Oh, yes, Lady Dinah. Do let us logic-chop. Such a change from the usual conversation at these places. You have been learning from…Jacobus.’

  He had nearly said Jumping Jake, because watching her he could see how much a pupil of his she was, and how much she had learned from him.

  ‘Yes, from Jacobus. He has never told me where his name came from. Do you know, Mr Van Deusen?’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, no.’

  He did not tell her that it was not the name he had originally known Cobie by, and which it was difficult for him not to use. ‘A family name, I believe.’

  ‘Ah, but what family?’ retorted Dinah naughtily, and then relented. ‘I mustn’t tease you, must I. Besides, Sir Ratcliffe is coming, and I must put on my best face for him, and do nothing to encourage him in any way.’

  Which was difficult, for he had taken to pursuing Dinah Grant, and she could see his wife, old before her time, standing before the tall windows, the late afternoon light cruel on her face. She had not worn as well as her husband and the twenty years of her unhappy married life were written harshly on her features.

  Pity for her made Dinah a little abrupt with her husband. Mr Van Deusen had melted away on his arrival, leaving her to cope with him alone. He was sure that she could.

  ‘And who the devil’s he that he should be here?’ uttered Sir Ratcliffe peremptorily, staring after him. ‘Any idea, Lady Di?’

  She disliked her name being shortened, and said a little frostily, ‘He’s a friend of my husband, and beside that he is known to the American Envoy and, I believe, to Lord Kenilworth. Something to do with a trade mission to the United States a few years ago. Lord Kenilworth met him then.’

  ‘Pity we have to deal with such upstarts,’ sighed Sir Ratcliffe, forgetting that Dinah was married to one of them.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ agreed Dinah smartly. ‘And what a pity that they’re so rich that we’re happy to marry them—for their dollars, of course.’

  Sir Ratcliffe, remembering that Dinah was reputed to have done just that, said kindly, ‘Much better if we could have their dollars without their presence, haw, haw!’

  ‘One must pay something for benefits received,’ Dinah sighed back at him. ‘After all, I doubt whether I should be here at all if I hadn’t married my husband. Think what I should have missed.’

  Now this was all as two-faced as any of her husband’s conversations, seeing that she wasn’t at all sure that taking part in the social round was any kind of benefit at all. The real benefits of her marriage could hardly be discussed with Sir Ratcliffe.

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ he drawled back at her, thinking that she was wittier than Violet, and much less of a shrew into the bargain. Susanna was beginning to pall: she was too clinging, and an affaire with Grant’s wife would be one in the eye for Grant and no mistake. He was reputed to make free with other men’s wives rather than provide his own for their use.

  ‘I see that you take after your sister, Lady Dinah—in more ways than one, I hope,’ and he looked at her with the light of hopeful conquest in his eye.

  Fortunately, Cobie, not liking to see his wife so much as speak to Sir Ratcliffe, came over to them, excused them both and led her out of the Hall down yet another long corridor. His conversati
on, apparently aimless, was far from being so.

  ‘Markendale is an architectural monstrosity,’ he said idly. ‘I have been talking to Lord Kenilworth’s land agent, and he has been showing me the plans of the building. It is like a giant jigsaw puzzle. The wing we are all housed in is comparatively new, built during the last fifty years to accommodate the last Lord Kenilworth’s guests. Like the present one he had the reputation of being a great host, and his wife a great hostess. The present pair are trying to outdo them. They would be hard put to build such a puzzle as the new wing where stairs lead anywhere but where you might expect.’

  Dinah nodded. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘that one might get lost, and be found years later as a skeleton on some landing no one has thought to visit. Ought I to carry a cord with me, like Theseus in the Labyrinth, do you think, to keep me from such a sad fate?’

  He nodded lazily, handed her through a glass door and walked with her into the gardens, turning at the end of a long alley to look back at the Hall.

  He pointed to a window on the first floor. ‘I calculate that we are housed over there.’

  A balcony ran the full length of the house, saved only from spoiling its lines by the presence of a flat roof below it where an orangery had been built on to its side by the present Lord Kenilworth.

  ‘Should you like to live here?’ Dinah queried

  Cobie shook his head. ‘Not my style,’ he said decisively.

  Dinah wondered what his style was. Presently they turned away to stroll down to the lake where a folly in the form of a Grecian temple stood, and where Cobie had ordered his sketch-book, pencils and water-colours, and Dinah’s canvas-work, to be left.

  ‘I thought that you might appreciate a little time on your own,’ he told her, beginning to draw the idyllic scene before them. ‘The next few days promise to be hectic, what with the races in the day, ceremonial dinners and equally ceremonial card-playing at night. We shall all be expected to join in.’