Devil's Cub (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 2)

‘Frederick Comyn.’

His lordship swore softly and long, to the admiration of a lackey, who stood reverently listening to his fluency. Then he proceeded to set his household by the ears, and the word flew round inside of ten minutes that the Devil’s Cub was in a rare taking, and there would be bloodshed before nightfall. From the orders that followed one another like lightning off his lordship’s tongue, it was apparent that he was going on a sudden swift journey, and when Fletcher was bidden to send to the gates of Paris to find whether an Englishman accompanied by a lady had passed out of any one of them that morning, none of the household had any doubt at all of the nature of his lordship’s journey.

‘Damn my blood if I’ve ever seen the Cub so wild!’ remarked his lordship’s particular groom. ‘Ay, and I’ve known him a year or two.’

‘I’ve seen him wilder nor this,’ mused a footman, ‘but not for a female. And meself I’d say the Mantoni had more to her than this one, or that piece we had with us a couple of years back – what was her name, Horace? The beauty that threw a coffee-pot at the Cub in one of her tantrums.’

‘I’m not Horace to you, my lad,’ said Mr Timms loftily. ‘And me knowing what I do, which is natural in his lordship’s own gentleman, I’d advise you not to draw odious comparisons between Miss Challoner and those other trollops.’

He went off to pack Vidal’s cloak-bag, and was much scandalised to discover that he was not to accompany his master. When he ventured on an expostulation he was asked roundly whether he imagined my lord was unable to dress himself. Being a polite person he disclaimed, but this was precisely what he did think. He had a vision, horrible to a gentleman’s gentleman, of my lord’s cravat ill-tied, his hair uncurled, his dress carelessly arranged; and when Vidal flung the pounce-box, the haresfoot, and the rouge-pot out of the cloak-bag, he was moved to beg his lordship to consider his feelings.

Vidal gave a short bark of laughter. ‘What the devil have your feelings to do with it?’ he demanded. ‘Put up a change of clothing, and my razors, and my night-gear.’

Mr Timms was ordinarily a timid creature, but where his profession was concerned he became possessed of great daring. He said firmly: ‘My lord, it’s well known that it’s me who has the dressing of your lordship. I have my pride, my lord, and to have you travelling amongst all these Frenchies, a disgrace to me, as you will, my lord, begging your pardon – oh, it’s enough to make a man cut his throat, sir!’

Vidal, in his shirt sleeves, was pulling on his top-boots. He glanced up, not unamused, and said bluntly: ‘If you want a master you can dress like a painted puppet, you’d best leave my service, Timms. I’ll never be a credit to you.’

‘My lord,’ said Mr Timms, ‘if I may take leave to say so, there’s not a gentleman in London, no, nor in Paris either, that can be a greater credit to his valet than what your lordship can be.’

‘You flatter me,’ said Vidal, picking up his waistcoat.

‘No, my lord. I was three years with Sir Jasper Trelawney, who was thought to be a fine beau in his day. The clothes we had! Ah, that was a gentleman as was an artist. But the shoulders to his coats had to be padded so that it fair broke one’s heart, and when it came to him wearing three patches on his face I had to leave him, because I’d my reputation to think of, like any other man.’

‘Good God!’ said Vidal. ‘I trust my shoulders don’t offend your sensibilities, Timms?’

‘If I may take the liberty of saying so, my lord, I have seldom seen a finer pair. Whatever else may sometimes be amiss, our coats set so that it is a pleasure to see them done justice to.’ He assisted his lordship to struggle into one as he spoke, and smoothed the cloth with a loving hand. ‘When I was with Lord Devenish, sir,’ he said reminiscently, ‘we had to assist his lordship’s legs a little with sawdust in the stocking. But even so they were never what one likes to see in a gentleman of fashion. Everything else about his lordship was as it should be; I believe I never saw a neater waist, and at that time, my lord, coats were worn very tight at the waist with whaleboned skirts. But below the knee his lordship fell off sadly. It took away from one’s pride in dressing him, and sawdust, though helpful, is not like good muscle.’

‘I can imagine nothing more unlike,’ said Vidal, who was eyeing him in open astonishment. ‘You seem to have been hard put to it with your previous masters.’

‘That, my lord, was the trouble,’ replied Timms. ‘If your lordship will permit me, I will adjust this buckle. When I left Lord Devenish I was with young Mr Harry Cheston for a space. Shoulders, legs, waist – all very passable. He wore his clothes very well, my lord; never a crease, nor a pin out of place, though he favoured vellum-hole waistcoats more than I could like. It was Mr Cheston’s hands that were his undoing. Do what one would, my lord, they were such as to render the perfection of his attire quite negligible. He slept every night in chicken-skin gloves, but it was of no use, they remained a vulgar red.’

Vidal cast himself down in the chair by the dressing-table, and leaned back in it, surveying his valet with a half-smile curling his lips. ‘You alarm me, Timms, positively you alarm me.’

Mr Timms smiled indulgently. ‘Your lordship has no need to feel alarm. I could wish that we wore a ring – not a profusion, sir, but one ring, possibly an emerald, which is a stone designed to set off the whiteness of a gentleman’s hand – but since your lordship has a strong aversion from jewels we must forgo the adornment. The hands themselves, if your lordship will not think it impertinent, are all that I could wish.’

His lordship, quite unnerved by this encomium, thrust them both into his breeches pockets. ‘Come, let me have it, Timms!’ he said. ‘Where do I fall short of your devilish high standards? Let me know the worst.’

Mr Timms bent to dust one of his lordship’s shining boots. ‘Your lordship can hardly fail to be aware of the elegance of your lordship’s whole figure. In the twenty-five years during which I have been a gentleman’s valet I have always had to fight against odds, as it were. Your lordship would be surprised to know how one inferior feature can ruin the most modish toilet. There was the Honourable Peter Hailing, sir, whose coats were so exactly cut to his figure that it needed myself and two lackeys to coax him into them. He had a leg such as is seldom seen, and his countenance was by no means contemptible. But it all went for nothing, my lord. Mr Hailing’s neck was so short that no neckcloth could be made to disguise it. I could tell your lordship of a dozen such cases. Sometimes it’s the shoulders, at others the legs; once I served a gentleman with a fatal tendency to corpulence. We did what we could with tight-lacing, but it was not successful. Yet he was as handsome as your lordship, if I may say so.’

‘Spare my blushes, Timms,’ said the Marquis sardonically. ‘I don’t aspire to be an Adonis. Out with it! What’s my fault?’

Mr Timms said simply: ‘Your lordship has none.’

The Marquis was startled. ‘Eh?’

‘None whatsoever, my lord. One could wish for greater care in the arrangement of the cravat, and a more frequent use of the curling-irons and pounce-box; but we have nothing to conceal. Your lordship will understand that a constant struggle against nature disheartens one. When your lordship found yourself in need of a valet, I applied for the post, being confident – with all respect, my lord – that though your lordship might affect a carelessness that one is bound to deplore, the figure, face, hands – your lordship’s whole person, in short – were so exactly proportioned as to render the apparelling of

your lordship a work of pleasure unmarred by any feeling of dissatisfaction.’

‘Good God!’ said the Marquis.

Mr Timms said insinuatingly: ‘If your lordship would permit me to place one patch – one only –’

The Marquis got up. ‘Content yourself with my perfect proportions, Timms,’ he said. ‘Where’s that fellow Fletcher?’ He strode out, calling to his major-domo, who came sedately up the stairs to meet him. ‘Well, man, are those damned lackeys to be all day about their business?’ he demanded.

‘John, my lord, is come in. At the Porte Saint-Denis, no one. At the Porte Saint-Martin, no one. I await the return of Robert and Mitchell, my lord, and will apprise your lordship instantly.’

‘No luck at the northern gates,’ the Marquis said, musing. ‘So he’s not taking her back to England. Now what the devil’s his game?’