A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(54)
“Now . . . we hain’t goin’ out on this ternight,” Alf said, emphatically. “Cuz thet thing’ll jest say get me more an’ give ye th’ same seven days. No, yew an’ me, we’re gonna take our time. Yew go t’them places I tol’ ye, hev a look around. Plan thin’s. An’ teach me t’drive. Oi’ll look better on th’ box than yew.”
“We can start that today,” he decided. “There’s a new exhibit at the Grosvenor Gallery. I’ll teach you how to drive wearing my shabby coat, then change into my good one when we get there. People see coachmen training stablehands all the time.”
“An’ Oi’ll chat up t’other drivers, so’s they gets used t’seein’ me an’ the coach.” Alf seemed to have a good answer for everything. “Oi’m reddy now.”
“And I will be shortly.” He rose and went to his room to get completely dressed. He had to admit he’d feel a lot better being away from this house. It was a very good thing that there was no one living in the upstairs flat—
—Hmm. I should speak to the landlord and arrange to rent that flat as well, now that I won’t have to answer for the extra expense to my ex-keeper.
When he joined Alf some minutes later, he was dressed in his shabbiest overcoat and battered coachman’s hat, with his good hat and coat over his arm. It was a bit of a walk to the stable, but the streets were clear, and the walk gave him a chance to get a good, solid grip on himself.
It took almost no time before they were on the road, and now the benefit of having a really old horse became apparent. The beast was very tolerant of Alf’s initial fumbling. Its reaction to getting mixed signals was to slow down from an amble to a crawl. It didn’t misbehave, or take advantage of having a novice on the box. Alexandre remembered only too well how his pony had done just that—including running away with him, a terrifying incident that had ended in a crash, a damaged pony cart, and a scolding from his father—as if it had somehow been his fault!
By the time they reached Kensington Gardens, Alf was feeling fairly confident in his ability to keep the horse going where he wanted it to go, so they stopped a block short of the place for Alexandre to get inside, change his coat and hat, and emerge at the Gallery as if he had been in there all along.
The exhibit was fairly crowded; fortunately the artist in question was not one of the sets that frequented Pandora’s Tea Room, since Alexandre really did not want to be associated with the artistic crowd. He was here to simulate being a potential buyer, not an artist himself. He circulated among the groups examining the paintings in detail and reading their catalogs, though of course he was paying very little attention to the paintings and a very great deal of attention to the patrons.
Most young women here seemed to be in family groups, or with friends, which was disappointing. But he persisted in his quest, circulating through the crowd for the better part of three hours, until he began to get a sense of what to look for.
Especially when it occurred to him that he had been looking for women who appealed to him. But the entity in the basement did not really care about a pretty face, or a slim figure. And when he stopped looking for choice specimens . . . he discovered that there was a bit more available than he had thought.
The bluestocking with spectacles perched on her nose and her face set in a nearsighted frown, for instance. She seemed to be here completely on her own, and while she might be a trifle outside the age limit the thing had specified, he doubted that the entity would care. The mannish one in tweeds better suited to a stroll on a country estate than a visit to a gallery was here with a friend, but that friend went off to talk to the artist, leaving her alone. He probably could get a conversation going based on horses, and if the entity could work its mesmerism on her, then everything would be set. The ill-dressed creature who was clearly too fond of sweets with the bad complexion (and the too-tight corsetry making her pant for air) trailed behind a party of prettier girls, clearly along because she had to be there, not because she was wanted. All he had to do was separate her from the rest, and he’d probably be able to lure her off to a meeting later, even without the entity helping.
In fact . . . he was spoiled for choice, and he might well have tried his hand at one or more of them, if the gallery had been less crowded. There were too many potential witnesses who would be able to see him clearly right now.
When he had satisfied himself with his scouting expedition, he made a graceful exit out to where the private coaches waited and answered Alf’s interrogative raised eyebrow with a nod of satisfaction. “We’ll run a few errands, then return home,” he told Alf quietly, before he got into the coach. “Let’s see how you manage without me.”
Alf managed very well without him; the old horse was utterly indifferent to crowded streets, noise, even urchins running right under its nose, just as long as Alf didn’t ask it to move faster than that amble. One of the errands was to stop at the solicitors; he emerged from that meeting feeling fully satisfied. It had taken very little persuasion to convince the man that as a modest bachelor he really did not need the huge old house . . . the merest suggestion that the firm collect a commission from the sale was enough to clinch the bargain. He suggested that instead, he might rent—or better still, buy—the house he was in now, also for a commission, should the solicitor manage to buy. And after that, the transfer of additional money from the trust to his personal account was a mere bagatelle.