Free Joan Smith by True Lady Page A

considered her options and soon realized that she had no friends in London. Her few acquaintances were out of town. “You could leave word at Clappet’s house, perhaps, though his mama is a Tartar. Oh, the very thing! Leave word with his servants at the new set of rooms he hired before leaving London. They’re on the corner of Poland Street, just south of Oxford. In fact, I’ll go myself at once and see if we can leave our trunks there to save hauling them off to the edge of town and back. They’ll be no bother to Clappet; he’s gone for a few days.”
    “That would save time and money,” Bogman agreed.
    Trudie took Bogman with her to the curb to explain this course to Mrs. Harrington. Even in this fairly polite corner of the city, passersby had stopped to stare and smirk at the sight of two ladies on the street. Fingers pointed, and leering laughs floated toward them, every one inciting a furor in Miss Barten and fear in her aunt. Bogman guarded the possessions while Trudie, trying for an air of nonchalance, found a cab and went with her aunt to Peter’s apartment. It was a wonderful relief to get away from prying eyes in the safety of the carriage.
    Uxor, Clappet’s valet, was there arranging his master’s new lodgings. He was not at all happy to be turfed out of a mansion and a soft job as Lord Clappet’s valet and put in charge of a cramped set of rooms where he was, apparently, expected to be servant and cook as well as valet. His thin, ferret - like face tightened in disapproval as he listened to Miss Barten’s story.
    He doubted her claims of friendship with his master, but as she was familiar with his trip to Brighton and the reason for it, he knew she was at least an acquaintance of his undiscriminating lordship. He reluctantly allowed the belongings to come and be stored but did not offer the hospitality of a roof for the servants, as she hoped. They returned to Conduit Street to arrange the matter with their servants. At least the small mob had disbanded. Bogman’s efforts with the poker had been instrumental, but he didn’t tell the ladies so.
    “And now we must be jostled over the roads to Brighton, to rub shoulders with horsemen and race track touts,” Mrs. Harrington exclaimed.
    “Also with the Prince Regent and the aristocracy, Auntie,” Trudie pointed out.
    Any complaint brought forth a reminder of the princely associations of Brighton, till at last Mrs. Harrington went to the coaching house without an actual grimace on her face. The grimace didn’t arrive till they had reached Brighton and a hackney cab was rattling them over to the west side of town, to what she assumed must surely be the very worst part of it. She eyed askance a cluster of brick and timber cottages and a narrow, inelegant road cluttered with ragged humanity. They didn’t stop right there but were taken to the Princes Hotel, where Norman had rooms and where they hoped to find him.
    He wasn’t in, but the Princes was the sort of establishment where the only wonder a young woman’s asking to be let into a man’s room caused was that she should be accompanied by a chaperone. Despite Miss Barten’s genteel appearance, and despite the chaperone, the honor of entering a client’s chamber during his absence was denied her.
    “You can wait for him in the lobby,” the clerk said.
    “Perhaps a cup of coffee while we wait?” Mrs. Harrington suggested, with a hopeful glance into the dining room.
    “The very thing,” Trudie agreed at once, for one of the clients was ogling her from the corner of his shifty eyes.
    The ladies knew as soon as their slippers encountered a sandy floor that the dining room would be no better than the lobby, but at least they weren’t leered at. After two cups of coffee and close to an hour’s wait, it was clear they would not be returning to London that night, so they booked a room at the Princes and left word at the desk for Norman to call them when he arrived.
    Mrs. Harrington cast a