Larcenous Lady Read Free Page A

was served, knowing that once her aunt was involved in fork work, she’d spare no notice for anything else.
    Pronto was detained at customs. “I know I had that curst passport in my pocket,” he said a dozen times, but a dozen searches didn’t produce it. He finally had to send his valet to open the trunks and root about till it turned up, carefully marking his place in Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans, which he’d been reading all winter.
    “I’ll carry it for you,” Belami said impatiently when they were finally released, and put Pronto’s papers with his own.
    Night had fallen when they left customs. A damp, cold wind whistled through the streets. “There isn’t a carriage to be had,” Belami said. “We’ll head straight for the Hotel d’Angleterre. It’s the best place. We can hire a carriage there for the trip to Paris.’’
    The rooms at the Angleterre were all filled. “We’ll have to make do with the Prince of Orange,” Belami decided. There, too, they arrived too late. “Damme, it looks as if we must stay at that fleabag, the Silver Lion.”
    “If we don’t find some food soon, my stomach will collapse,” Pronto complained. “It’s been empty so long it thinks my mouth is sewed shut.”
    As Pronto spoke only garbled French, it was Belami who went to the desk to arrange accommodations. This left Pronto free to scout out the dining room. The first person he saw was the duchess of Charney, sitting like a ghost at the table. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and a strange ringing invaded his ears. “By jingo, I’m seeing things. I’m weak with hunger.” He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Now he was seeing double visions. Deirdre Gower sat beside her aunt, eating what looked like a very tasty ragout. His mouth watered, but even hunger didn’t divert his thoughts. What the devil was Charney doing here? She was supposed to be at Fernvale, sick as a dog. The old liar—it was all a ruse to break off the wedding. His next problem was whether or not to tell Dick.
    When they went upstairs to view their rooms, Pronto hung about Belami’s door, nibbling his thumb in a way that alerted his friend to trouble. “What’s amiss, Pronto?” he asked.
    “I was just thinking, Dick, as a hypo what-do-you-call-it question, you know. What would you do if Charney and Deirdre was here?”
    Belami’s lips clenched and a flash of lightning sparked from his eyes. “I’d leave.” Pronto thought of the ragout and the search for another hotel in the miserable wind. “Why do you ask? Are you trying to spoil my appetite?”
    “No, no. Nothing of the sort.”
    Belami frowned and began to dress, wondering if Pronto was ill. As soon as he left Belami, Pronto shot back downstairs like a bullet. He knew he was becoming nearly as clever as Dick, and his next Machiavellian inspiration proved it. He had a “complimentary” bottle of wine sent to Belami’s room, and insisted they try it before dinner. When at last they entered the dining room, Pronto flashed a glance at what he mentally called “the scene of the crime” and saw with a rush of relief that the table was vacant.
    “By Jove, this is something like.” He smiled broadly and strode forward. “ Table pour deux, monsieur.’’ With a knowing look at his friend he said, “Time to start parlaying the old bongjaw. Vin et viande— that’s what we want.”
    The wine, when it arrived, was a remarkably good Beaujolais. It would be a crime to destroy it by unpleasant news, so Pronto put off telling his tale till after dinner. In the comfortable haze of two bottles of wine and a postprandial brandy, the problem eased to insignificance. A clever rascal like himself could keep them apart.
    “We’ll leave early tomorrow,” he told Dick. “Lost out on a decent hotel by dragging our feet. We’ll check out of here at seven and nip over to the Angleterre for breakfast and hiring the carriage.”
    “The Tour du Guet should be worth a