Sir Philip's Folly (The Poor Relation Series Book 4) by M. C. Beaton

barely noticed the distance he had walked until he reached Ludgate Hill. He made his way up under the shadow of St. Paul’s to Child’s Coffee-House and pushed open the door. As his ambling over the years and his scrounging in the days of his poverty had taken him to many taverns and coffee-houses all over London, he had come to know people of all classes. He saw a wealthy merchant, Mr. Ezekiel Brandon, sitting in a corner surrounded by businessmen. Mr. Brandon was one of the few who had been cheerfully prepared to buy Sir Philip coffee or wine in the old days. He looked across the shadowy, low-raftered room and beckoned Sir Philip, who walked across the oyster-shell-scattered floor.
    “Sit down, Sir Philip,” said Mr. Brandon. “You look very fine. I never thought a man like you would turn out to be so successful in trade.”
    “Hotel’s doing well,” said Sir Philip, sitting down in a chair next to the merchant which had just been vacated by one of his cronies. “How’s business?”
    Mr. Brandon discussed trade and stocks and shares while Sir Philip let his mind wander. He wanted to interrupt, to brag about the fact that they were to hold a grand ball which the Prince Regent was to attend but felt frustrated by the fact that he had sulked himself out of having anything to do with it. But if this Mr. Davy could be exposed as a fraud, then he would magnanimously forgive them after they had grovelled and apologized enough and
then
he would graciously say he would help them run their ball. He waited politely until the merchant had finished and then asked casually, “Heard of a merchant called Davy?”
    He waited gleefully for the denial.
    Mr. Brandon raised his bushy eyebrows. “Do you mean Mr. Davy of Pelham, Davy and Briggs?”
    Sir Philip’s heart sank but he went gamely on. “I believe he’s the son of a friend of Colonel Sandhurst, my partner. Young chap, well—young to me, in his forties, slim, well set-up.”
    “Oh, yes, that’s our Mr. Davy all right. I’m telling you, the ships and warehouses that company has, and they started from nothing. I think your Mr. Davy was the brains behind it.”
    Sir Philip felt very small and crumpled and old. But in memory of past kindnesses, he insisted on treating Mr. Brandon to a bottle of the best burgundy and forced himself to make conversation with Mr. Brandon’s friends. He had been so sure that Davy would turn out to be a fraud. How could he, Sir Philip, compete with such riches?
    He made his way out and sadly began to walk homewards.
    Five minutes after he had left the coffee-house, Mr. Davy of Davy, Pelham and Briggs walked in and was hailed by Mr. Brandon. He was a slim man with a great beaky nose and his head was topped with an old-fashioned wig. “You have just missed a friend,” said Mr. Brandon. “Sir Philip Sommerville.”
    “Never heard of him,” said Mr. Davy.
    “Said you were a friend of Colonel Sandhurst.”
    “Never heard of him either.”
    “Never mind,” said Mr. Brandon. “Sir Philip’s getting deuced old and probably doesn’t know which day it is. Do you know, he asked me about my business and I’ll swear he then didn’t listen to a word I was saying. So how is your good wife, Mr. Davy, and the children? Well, I trust?”
    ***
    Miss Tonks felt as giggly and conspiratorial as a schoolgirl as she went out to meet the earl the following morning. She was wearing a plain taffeta gown covered with a thin muslin apron. Miss Tonks saw no reason to “dress down” for the part, knowing that such guests who happened to be awake only saw a servant, not what he or she was wearing.
    She scratched at the earl’s door. He opened it himself. He was wearing a dark coat and knee breeches covered with a baize apron.
    “Jack is on the landing with the bucket for the ashes,” whispered Miss Tonks. “To be in character, as our Mr. Davy would say, you rake out the ashes and put them in the bucket and then lay and light the fire. You do not need to