The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3

by Stephanie Laurens

  There were food stalls of all kinds, offering everything from potatoes and turnips to sweetmeats and pastries. There were glovers and buckle makers and ribbon sellers, haberdashery of every conceivable sort, and fabrics aplenty. The stalls selling animals were restricted to one corner, but the noise from the pens added to the cacophony; everyone in the crowd seemed to be either talking or listening to someone speak, and the raucous calls of sellers blared over the scene.

  Despite the noise, despite the throng of people weaving their way along the aisles, the atmosphere was good-natured, and almost everyone was smiling.

  They were halfway up the first aisle when Frederick touched Stacie’s hand in warning, then drew her to the side, out of the flow of bodies, as an older couple approached.

  The gentleman, a bluff, jolly-looking sort, beamed and bobbed a bow. “Lord Albury—a pleasure, my lord.” The gentleman turned to Stacie. “And this must be your delightful wife.”

  “Indeed.” In the face of such open enthusiasm, Frederick couldn’t help but smile. “My dear, allow me to present Alderman Geary and Mrs. Geary.”

  “Lady Albury—your devoted servant, ma’am.” Geary swept Stacie a much more formal bow.

  Mrs. Geary sank into a curtsy. A plain lady with a kind face, as she rose, she inquired, “Is this your first visit to Guildford, ma’am?”

  Stacie smiled. “It is, indeed.” She glanced at Frederick. “Lord Albury suggested that I would find market day entertaining, and that has, indeed, proved to be the case.” With her gaze, she indicated the bright stalls to left and right. “The town hosts a very impressive turnout.”

  Pleased, Geary puffed out his chest. “We on the town council strive to ensure our market offers both range and competition.” He twinkled at Stacie. “Keeps the prices down, and keeps the housewives coming back.”

  Stacie laughed and added a favorable comment about the neatness and organized arrangement of the stalls, which played to Geary’s pride.

  Frederick and Stacie remained exchanging comments with the Gearys—including the couple’s views on the local sights, which Stacie thought to elicit—before parting company and moving on.

  They hadn’t got much farther when Lady Fairweather hailed Frederick from the next aisle over. When he looked, her ladyship pointed an imperious finger at him and ordered, “You wait right there, my lord.”

  When Frederick dutifully stood rooted to the spot, Stacie looked up at him, a startled question in her eyes.

  He grinned. “Yes, I know, but she’s a local eccentric, rides like the devil on the hunt, and has a heart as large as the county.”

  “Ah—I see.” Stacie subsequently composed herself and waited patiently beside him as Lady Fairweather found a gap between stalls a little farther along and barged through, into the aisle in which they stood. A much younger lady followed rather more timidly, towed along in her ladyship’s wake.

  As Lady Fairweather, a tall, raw-boned woman with a head of graying brassy-brown curls and features that might generously be described as horse-faced, pushed through the crowd to join them, her gaze remained fixed on Frederick. Only at the last minute, as she halted before them, did her ladyship shift her shrewd hazel gaze to Stacie. “So you’re the lady who finally managed to make him see sense, heh? I’ve been telling him for years that he needs a wife to help him properly oversee the Hall—men always seem to think that paying the bills and making sure the place doesn’t fall down is enough, but you look like the sort who knows her way around a household. Are the Hugheses treating you well?”

  Stacie smiled. “Exceedingly well, thank you. They are, metaphorically speaking, my left and right hand.”

  “Just so.” Lady Fairweather nodded decisively. “Knew just from looking at you that you had a good head on your shoulders.”

  Frederick smoothly cut in, “My dear, allow me to present Letitia, Lady Fairweather, of Cannon Grange, and her daughter, Emily.”

  Stacie extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Fairweather.”

  Her ladyship engulfed Stacie’s hand in her much larger one and shot a disapproving look at Frederick. “No need to stand on ceremony—everyone calls me Letty.”

  Stacie’s smiled broadened, and she retrieved her hand. “And I’m Eustacia, but do call me Stacie.” She turned to the young lady, very much cast into her robust mother’s shadow, and offered her hand. “And Emily—how do you do?”

  Emily touched fingers and bobbed a curtsy. “It’s lovely to meet you, ma’am.”

  Stacie glanced at Lady Fairweather, then asked Emily, “Are you out yet?”

  Emily smiled resignedly. “Next year. Mama thought I should wait until I’m nineteen.”

  “Time to learn a bit more sense, and that will make you stand out from the herd,” Letty said.

  Stacie arched her brows. “That’s…rather a wise notion. Many young ladies are—well, very young and quite silly, which does tend to put the gentlemen off.”

  “See?” Letty glanced at her daughter. “I told you an extra year won’t hurt.”

  “Indeed.” Stacie turned to Letty. “I’m thinking of hosting a dinner party in the next month or so, to introduce myself to the local families, as it were. I do hope you’ll consent to Emily attending, too.”

  Frederick noted the blush and the air of hope that infused Emily’s features.

  With her sharp eyes, Letty saw it, too. After a second of meeting her daughter’s patently pleading gaze, she humphed. “Don’t see why not. An invitation to dine at a marchioness’s table isn’t, I believe, something one needs to be formally presented to accept.”

  “Exactly.” Stacie smiled encouragingly at Emily. “And it will stand you in good stead for attending similar dinners in London next Season.”

  Letty and Frederick fell into a discussion about a local weir, leaving Stacie and Emily happily discussing the latest fashions.

  When, eventually, they parted from the eccentric Lady Fairweather and her rather more conservative daughter, Emily was a good deal happier than when the pair had approached.

  Once Frederick and Stacie had moved on into the crowd, he dipped his head and murmured, “Since when have you been considering hosting a dinner?”

  Stacie shot him a grin. “Since about ten minutes ago.” She settled her arm more comfortably in his. “Yes, I dreamed it up to give Emily something to look forward to, but hosting such a dinner is, in fact, something I ought—we ought—to do.”

  “If you say so.” Although his resigned tone gave no indication of it, Frederick was pleased that she’d reached the stage of claiming the position of his marchioness in a wider, county-circle setting.

  Then he noticed another couple approaching and said, “Actually, in terms of the guests we should invite to such an event, Sir Hugh McNab and his lady—the magistrate and his wife—should definitely be on our list.”

  They halted as the McNabs came up with them. Ignoring the stream of marketgoers swerving around them, Frederick made the introductions and watched as Stacie charmed the magistrate and his wife. Amongst her other comments, Stacie made mention of her intention to host a dinner party “perhaps in early summer,” and when the couples parted, Lady McNab was all a-flutter.

  As they walked on, Frederick observed, “Mama wasn’t one for entertaining the locals—London was always her true home. She held house parties at the Hall, but her guests were her and my father’s London friends.”

  After a moment, Stacie said, “If I had to choose, I would opt for life in the country. Living in the country and visiting town to attend performances, catch up with family, and grace the occasional social event”—she cast a glance up at his face—“that, to me, would be my ideal.”

  He nodded. “Add in visits to scholarly lectures and events, and that’s my ideal as well.”

  He didn’t bother stating how perfectly they were matched; that was obvious. As he continued to walk beside her, protectively steering her through the crowd, pointing out this and that and being a
mused by the sights that tickled her fancy, he felt contentment settle just a little deeper into his bones.

  He couldn’t imagine a life more pleasant than this.

  All he had to do to ensure it continued for the rest of his life—that, if anything, the peace and joy and happiness only deepened—was to find some way to convince his lovely wife that love developing within their marriage wasn’t a reason for ending it.

  Chapter 15

  Frederick had still not broached the issue of love within their marriage with his wife—indeed, he had absolutely no idea how to safely do so and, until he found some solution, was relying on his ability to pass off any too-revealing reactions as simply the way a nobleman such as he would react in the circumstances—when, six days later, Camber arrived at the Hall.

  On being summoned from the music room where he’d been putting the hour Stacie passed with Mrs. Hughes to good use, Frederick saw the inquiry agent waiting in the front hall with a large, brown-paper-wrapped package under his arm. Frederick couldn’t hold back his smile. “You got it!”

  Camber grinned. “More accurately, I used your funds to outbid everyone else, my lord.”

  Frederick approached and held out his hands, and Camber relinquished the package.

  Frederick saw the agent’s gaze deflect and go past him; he glanced around and found Stacie coming down the stairs. He had no doubt that Camber had heard of his marriage and knew who his wife was, yet discretion on all fronts was Camber’s motto. “My dear, this is Mr. Camber—he’s the agent I mentioned through whom I acquire rare books.”

  Stacie smiled and nodded to Camber. “Sir.”

  “Ma’am.” Camber bowed deeply.

  Frederick noted that not by so much as a flicker of an eyelash did Camber betray that he knew rather a lot about Stacie. “Come into the study and tell me about the auction.”

  With an inclusive smile, Frederick waved Stacie ahead of him, and together, they led Camber into the study.

  Over the past weeks, Stacie had often joined Frederick there, discussing the estate and issues pertaining to it. He’d repositioned one of the armchairs to the side of his desk, and she’d made it her own.

  As Stacie sank into the chair, she studied the package Frederick had set on his desk and was eagerly unwrapping. “Is that your latest find?”

  “Yes. I’d heard it was listed in the library of a deceased gentleman in Glasgow and the heirs were auctioning the library off.” Frederick glanced at Camber as the agent settled in the chair facing the desk. “How did it go?”

  “The bidding was fast and furious at first. I hadn’t expected quite so much interest, so I let the eager ones make the running. I only came in when there was just one gentleman left bidding.”

  “Oh?” With the book unwrapped and the paper tossed aside, Frederick dropped into his desk chair the better to examine the tome. “Who was that?”

  “Your nemesis,” Camber replied. “Lord Brougham.”

  Frederick had opened the book, but looked up at that, a faint frown on his face. “I had hoped he wouldn’t get wind of it.”

  “Well, he had, and he was mightily put out when he realized you were my client.”

  Frederick blinked. “You told him?”

  Camber looked offended. “Of course not—but he went from brow-beating me to brow-beating the auctioneer’s clerk, and he wasn’t up to holding Brougham at bay.” Camber paused, then added, “Daresay the staff of a small auction house in Glasgow aren’t used to the high dramas generated by rare book auctions in the capital.”

  “Hmm.” Frederick had already gone back to the book. “I daresay you’re right, and I suppose it doesn’t really matter that Brougham knows I have it.”

  Camber made no reply.

  Stacie watched as Frederick pored over the tome, carefully turning pages using only the very tips of his fingers. After several moments of utter silence, she asked, “Is it really such a find?”

  Frederick had, apparently, fallen into the book; it took several seconds for him to look up, replay her words, and comprehend her question. Then he glanced at the book. “Yes, it is.” Evidently returned to the land of the living, he reached for a side drawer of the desk, opened it, and extracted a slip of paper. He held it out to Camber. “Your fee and a bonus. Thank you—as always, you’ve delivered to my satisfaction.”

  Camber rose and took the bank draft. He glanced at the figure and smiled. “And as always, it’s a pleasure doing business with you, my lord.”

  Stacie rose and went to the bellpull. “Can we offer you some refreshments, Mr. Camber?”

  “Thank you, my lady, but I need to be on my way back to town.”

  She smiled. “Perhaps just a mug of cider while your horse is being watered?”

  Camber arched his brows, then nodded. “I wouldn’t say no to that, my lady—I’m rather partial to cider.”

  “In that case, you’re in for a treat—our cider is made on the estate.” Hughes arrived, and Stacie delegated to the butler the task of providing Camber with a mug of their best cider before seeing him on his way.

  “Good day, my lord,” Camber said, addressing Frederick, now buried in the book.

  Frederick didn’t look up, just raised a hand. “Again, my thanks—I’ll be in touch when I next have an acquisition that requires your expertise.”

  Camber tried but failed to hide an indulgent smile, bowed to Stacie, and followed Hughes from the room.

  Stacie ambled back to the armchair and sank into it. Smiling indulgently herself, she watched Frederick pore over the old tome; he was completely and utterly engrossed.

  The sight reminded her of the promise she’d made when she’d been negotiating with him over his appearances at her musical events. “I’d forgotten I guaranteed you access to my great-grandmother’s musical legacy.” When he looked up, blinking, she continued, “The old musical texts and folios of music at Raventhorne Abbey—remember?”

  “Ah, yes.” Renewed interest lit his eyes.

  “I’m sure Ryder and Mary won’t mind if we borrow the books and folios for a while.”

  Frederick studied her eyes, then said, “We can call on Ryder and Mary when next we go up to town.”

  She smiled and nodded. “We’ll have to remember.”

  Yes, they would, because if he had his way, they wouldn’t be returning to London for months.

  Stacie stretched, then waved a hand at his recently acquired tome. “If you’re finished for the moment, can I have a quick perusal?”

  He glanced down at the book he’d only just started examining, then closed it and handed it to her. He watched as she took it, laid it in her lap, and carefully opened the cover.

  He studied the sight of her poring over the book. The past weeks with her here, just him and her and the staff and estate workers, had been his notion of idyllic. He saw no reason for the interlude to end before it needed to—even in pursuit of rare manuscripts.

  It was something of a minor shock to realize that, above all, he wanted to keep Stacie to himself—to hoard her smiles, to greedily capture all her attention, to selfishly wallow in her very presence and exclude every possible distraction.

  Selfish, certainly.

  In love, indubitably.

  Luckily, with respect to his actions and the motives that drove them, his wife appeared to be blissfully blind.

  Stacie woke in the depths of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep. She knew it was deep night from the quality of the silence that blanketed the Hall. Even outside, bar the distant hoot of an owl, all lay quiet under a cloudy and moonless sky.

  Frederick lay softly snoring beside her; she didn’t want to wake him by tossing and turning, so she lay still and willed herself to sleep.

  To no avail.

  Finally, she slipped from beneath his arm, flung her robe about her, found her slippers and eased her feet into them, then crept from the room. There was just enough light to see her way as she walked quietly through the gallery, down the stairs, and turned to
ward the kitchen. A glass of warm milk was a childhood remedy for wakefulness she’d continued to use into adulthood; for her, it was usually effective.

  She pushed through the swinging green-baize-covered door, walked down the deeply shadowed corridor beyond, and passed under the archway at its end, into the large kitchen. The servants’ hall stretched to her left; she turned right, toward the kitchen proper and the long deal table that ran down its length. A glow emanated from the huge hearth in the wall beyond the table’s end, assuring her that the kitchen fire, although banked, still burned. Focusing on the hearth, smiling, she headed for the welcoming glow.

  To her right, a shadow shifted.

  Startled, she half turned—only to have a man loom before her. Before she could gasp, let alone scream, he locked his hands about her throat.

  And squeezed.

  She tried to raise her knee, but he shoved her against the table and crowded close, his body pinning hers. Shocked, she stared into a face shadowed by a hat pulled low and a muffler wound about nose and chin; all she could see was a pair of dark eyes gleaming malevolently at her.

  Instinctively, her hands had risen to where his fingers cruelly gripped. Desperate, she tried to pry his hands away, but couldn’t budge even one finger.

  Her lungs heaved and strained. She was starting to choke; her head was swimming.

  In a panic, she flung her hands to either side, seeking something with which to strike at her attacker—anything amid the odd things that had been left on the table.

  One of her sweeping hands hit a tin saucepan and sent it careening; it landed on the stone floor with an unholy clatter.

  “What the devil?”

  Frederick!

  Her attacker jerked upright, hauling her with him.

  In the next instant, he flung her away—at Frederick.

  She slammed into him, knocking him off balance. He stumbled, and they fell, but wrapping one arm about her, he juggled her, cushioning her against him as, with his other arm, he broke their fall.