by Sandra Heath
Beside her, Benedict sat gazing out of the rain-washed carriage window. One arm rested along the ledge, and his gloved fingers drummed on the polished wood. He wore a dark-green coat, a green-and-white-striped waistcoat, and white corduroy breeches. The tassels on his Hessian boots swung to the motion of the carriage as it swayed down the narrow lane, where rivulets of water trickled along the ruts. His top hat was pulled well forward so that he wouldn’t catch Great-Aunt Minton’s baleful eye, and his expression was dark. The devil take the old woman for foisting herself upon them; and take Venetia too, for deserting his cause and endeavoring to make Linnet stay in this godforsaken corner of the realm. He stole a brief glance at his elderly adversary. If she imagined that she was going to prevent him from courting her niece, she was very much mistaken. Linnet was his, and he wasn’t going to relinquish her because an obstinate and unreasonable old biddy had taken a dislike to him.
His fingers continued to drum, the sound barely audible above the rattle of the carriage and the noise of the rain on the roof. If he was honest, the dragon’s presence was the only cloud on his lakeland horizon, for his other purposes had been accomplished. Linnet was returning to London at last, and Venetia hadn’t been caught out in any indiscretion with Coleridge, whose stay at Town End had, according to investigation, lasted only two days. The tendency of the occupants of the former Dove and Olive Branch Inn to walk on the fells in the dark, or stay on the Grasmere island until dawn, had meant a possibility that Venetia might slip from her room at night in order to be with her unsuitable lover. He, Benedict, had spent several sleepless nights on guard against such a happening, but Venetia hadn’t stirred from her room at all, emerging bright and fresh in the morning while her brother had been tired and irritable.
Venetia sat opposite him, well aware of his watchfulness over the past week. At first she’d been very angry, but then had decided to ignore him, for if he wished to spend sleepless nights, that was his concern. She was more concerned about Linnet’s determination to go through with this return to London. Venetia didn’t think the time was right, and intended to support Great-Aunt Minton in any attempt to make Linnet reconsider, even at this late hour. Not that it would be easy supporting the old lady, whose vague antagonism hadn’t gone unnoticed. Venetia didn’t know in what way she sinned in the other’s eyes, she only knew that Linnet’s great-aunt was an ally only on the matter of the departure from Ivystone House; on every other front there was no trust or liking at all.
Venetia sighed, looking out at the dripping trees as the carriage passed. She felt very put of place in her bright apricot lawn gown and matching full-length frilled pelisse. There was a posy of silk forget-me-nots pinned to the underbrim of her cream hat, and another posy on her right shoulder, giving her a summery look that just didn’t go with such miserable weather. The warm sunshine and flawless skies of a week before might never have been. Was it an omen? Was Linnet’s return to London going to be as disagreeable? Venetia rather feared it was.
Next to her, Great-Aunt Minton was very precisely and properly turned out in a bottle-green linen pelisse and green-and-white sprigged-muslin gown. A discreet number of powdered ringlets peeped from beneath her wide-brimmed hat, and there was a warm shawl around her shoulders, to protect her from the drafts she was sure would percolate the carriage in such inclement weather. She didn’t think much of Venetia’s elegant carriage, which was handsome enough but had fussily pretty lamps and excessively ornate blinds. And its crimson upholstery had been especially chosen to flatter the owner’s brunette looks, thus showing her to be guilty of a certain unbecoming vanity. The former Miss Venetia Gresham had done very well for herself, marrying into the peerage and emerging very quickly as a wealthy young widow, and there was no doubt that she was a very attractive person, but there was something about her that Miss Edith Minton simply couldn’t take to. It was quite an irrational dislike, and as such not to be approved of, for one always had to have a reason for disliking a person, but where Lady Hartley was concerned, there didn’t seem to be any explanation for the vague feeling of distrust.
Where Mr. Benedict Gresham was concerned, however, there was a great deal more to go on. Behind his handsome, engaging exterior, the old lady felt certain he was not what he seemed to be. His charm was just a little too easy, and his smile a little too ready. And then there was this business with his financial affairs. He’d been back in England for some time now, lodging with his half-sister, and in all that time he seemed no further forward than he had at the very beginning. There were tales of tortuous legal tangles, and the withholding of funds, mention of an estate in the north of Northumberland which was being improved to his very exact specifications, and of various London town properties he’d inspected and found lacking, and even of a Newmarket stud of thoroughbreds he was considering purchasing. It was all a trifle unsatisfactory, lacking substance, and Linnet’s great-aunt required a little more in the way of fact before she’d ever consider him even remotely suitable for her niece.
Turning her attention to Linnet, Great-Aunt Minton sighed inwardly. The child looked so tense, but was pretending to be light-hearted. She’d suffered so much at Nicholas Fenton’s callous hands, and would suffer more when she saw the blackguard again. To think that his grandfather, the third Lord Fane, had been such a paragon of every virtue… She sighed aloud. Linnet Carlisle had execrable taste in gentlemen; her first love had been a total disaster, and her second seemed little better. Why, oh why, couldn’t she fix her affections upon a deserving person, instead of a succession of rogues and villains?
The carriage reached the foot of the hill, turning south onto the main Kendal road. Grasmere village loomed across the meadows to the northwest, almost lost in the gloom and rain. The coachman brought the team up to as smart a pace as possible, maneuvering them along the rain-washed road as it meandered beside the gray, glinting waters of the lake. The second carriage followed, its occupants laughing and joking together, but in the first, the uncomfortable silence continued, and promised to do so for the next three days or so.
* * *
It stopped raining at last on the afternoon of the third day, as the two travel-stained carriages drove into the yard of the Turk’s Head Inn, in the town of Barnet, just north of London. Barnet was the first stage out of, and last stage into, the capital, and was consequently very busy. Its long main street was lined with hostelries, for there were not only numerous stagecoaches to cater for, but also at least seven northbound mails, including the important Holyhead coach.
As the two travel-stained vehicles from Ivystone House drew to a weary standstill and ostlers hurried to change the teams, Linnet looked out at the noisy, teeming yard. Doors opened and closed constantly, bells rang, customers called to waiters, servants seemed to come and go from every doorway, and porters carried luggage to waiting coaches. A barber’s boy ran by with some razors in a bowl, and a washerwoman carried a huge basket of clean linen toward the kitchen doors. The smell of cooking hung in the air, as did the familiar odor of stale ale, which had permeated every establishment they’d stopped at during the past three days.
Another private carriage pulled into the yard, halting alongside, and Linnet recognized the crest on the gleaming panel. It was that of her good friend Lord Morpeth, and he’d already noticed her, smiling as he flung open his door to come and greet her. He was a tall, pleasant-looking young man, with a lazily nonchalant appearance that accurately defined his whole character and outlook.
For a moment Linnet’s heart sank. This was her first encounter with one of her old friends. Would it pass off easily? Or would it become evident that the events of twelve months before were still uncomfortably fresh in society’s mind?
He opened the door of Venetia’s carriage, hastily removing his hat to speak to them all. “I trust I’m not intruding, but seeing a face that has been absent for far too long has made me a little bold.” He smiled warmly at Linnet.
Linnet hastened to introduce him to her great-aunt, who
wasn’t acquainted with him. “My lord, allow me to present you to my great-aunt, Miss Minton, of Grasmere in Cumberland. Great-Aunt Minton, this is Lord Morpeth.”
“Madam.” He bowed.
“My lord.” Great-Aunt Minton surveyed him for a long moment. “Yes, I can see you are your mother’s son.”
“You know my mother?”
“I do indeed, sir, she is a very charming and agreeable lady. Pray remember me to her.”
“I will be sure to do that, Miss Minton.” He looked at Linnet again. “I trust this means you are returning to the fold?”
‘l am.’
“And not before time. We’ve missed you.”
Linnet smiled. “I understand from Venetia that you have formed a lasting tendresse for Lady Georgiana Cavendish. Is it true?”
“Yes, very true indeed.”
Linnet reached over to squeeze his hand. “I’m very glad for you. Shall we soon hear an announcement?”
“I sincerely hope so, but you know how the financial details tend to drag on.”
Great-Aunt Minton gave a sniff. “Oh, we do indeed, sir,” she said, looking deliberately at Benedict.
Linnet quickly spoke again. “I trust you will invite me to the celebrations, my lord.”
“Naturally. Well, I must take my leave now, for I’m on my way to Chatsworth.”
“To haggle with the duke?” inquired Venetia.
“I prefer to call it conducting a very civilized discussion,” he replied, putting on his hat. “If he’s to be my future father-in-law, I intend to walk on eggshells in order to stay on his right side.” He smiled at Linnet again. “It really is good to see you once more. Everyone will be very pleased to see you again.”
“Everyone?” She raised an eyebrow, thinking of Nicholas.
“Well, does he count? I vow the fellow don’t deserve it if he does. Ah, I see I’m holding you up, for your team’s been changed. I look forward to seeing you again soon. Good luck.” He closed the door, calling to the waiting coachman to drive on.
As the carriage swayed forward once more, Great-Aunt Minton looked out approvingly at Lord Morpeth. “What a very pleasing young man, a true credit to his parents. And so eminently suitable, in every way.” She forbore to actually look at Benedict, but she didn’t need to, the barb was very evident indeed.
Benedict glowered at her, and Venetia rather irritably twitched her skirts away, to show her profound annoyance with the old lady. Linnet gave her great-aunt an equally cross look, and as the two carriages emerged once more into Harriet’s main street, the silence of the past three days was restored to the one in the lead, while the servants’ good-humored chatter continued in the other.
The closer they drew to London, the busier the road became. There was a great deal of traffic, from covered carts and wagons, to chariots, chaises, gigs, curricles, and phaetons. Stagecoaches thundered to and from the capital, and drovers moved their slow herds toward the markets. Now that the rain had stopped, the predominant sound was that of hooves and wheels crunching on the graveled surface.
Linnet gazed at the horizon ahead, where the remembered spires marked the skyline. Soon the first villas appeared, and then it seemed no time at all before they’d reached Tyburn and were turning east along Oxford Street. It was good to see the shops again, their windows displaying such an abundance of fine wares. Then Oxford Street was behind them, as the carriages turned south into the elegance and grandeur of Mayfair. They negotiated Grosvenor Square, and then struck south once more along the cobbles of John Street.
Charles Street, and Carlisle House, lay at the end of this thoroughfare, but halfway along it, on the western side, stood the gates and lodge guarding the drives into Fane House and Fane Crescent. Linnet steeled herself, little realizing that in a moment she was about to see not only the gates and lodge, but also Nicholas himself.
Chapter 4
The tall wrought iron gates, their posts surmounted by the Fane lions, appeared quite suddenly on the right. There were two pairs of gates, one to admit traffic to Fane House, the other to allow access to the crescent itself, and in between stood the little lodge, where the gatekeeper took his duties very seriously indeed, never allowing any vehicle or person in unless authorized.
Beyond the gates, Linnet could see the crescent. It was very fine indeed, curving grandly away from the gates, its windows looking south over the large sunken garden toward Fane House on the other side. The crescent was a masterpiece of symmetry, three stories high, with stone facings and pedimented doors, and Fane House, while far from the largest mansion in Mayfair, was surely the most beautiful. Its windows were tall and airy, and the central bay was crowned by a fine classical portico with Corinthian columns. The main entrance was approached up a wide flight of ten steps, and the drive before it was large enough for a carriage and six to turn with ease. Linnet gazed at it, and then looked at the sunken garden, where the newly erected equestrian statue of Nicholas’s grandfather stood among the trees.
The gatekeeper had hastened from his lodge suddenly, hurrying to open the Fane House gates, and her attention was drawn to him immediately. He snatched off his hat, standing deferentially aside for a horseman to enter. It was Nicholas.
He rode one of the superb Arabian horses he and a few other discerning gentlemen kept especially for riding in Hyde Park, and he was accompanied by two rust-colored greyhounds, which padded obediently at his horse’s heels. He was more darkly handsome than she remembered, with an aristocratic profile that was both fine-boned and strong. His lips were firm, neither too full nor too thin, and there was a cleft in his chin that gave him a rugged look. His eyes were a clear, piercing blue, dark-lashed and penetrating, and his complexion was tanned, for he wasn’t one to languish overlong in stuffy drawing rooms. His hair was thick and wavy, and so dark it was virtually black, making Benedict’s seem pale in comparison. A fawn top hat rested at a rakish angle on his head, and he wore a light brown coat with a high standfall collar. The frills of his white shirt protruded through his partially buttoned gold brocade waistcoat, and his fawn silk neckcloth was tied in an intricate knot. Cream cord breeches clung to his hips and legs like a second skin, and there were gleaming spurs at the heels of his shining topboots.
He rode with effortless ease, making little of controlling his spirited and nervous mount. He’d been riding in the park, and for some time, for the horse was sweating a little from the exertion. The greyhounds bounded ahead as the gates swung fully open, and he was about to ride after them when some sixth sense made him look directly at the passing carriages.
His glance settled unerringly on Linnet, and he reined in, turning in the saddle to watch her. If he was startled to see her again, he gave no hint of it. She was conscious of how blue his eyes were, and she saw how his lips twisted into a faintly mocking smile, as if he found her vaguely amusing. Slowly he removed his hat, sweeping her an exaggerated bow, then the carriage carried her from his view.
Her pulse was racing, and she knew there were telltale spots of color on her cheeks. She was trembling, for she hadn’t expected to encounter him quite so quickly. The past was all around her suddenly, and her treacherous senses recalled the warmth of his kisses, and the softness of his whispered words of love, but then she remembered the falseness that was beneath everything. She had to look past his beguiling exterior and see the blackness within. Ignoring her great-aunt, she openly took Benedict’s hand, curling her fingers tightly in his.
But the old lady’s thoughts were still on Nicholas. “How like his grandfather he is—indeed, he could be James all over again—but how regrettable that a man of such noble appearance should be such an unprincipled villain.”
Venetia moved uncomfortably, clearing her throat and catching Linnet’s eye. “Why, I do believe I forgot to tell you something very important.”
“You did?”
“Mr. Sheridan’s The School for Scandal is your favorite play, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“And Mi
ss Pope is your favorite actress?”
“She is. Why?”
“Well, it so happens that you can see both tomorrow night at the Theatre Royal. I thought perhaps we could all go together. My private box offers such a splendid close view of the stage.”
Linnet smiled. “I’d like that very much.”
“Good.” Venetia looked at Great-Aunt Minton. “The invitation does, of course, include you.”
“Mr. Sheridan’s works are not to my liking, Lady Hartley. Besides, after this journey, I shall require a day or so to recover, but I’m sure my niece’s presence is all that you really require, and that you, as a widow, can undertake to chaperone her properly for one night.”
Benedict sat back, satisfied that for one evening at least he’d enjoy Linnet’s company without her great-aunt breathing down his neck. But then his thoughts turned to Nicholas. Damn the man for being there at the very moment they passed by. Pray to God he stayed well away from Linnet from now on.
The carriages reached the bottom of John Street at last, turning right into John Street at the corner by the Berkeley Chapel. Charles Street was one of the few thoroughfares in Mayfair to be solely residential, for nearly all the others possessed a sprinkling of superior shops, from perfumiers and saddlers to circulating libraries and confectioners. All that Charles Street could boast, apart from its handsome lines of brown brick houses, were some taverns, for Mayfair’s great houses supported large numbers of menservants, and such numbers had a thirst to quench.
