The Waverly Women Series (3-Book Bundle)

by M C Beaton

  And then downstairs came a knocking at the street door. “Stay still,” hissed the colonel, holding the point of the knife at her throat. “Not a word.”

  From downstairs came the Marquess of Darkwater’s voice and Mrs. Ricketts’s answering one saying that Miss Felicity was out and that Miss Callow was entertaining someone and perhaps would not like to be disturbed but she would go and find out.

  The colonel backed away until he was standing behind the door. “If you value your life, you old baggage,” he hissed, “you will tell her to send Darkwater away.”

  Felicity stared at him in baffled fury. But if she did not obey, then he might stab Mrs. Ricketts as well.

  “Do not come in,” said Felicity as Mrs. Ricketts appeared in the doorway. “Tell the marquess I am not free.”

  “Yes, mum,” said Mrs. Ricketts. She turned and went away.

  “Good,” whispered the colonel. “We will sit and wait until the coast is clear, and then we will go to your bedchamber, old lady, and we will find the rest of the jewels.”

  “You will hang, you greedy scoundrel,” said Felicity.

  Colonel Macdonald shrugged. “May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”

  Downstairs, Mrs. Ricketts held open the street door for the marquess. “Miss Callow does not wish to be disturbed,” she said in a loud voice. But as the marquess made to leave, she caught his arm and whispered urgently, “Please go up, sir. Something is wrong. I know it.” She slammed the door loudly so that anyone listening would think the marquess had left.

  The marquess looked at her in surprise and then ran lightly up the stairs.

  He stopped short at the tableau that met his eyes. Miss Callow was shrinking back in her chair while the colonel held a long sharp knife in front of her.

  The colonel saw him. “Come one step nearer, and I will kill her,” he said.

  Unnoticed by him, Felicity had been slowly drawing up her knees. As the marquess hesitated, Felicity kicked out with all her might, the serviceable half boots she considered correct dress for an old lady striking the colonel full in the stomach. As he doubled up, the marquess moved like lightning and struck him full on the chin with a massive blow of his fist. The colonel was driven backward by the blow. He crashed into a chair opposite, then crumpled up and lay half across it, dead to the world.

  “Oh, bravo!” cried Felicity, leaping to her feet, “A flush hit, sir. Bravo!”

  The marquess took off his gloves, took out his handkerchief, and wound it around his bleeding knuckles. Then he looked at Miss Callow, and a flash of amusement lit up his eyes. Her white wig had slipped to one side revealing the glossy chestnut hair of Felicity Waverley.

  “I mean,” quavered Felicity, remembering her role all too late, “we are monstrous pleased to be rescued.”

  The servants came running in, Mrs. Ricketts carrying a length of cord with which she proceeded to tie up the colonel.

  “Drag him out to the landing and shut the door,” ordered the marquess, “and give me a few minutes in private with Miss Callow.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Mary, Beth, Joan, seize a hold of this fellow.”

  They removed the colonel by pulling his unconscious body to the floor and then sliding it across the rugs and out onto the landing. Mrs. Ricketts turned in the doorway. She tried to signal to Felicity that her wig was askew, but Felicity was looking at the marquess. But the marquess saw Mrs. Ricketts and jerked his head. She gave a resigned sort of curtsy and withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  “The jig is up, Miss Felicity,” said the marquess.

  “Yes, I am so glad that villain has been unmasked,” said Felicity. She sat down in the wing chair. One of the wings caught at her wig and it and the cap she was wearing fell off and landed on the floor.

  The marquess began to laugh. “I mean you have been unmasked, Miss Felicity. What a fright you have made of yourself!”

  Tears started to Felicity’s eyes. “So you know,” she said weakly.

  The amusement left his face. “Come, Miss Felicity. Go abovestairs and change back to your normal and beautiful appearance while I deal with the authorities.”

  Felicity nodded dumbly, too upset to protest. But she scooped up the jewels before she left the room. She was so rattled by the colonel’s attack on her, she was worried the marquess might prove to be a thief as well.

  The marquess went out after her, stepped over the colonel’s unconscious body, and told Mrs. Ricketts, who was waiting in the hall, that he would return shortly with the constable and a magistrate.

  Upstairs, Felicity wearily removed her disguise. She felt terribly lost and tired. All around her in the west end of London were young misses with mothers and fathers to turn to in an emergency. Her thoughts turned again to the mother she had never known, and she longed to give up completely, to lie facedown on the bed and cry her eyes out.

  Colonel Macdonald recovered consciousness. He cautiously felt with his fingers at his bound wrists. Feverishly he began to work at the knots. The rope was thick, and Mrs. Ricketts had not made a very good job of tying him up. Soon he had his wrists free and then his ankles. For one mad moment, he thought of trying to get at least some of those jewels. But Darkwater might be somewhere about, and if he were not, he would surely be returning with the forces of law and order. Groggily the colonel got to his feet. He slid down the banisters. Mrs. Ricketts had left her post in the hall to go down to the kitchens. He quietly opened the door and walked down the stairs and then he began to run as hard as he could, down toward the river, down to where that sordid network of alleys, wharves, and slums would swallow him up.

  The marquess was furious when he returned to find the colonel had escaped. But he sat with Felicity while the magistrate, the beadle, and the constable asked questions. When they had finally taken their leave, he said quietly to Felicity, “I did not tell the authorities of your ridiculous masquerade. Now tell me why you found it necessary to pretend to be your own aunt. Were you trying to chaperon yourself at the Season?”

  Felicity nodded dumbly.

  The marquess looked at her bent head. “Have you no one to care of you, my child?”

  “No, my lord. Except, of course, Mrs. Ricketts.”

  “A housekeeper, however worthy, is not enough to protect you from charlatans. Colonel Macdonald pretended he was going to sell some jewels for you. Why? Are you so destitute?”

  “No, my lord. I own this house and all the Waverley jewels. I have no money in the bank and wanted to sell a few items.”

  He glanced about him. The money she had received for her book would certainly only last a short time in Regency London. He had an impulse to tell her he knew she was the author of The Love Match, but decided against it.

  “Then I suggest,” he said, “that you allow me to escort you to a reputable jeweler, where you may sell the items yourself. Tell me what you know of your family. The other two Waverley girls, Fanny and Frederica, are now titled ladies. Can you not write to them and ask them for protection?”

  Felicity hung her head. “I cannot. I quarreled with them. I do not know if they have forgiven me.”

  He rang the bell and ordered tea to be brought in; Quite like the master of the house, thought Mrs. Ricketts with dawning hope.

  He waited in silence while tea was served and while the obviously upset Felicity had time to compose herself.

  “Begin at the beginning,” he said, “and tell me how you came to be in this odd situation.”

  Felicity spread her hands in a gesture of resignation. Then she began to speak.

  “We were taken from an orphanage, that is, I and Fanny and Frederica, by Mrs. Waverley and brought up in an odd way. We were allowed little social life; we were constantly warned against the evils of men and marriage. Mrs. Waverley is a very good teacher, and she educated us herself. Then Fanny ran away to get married, and later Frederica. But Mrs. Waverley herself deserted me to get married to Colonel Bridie, now Baron Meldon. She left me this
house, as I told you, and all those wretched jewels. There is a considerable amount of fine jewelry. Mrs. Waverley would make us dress very drably when we went out but liked to attire us as richly as barbaric princesses when she entertained at home. I felt Fanny had betrayed me, and then I tried to prevent Frederica’s marriage, for I really truly believed Lord Harry Danger did not mean to marry her. Both the Earl of Tredair, who married Fanny, and Lord Harry made attempts to find out the mystery of our parentage but were both unsuccessful. Since Mrs. Waverley had almost convinced us we were all foundlings and bastards, we might have let the matter rest. But it did seem as if someone or some people were determined to stop us from finding out anything.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “We even began to think we might be royal bastards, for every time Mrs. Waverley saw the Prince Regent, she turned white and he looked monstrous upset. Then the orphanage itself only housed girls who were being kept there by wealthy relatives. They told us we were charity cases, but I found that hard to believe as no one on the ruling body of that orphanage showed any signs of charity whatsoever.

  “I decided never to marry. I agreed with Mrs. Waverley’s views, even though she had betrayed them, because women are the lesser sex and marriage is a form of slavery. But I began to think there might possibly be exceptions to the rule,” said Felicity wistfully. “I hear reports that both Fanny and Frederica are very happy. I was … I am … lonely. I thought, don’t you see, that being of independent means I could perhaps find a companion, an equal. Yes, I suspected Colonel Macdonald was an impostor, but he seemed so gay, so charming, and I am by way of being an impostor myself. Baron Meldon, who married Mrs. Waverley, was at one time engaged to the actress Caroline James. She called here, and I hit on the plan of being made up to look like an elderly lady. That way I could chaperon myself. Now you have discovered my trick; there is nothing left for me but to settle down to a solitary existence.”

  “But what is stopping you from writing to Lady Tredair or Lady Harry?” asked the marquess.

  Felicity sighed. “We were brought up to be rivals. Pride, combined with fear they might still be angry with me—That is what is stopping me.”

  She fell silent. He sat opposite her, very much at his ease, the candlelight shining on his handsome face. He studied her for some moments, noticing the purity of her skin and the gleaming cascade of her chestnut hair.

  “I sometimes hate Mrs. Waverley,” said Felicity suddenly.

  “And yet,” he said, “she saved you from the orphanage and left you independent. She educated you well and made you all so independent-minded that at least Fanny and Frederica found two gentlemen who were prepared to treat them as equals, or so I believe.”

  “Perhaps,” said Felicity slowly. “But I think I hate her because I feel in my bones she knows the identity of our parents. Before she met the baron, she was very possessive and did everything to bind us close to her, almost as if she had bought herself a ready-made family to protect her from the world.”

  There was another long silence, and he shifted restlessly, and she wondered whether he was becoming bored, and that thought gave her a sharp pain. Soon he would rise to take his leave, his curiosity satisfied, and she would never see him again.

  “It is a fascinating mystery,” he said. “Have courage, Miss Felicity. Surely you and I would be better employed finding out where you come from than spending our evenings in hot rooms talking to a lot of charlatans and bores.”

  “I do not see how we can succeed where Tredair and Danger failed,” said Felicity.

  “They were both men deeply in love, and having secured their hearts’ desire, they lost interest,” said the marquess. “But we, Miss Felicity, are heart-free and intelligent. Before we set about our investigations, we must find a chaperon for you. No, do not look so surprised. I know what you are thinking. I shall not tell anyone of your masquerade. As far as society is concerned, Miss Callow has retired to the country. Now, I have a fourth cousin, resident in London, a poor relation. I had planned to do something about her plight, for she is companion to an old harridan and having quite a miserable time of it. Allow me to fetch her here. We may have to travel, and you cannot drive off with me on your own.”

  From being in the depths of misery, Felicity began to feel quite light-headed with excitement. She clasped her hands together and looked at him beseechingly. “It would be wonderful if we could solve the mystery.”

  He raised an admonitory finger. “Be warned, Miss Felicity, that the outcome may not be what you hope.”

  “Anything is better than not knowing,” said Felicity. “Where do we start?”

  “I think,” he said, “we will start with Mrs. Waverley herself.”

  ***

  The marquess’s fourth cousin, Miss Agnes Joust, was a thoroughly silly woman, and was suffering as much as any woman without any strength of character can when she finds herself in a nasty predicament. Miss Joust had survived three months as companion to a Mrs. Deves-Pereneux. Mrs. Deves-Pereneux was a gross, overfed bully. Miss Joust was thin and faded and fortyish. The only thing that lightened her days was the knowledge that her handsome relative, the Marquess of Darkwater, was in London. She had not seen him for many years until he had called on her a bare month ago. Miss Joust had fallen violently in love with him on the spot. She wrote him little notes about the happenings of her days. Occasionally he would reply, and she kept his letters in a sandalwood box on her toilet table, reading and rereading them. One of her favorite dreams was that he would arrive in person again, but this time he would sweep her off, away from the horrible Mrs. Deves-Pereneux.

  Miss Joust had no faith to console her. Every Sunday for the past three months she had prayed for deliverance from her mistress, and every Monday came along to show that God had not paid any attention. Therefore, it followed that God did not exist, and Miss Joust became determined to punish Him by telling Him so. Mrs. Deves-Pereneux liked to walk home from church. It was half a mile, and the going was slow and painful for both women—for Mrs. Deves-Pereneux because she was fat and for Miss Joust because her mistress leaned too heavily on her arm and grumbled and wheezed.

  They were just reaching the bleak red brick house in Bloomsbury where Mrs. Deves-Pereneux lived when Miss Joust saw a smart curricle approaching and her heart began to hammer hard as she recognized the driver.

  “Why, ‘tis Lord Darkwater,” she cried.

  “What’s he want?” grumbled Mrs. Deves-Pereneux. “Got no right to come calling on servants without a by-your-leave, and so I shall tell him.”

  Tears started to Miss Joust’s weak eyes. Mrs. Deves-Pereneux, a frightful old snob, had no intention of being rude to a lord, but it did her heart good to torment Miss Joust.

  But the old lady was quite put out when the marquess said he wished to see Miss Joust in private. “Servants,” said Mrs. Deves-Pereneux nastily, “have to give notice when they are expecting callers.”

  “I was under the understanding that Miss Joust was your companion,” said the marquess icily as he followed them into the gloom of the downstairs parlor.

  “Well, well, paid companion,” said the old lady, but in a mollified tone, for she had noticed Miss Joust’s nose had turned red, a sure sign of acute distress. “I shall retire for a few moments, my lord, and then you may have the honor of taking tea with me.”

  “That will not be possible,” he said coldly. “My time is short.”

  Miss Joust groaned inwardly. A few moments bliss in his company would mean days of cruelty as Mrs. Deves-Pereneux exacted her revenge. An hour, say, would have made such treatment bearable.

  As soon as her mistress had lumbered out, Miss Joust began on a long, prepared speech, well-rehearsed for just such an occasion. But he interrupted her and said, “I had hoped to do things pleasantly, but that old fright never does anything pleasant. I have found a congenial post for you, Miss Joust. Go and get your trunk packed. We will leave immediately.”

  Miss Joust clasped her hands to her bosom. The marquess�
�s well-tailored coat of Bath superfine and leather breeches and top boots faded to be replaced by a suit of shining armor. Somewhere in her ears she could hear a celestial choir and the snort of his milk-white steed outside the door.

  “Are you all right, Miss Joust?” asked the marquess anxiously, for her eyes were now closed and she was breathing rapidly.

  Miss Joust opened her eyes. “I will do as you command, my lord,” she said firmly, “and escape this dungeon!”

  With head thrown back, she strode out of the room.

  The marquess experienced a qualm of doubt and then reassured himself with the thought that half the spinster companions and chaperons in London were decidedly weird.

  Then there came sounds of the very devil of a row, coming from upstairs. He could hear the deep bass of Mrs. Deves-Pereneux’s voice punctuated with the shrill protests of Miss Joust.

  The afternoon dragged on, the noise upstairs went on and on, the clocks ticked, and the fire died in the hearth. The marquess was just about to rouse himself and go upstairs to find out what was going on when the door opened and a much-flushed and exhilarated Miss Joust stood there, carrying a trunk, while the bulk of her mistress loomed behind her.

  Mrs. Deves-Pereneux’s curses and complaints followed them from the house. The marquess could not be bothered telling her what he thought of her and so pretended to have been struck deaf.

  “You will be relieved never to see her again,” he remarked as he drove through the streets of Bloomsbury.

  “Oh, my lord, you have saved me from the jaws of hell,” exclaimed Miss Joust, and then in a more practical tone, “Where are we going?”

  “There is a young lady in need of a companion.”

  “Young? How young?”

  “Nineteen or twenty, I should guess.”

  “Oh.”

  “I had better tell you the whole story.”

  As the marquess talked, Miss Joust began to feel more at ease. This Felicity had had a weird upbringing. And a bluestocking! Bluestockings were notoriously ugly. Nothing more tedious for a man than the company of a young bluestocking. Mature men like the marquess must find the feminine company of a mondaine older woman like herself infinitely preferable. For Miss Joust lived in a fantasy world. When she looked in her glass, she did not see a long-nosed spinster with drab brown hair and thin lips, but a calm, medieval beauty with an air of mystery. She was still convinced the vicar of the church in which she had prayed so uselessly to God was in love with her and had not declared his passion because of the fearsome Mrs. Deves-Pereneux. The fact that the marquess might have arrived because of some divine intervention did not occur to Miss Joust. She had shown Him she could manage very well on her own, thank you, and so she did not believe in Him.