The Waverly Women Series (3-Book Bundle)

by M C Beaton

  “Felicity,” said the baroness faintly. “Why are you come?”

  “May we sit down?” asked Felicity impatiently. “We have journeyed from London to see you.”

  “It is too small and stuffy here,” said the baroness with a distracted look about her. “We will repair to the Green Saloon.”

  The small party followed her across the hall and into a large, chilly, and very grand room. The baron had bought the house and estates with his wife’s money. He loved his new home and he loved his title. Could the Prince Regent remove a title through displeasure?

  The marquess sat down and looked at Baroness Meldon curiously. She was a massive stately woman like a figurehead on a ship. She looked at him, and she looked at Agnes, but she would not look at Felicity.

  “We are come,” said Felicity, “because I feel it is important to trace my parents.”

  “But that is impossible,” said Mrs. Waverley. “And pointless. I gave you the jewels and the house. Why should you wreck your life by trying to find out about parents who were probably not even married?”

  “Why should you believe that?” put in the marquess.

  “They were charity cases at the orphanage,” said the baroness angrily. “I gave them a home. I took them to my bosom. Did they thank me? Did they give me love? No!” She struck her breast. Agnes looked at her with approval. The baroness was behaving just as a lady ought.

  “We are all grateful to you,” said Felicity. “You know that. We might have loved you had you not kept us like prisoners in the house in Hanover Square. We might have loved you had you not tried to set us against one another.”

  “Viper!” cried the baroness.

  “In truth, Felicity, I must say you are too hard,” said Agnes.

  “Do not interfere in matters that are not your concern,” retorted Felicity. “You must have some idea, ma’am. Why was it when Tredair tried to find out from the orphanage, they sent a messenger to warn you of his visit?”

  “Because they considered it none of his concern.”

  Felicity leaned forward. “Then tell me, ma’am, why it is you turn faint when you see the Prince Regent and why his majesty looks most uncomfortable. Are we royal bastards?”

  The baron exploded into wrath. “Take yourselves off!” he shouted. “Begone from my house and leave my wife in peace.” He rang the bell and told the footman who answered it, “These persons are leaving. Have them escorted off the estate and make sure they are not allowed to return.”

  The marquess was about to expostulate when he saw two letters lying open on a desk by the door. Felicity had got to her feet and was now raging at the baroness. He moved quietly to the door, straining his eyes to read the letters.

  “You unnatural woman,” Felicity was saying. “There is no need for this rudeness. And what of your famous principles? What of all your lectures on the evils of marriage?”

  “Saints preserve us,” screamed the baroness. “Am I to be molested in my own house, you strumpet? You came from the gutter, and you will no doubt return to the gutter when this fine lord has tired of you.”

  “You have a mind like a kennel,” raged Felicity. “What of your precious background?”

  She found the marquess had taken her arm, and she tried to shake him off. “Come along, Miss Waverley,” he said. “There is nothing for us here.”

  The fight suddenly seemed to go out of her, and he led her from the room.

  When they had gone, the baroness said, “Ingratitude always makes me feel ill, my love. I am going to lie down.”

  “I’ll be up soon,” said the baron. “Do not fret. I will make sure those tiresome people are not allowed to trouble you again. I must write an urgent letter.”

  He sat for a long time at the writing desk. He did not particularly want to remind the Prince Regent of his existence, yet perhaps it might be better to tell him one of the Waverley girls was ferreting about. He bent his head and began to write.

  ***

  The marquess found a comfortable inn to stay the night in the village of Meldon. He studied Felicity during supper. Agnes was prattling on, acting, as she fondly believed, the part of hostess and marchioness-to-be. Felicity, he thought, could do with a good cry. He wanted to tell her what he had found out but was reluctant to say anything in front of Agnes, who would cackle and exclaim. He regretted having chosen her to be a companion to Felicity, but, on the other hand, he was sorry for her, as he was sorry for all poor relations, neither fish nor fowl, treated with contempt by both servant and master. After they had finished the pudding and the covers had been removed, the marquess said, “Miss Joust, I am sure you are tired and this business is really not your affair. Please leave us.”

  Agnes bridled, and her long nose turned red. “I feel it my duty to point out it is not at all the thing to leave Felicity unchaperoned.”

  “We are in a public dining room, Miss Joust, not a private parlor. You force me to order you to leave us.”

  Agnes got reluctantly to her feet. She dropped her fan and made a great work of picking it up. She then spent a long time arranging her shawl about her shoulders. At last, she left.

  She stood outside the dining room, fretting. What were they talking about?

  What if they were talking about her?

  Then a rosy dream began to curl about her brain. They were talking about her. She could see the marquess, leaning back in his chair, toying with his glass of wine. “Miss Waverley,” he was saying, “I do hope all this is not too much for Miss Joust. My late wife was not strong, you know.” In the dream Felicity answered something or other. “Yes,” the dream marquess went on, “I worry about her. Will she be strong enough, for example, to endure the climate of the Indies?”

  Agnes went out to stroll in the inn garden just in case he should care to come looking for her.

  “I think I found something out,” said the marquess. “Oh, cry, for heaven’s sake. You will feel better.”

  “I don’t want to cry,” lied Felicity, although her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “Then listen to this. While you were shouting at the baroness, I noticed two letters on the desk in the corner. One was a business letter from a firm of lawyers in Scarborough. I could not make out the rest. There was no time, but enough to know it was about money and business. The lawyers are Baxter, Baxter, and Friend, Whitestairs Walk, Scarborough. If Mrs. Waverley—I think of her as that, you know—if she has her business run from Scarborough, then that is probably where she came from. If we find out who exactly she is, where she was born, and who she married, we might have a clue as to your birth.”

  “Scarborough,” said Felicity in a hollow voice.

  “Yes, Scarborough. I suggest we return to London tomorrow and make preparations for the long journey.”

  “You are very good, my lord,” said Felicity. “I do not know why you should go to so much trouble on my behalf.”

  “Because it amuses me,” he said with a smile.

  And Felicity decided at that point that she really must escape to her bedchamber and burst into tears.

  ***

  The marquess had said it would take two weeks to put his affairs in order and to make preparations for the long journey to Scarborough in Yorkshire.

  Felicity found time lying very heavy on her hands. Agnes was beginning to irritate her immensely. She kept urging Felicity to take the Waverley jewels out of the bank—“just for a little, you know. So terrible to think of them lying in a dusty vault where no one can see them.” Felicity protested wearily that the jewels should remain where they were until she returned from Scarborough. To escape from Agnes, she went to Covent Garden to see Caroline James. She was fortunate in finding the famous actress at home. Caroline welcomed her warmly and then listened in amazement as Felicity recounted her adventures at Meldon.

  “So the third Waverley girl is to have a titled marriage,” teased Caroline.

  Felicity looked surprised. “What can you mean?”

  “Why, this Lo
rd Darkwater is going to a great deal of effort and expense on your behalf.”

  “Oh, as to the effort, he says he is bored and the mystery amuses him, and as to the expense, I have promised to reimburse him.”

  “Come now. There must be more to it than that.”

  Felicity frowned. “No. We have become friendly, that is all. I was mistaken in him. My first impression of him was wrong. He is a gentleman on all occasions and, believe me, there is nothing warmer in his attitude than that of friendship. But tell me about yourself? Mr. Anderson called on me to tell me he had taken a job at the theater.”

  “Yes, and a dreadful scene his mother made, too. I must confess, I thought the boy would soon tire, but he seems engrossed in his work and is very enthusiastic.”

  “About his work—or about you?”

  Caroline turned pink. “It is calf love, nothing more. He will soon grow out of it.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “We’ll see. I am much too old for him.”

  “And yet the difference in your ages is almost the same as the difference in age between myself and Darkwater.”

  “But that is not the same. Darkwater is a man.”

  “What is that to do with it?”

  “You must know you are being deliberately naive. This is a man’s world, or had you forgot.”

  “No, I am not likely to forget, particularly as I am burdened with a silly woman Darkwater has chosen to be my companion. But if one is of strong mind and independent spirit, then the conventions, most of them made by men, do not matter.”

  “We’ll see. How goes your writing?”

  “Not at all. I appear to have run out of ideas.”

  “With all the adventure in your life! Perhaps, like Miss Austen, you should base your writing on people and places you know well.”

  “I do not find Miss Austen much of an inspiration,” said Felicity gloomily. “Genius is never inspiring. I had better get back to Hanover Square before my companion drives my servants mad with her airs and graces.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A Miss Agnes Joust. A poor relation of Lord Darkwater. He rescued her from a tyrant of a mistress, but she does not seem in the least grateful to be with me.”

  “Get rid of her!”

  “I shall speak to Darkwater about her when we return from Scarborough.”

  ***

  The Marquess of Darkwater walked through the gilded splendor of Clarence House. It was almost two weeks since he had been in Meldon. He found a letter from the Earl of Hopetoun waiting for him in which that peer angrily denied any knowledge of Colonel Macdonald.

  The marquess had made all the necessary preparations for the journey north and planned to leave as soon as possible. But before he could call at Hanover Square to tell Felicity he was finally ready, he had received a summons from the Prince Regent.

  The Prince Regent was lying in a darkened saloon on a chaise longue, wrapped in a Chinese dressing gown with a turban made of cloth of gold on his head.

  The marquess bowed and kissed the fat hand languidly extended in his direction.

  “How may I be of service to you, Sire?” he asked.

  “Hey, that’s what we like in a man,” said the prince. “Straight to the point with an offer of obedience and duty.”

  The marquess frowned. His offer had been a courtly gesture, not to be taken seriously.

  The prince propped himself up on one elbow. “Sit down, man, and take your ease. We have good news for you.”

  “Which is?” asked the marquess, pulling up a chair beside the chaise longue and sitting down.

  “We are leaving for Brighton tomorrow and wish you to accompany us.”

  “Sire, I am about to set out on a journey. I am flattered and pleased Your Majesty should wish my company, but I must refuse.”

  “You will obey your sovereign,” said the prince wrathfully. “We command you to accompany us to Brighton.”

  “Why?”

  “What d’ye mean, why? Is our wish not enough?”

  “In this case, Sire, no, it is not. Your Majesty has many friends and admirers to accompany you to Brighton.”

  The prince looked more like a large cross baby than ever. He thought of the letter he had received from Meldon. He had decided to keep Darkwater with him in Brighton until such time as he considered the marquess had forgotten all about the Waverley girl. But perhaps he was worrying overmuch. Darkwater had an estate in Surrey. Perhaps he was bound there. Or, better still, back to the West Indies.

  “Well, well, where are you bound that is so important?”

  “Scarborough,” said the marquess.

  “You shall not go. It does not please us.”

  “May I ask why, Sire?”

  “No, you may not,” roared the prince. “Odd’s fish, are we to account for our actions to every petty lord? Get out of our presence!”

  The marquess rose and bowed and began to walk backward toward the door.

  “Stay!” cried the prince. “When do you set out?”

  “In two days’ time, Sire.”

  The Prince Regent slumped down against the cushions and put a hand before his eyes. The marquess bowed his way out and shut the door behind him.

  He drove straight to Hanover Square and told Felicity to make ready. They were leaving that very night.

  Felicity exclaimed at the hastiness of the departure and demanded to know why. He replied he was bored and did not want to hang about London any longer. He did not want to scare her by telling her the real reason. He felt sure the prince would try to stop him. The secret to the royal distress lay in Scarborough and in the mysterious Mrs. Waverley’s background.

  Chapter Six

  Felicity was never to forget that mad drive to the north of England. The marquess’s traveling carriage pulled by six black horses moved at an amazing rate.

  The marquess was driving his team himself. Agnes became so sick with the constant swaying motion that Felicity opened the trap in the roof and begged him to slow his pace because Agnes was ill. He called down heartlessly that if she looked like she was dying, he might consider stopping. Otherwise, he advised Miss Joust not to be sick in the carriage but to put her head out of the window.

  “What did he say?” asked Agnes faintly.

  “He is very concerned about you, but says that speed is of the uttermost importance,” lied Felicity.

  A faint color came back to Agnes’s wan cheeks. “Dear Simon,” she murmured. “So solicitous.”

  Felicity was beginning to feel quite sick herself and heaved a sigh of relief when they finally stopped at a posting house for the night.

  The marquess opened the carriage door. Agnes collapsed into his arms and appeared to faint dead away.

  “Was there ever such a woman?” he said crossly. “Here, John,” he ordered one of the grooms, “carry Miss Joust into the inn.”

  Agnes felt herself being lifted in strong arms. She had been so busy pretending to be unconscious, she had not heard the marquess’s order to his groom. She pretended to recover consciousness and wound her arms around John’s neck and said, “Oh, that this moment could last forever.”

  She opened her eyes wide and gazed up into John’s weatherbeaten face.

  “Put me down, sir,” she cried, writhing like an eel. “Where is your master?”

  “Right behind, miss,” said John, tightening his hold. “My lord said I am to carry you into the inn and carry you I shall.”

  Furious, Agnes lay rigid like a plank, and like a plank, John propped her up against the wall of the hallway of the inn.

  Agnes was furious. She had been nearly at death’s door, and no one had cared. She would show them. She allowed Felicity to help her up the stairs to her room. One of the many things Agnes did not like about Felicity was that that self-sufficient young lady did not consider it necessary to employ the services of a maid. Agnes collapsed on the bed as Felicity efficiently ordered the chambermaids to unpack such items from their luggage
as they would need for a night’s stay at the inn.

  Agnes was torn between pretending to be ill and staying in her room, or putting on her best lilac silk gown and dazzling the marquess. The lilac silk gown won the toss.

  They had a private parlor. To Agnes’s disappointment, the marquess was abstracted and said little. Felicity looked wan and tired, and he asked sharply, “Are you sure you are fit to travel tomorrow, Miss Felicity? I am afraid our headlong dash has been a little too much for you.”

  “And for poor me,” said Agnes pathetically.

  He ignored her and looked at Felicity.

  “I shall be well enough after a night’s rest,” said Felicity. “What of you, Agnes?”

  “I suppose so,” said Agnes sulkily. Really, it was too bad of Simon. She was his flesh and blood and not some little parvenue of suspect birth like Felicity Waverley. What would he have done if she had been really ill? Agnes half closed her eyes. She could see in her mind’s eye the darkened inn room and hear the hushed voices around the bed. “I fear you may have been the cause of her grave malady, my lord,” the physician said. “Ah, no, never say that!” cried the marquess, falling to his knees beside the bed. Agnes stretched out a hand as pale as alabaster to lightly touch his dark locks. “I forgive you, Simon,” she whispered.

  This scene was so very affecting that tears began to roll down Agnes’s cheeks.

  “Poor Agnes,” cried Felicity. “It has all been too much of a strain for you. Come and lie down, and I shall go to the kitchens myself and make you a posset.”

  Agnes’s agile brain raced. All at once, she had a plan in her mind, a plan that would get her the marquess’s sympathy and might get Felicity accused of trying to murder her. Like some ladies of this first part of the nineteenth century, Agnes took a small quantity of arsenic to add luster to her hair and to keep her skin clear. She had enough of the poison with her to insure she would be very sick but in no danger. She would put the arsenic in the posset Felicity brought her and then say she had been poisoned.