by M C Beaton
Agnes shivered. “They may come back and attack us!”
“I doubt it,” said the marquess, but he added silently, But someone else may.
***
Agnes wanted to continue to play the ailing invalid, but the thought that if they waited any longer at the inn they might be attacked by Harris and Comfrey decided her against it.
The little party set out again at dawn the next day. Agnes could not help noticing that the marquess’s attitude to Felicity had noticeably changed. Before he had always been courteous and polite. But now there was a warmth in his smile and admiration in his eyes when he looked at her.
Blowsy strumpet! thought Agnes furiously. She would come to a bad end like her sisters, or not her sisters, but those other two. Then Agnes realized for the first time that she did not know what had happened to the other two. Before her job with Mrs. Deves-Pereneux, she had been taking care of an elderly lady in the country and so had not heard much town gossip. Agnes did not read the newspapers either, or she would have learned of the adventures of the famous Waverleys.
“Do you ever hear from the other two ladies?” she asked.
“Who?” Felicity was looking dreamily out the window.
“I mean the other two ladies who were adopted with you. I gather they do not reside with you anymore.”
“Oh, Fanny and Frederica? They are married.”
Of course they are, thought Agnes. Mrs. Waverley, who could buy all those fabulous jewels, had no doubt bought them lowly but honest husbands.
“And where are they now?” asked Agnes.
“Both are still on the Continent, I believe,” said Felicity. “Fanny, Lady Tredair, is now in Paris, and Frederica, Lady Harry Danger, is in Rome. Goodness, how tired I am, but it is hard to get any rest with the sickening motion of this carriage.”
“Mrs. Waverley, or rather, Baroness Meldon, no doubt worked hard to secure such good husbands,” said Agnes, who had hardly been able to believe her ears at the sound of both titles.
“On the contrary, she worked very hard to stop either of them marrying. Both married without even a dowry.”
For one brief anguished moment, a flash of common sense penetrated Agnes’s mind, a mind normally cobwebbed by dreams and fantasies. Such was the power and attraction of the Waverley girls that neither birth nor lack of dowry had stopped two of them from marrying the best in the land. She, Agnes, should appreciate that she was well-treated as a companion and strive to hold this post for as long as possible.
But jealousy combined with fantasy soon took over again. The marquess’s voice seemed to sound in her ears. He was confiding to Agnes his worries about Felicity. “As soon as I saw her waving that pistol about, Miss Joust,” he was saying, “I knew she could not be of gentle birth. No lady even knows one end of a pistol from the other.”
So Agnes’s dreams grew stronger as the miles and days flew past and the air grew colder and fresher and was tinged with the salt of the sea.
At long last, the marquess’s voice from the box shouted down, “Scarborough!”
Felicity tugged at the strap and let down the glass and leaned out. Cliffs and elegant buildings and a magnificent stretch of blue sea and an odd feeling of recognition and familiarity braced the Yorkshire air.
Somehow she knew the long journey to find the identity of her parents was nearly over.
Chapter Seven
The seaside of the aristocracy had grown from the fashion for visiting spas. The move from inland spa to seaside had been gradual. It had begun at Scarborough, where a mineral spring by the seashore had first attracted visitors to the town. Some enthusiasts had bathed there in the seventeenth century when the government had even considered taxing bathers on the grounds that the seas belonged to the kings of England. At that time, a few aristocrats sporting naked in the sea had not been enough to make Scarborough fashionable. The impetus started in the middle of the eighteenth century when Dr. Richard Russell set about promoting the use of seawater to cure disease—taken internally. According to Russell, seawater in half-pint doses, mixed if necessary with port or milk, could cure scurvy, jaundice, gonorrhea, gout, and other ailments.
The fashion for seaside holidays having been established, the visitors set about creating the same atmosphere that prevailed at the inland spas. Assembly rooms were built, establishments for taking the waters and bathing in them were set up by doctors and professors of the new science, reading rooms were built at which card games and raffles were included among the amusements, and every social event was designed to provide a medium for getting to know other visitors.
The marquess was anxious to go to the lawyers as soon as possible before the news of their arrival was published in the social columns of the local papers. He obviously did not consider Scarborough a very safe place for them to reside in for very long, thought Felicity wistfully, as she stood on the balcony of her hotel room and looked out across the sea. It was such a jolly place, and the changing colors of the sea were fascinating.
And then a tall man came into view, walking along the esplanade in front of the hotel. He was holding onto his hat. He sported a fine pair of black military sideburns. There was something about his manner, and the confident air of the man, that forcibly reminded Felicity of Colonel Macdonald. The man looked up and saw the slight figure on the balcony. He tugged his hat down over his eyes and went on his way, his pace a little faster than before.
Colonel Macdonald, now the Comte D’Angiers, his Irish brogue changed to a lisping French accent, hurried on his way. When he had gone some distance, he turned about and looked back at the hotel. The figure on the balcony had gone, but he had recognized Felicity Waverley. He thought of those jewels and his mouth watered like that of a hungry man thinking of a sumptuous banquet. He had done well at cards at the gaming tables of Scarborough and was feted and petted by the ladies and had as many social invitations as he could desire. But he wanted to secure enough money to end his shaky life of cheating and lying.
He slowly turned about and made his way back to the hotel. He reminded himself that with his hair dyed and his new Frenchified air, Felicity would hardly recognize him unless he got too close.
He hesitated outside the hotel, then squared his shoulders and strolled inside. The manager came forward to welcome him. The comte was a prime attraction with the ladies, and his presence in the hotel usually meant extra guests for tea and other refreshments.
“Any new guests, m’sieur?” drawled the comte.
“Yes,” said the manager importantly. “The Marquess of Darkwater.”
The comte frowned and half turned, about to escape. But perhaps his eyes had been deceiving him. “Did he come with a party, or alone?”
“His Lordship came with a most beautiful young lady, a Miss Waverley, and her companion, Miss Joust. Why, I believe that is His Lordship coming down the stairs.”
The soi-disant comte moved behind the screen of a potted palm and looked through its fronds. It was indeed the marquess and Felicity. He watched as they exchanged a few pleasantries with the manager. Then they went outside and walked off along the esplanade.
He moved out from the shelter of the palm and approached the manager again. “I see no sign of the companion,” he said.
“Probably in her room,” said the manager. The comte thought quickly. Companions were poor sorts of creatures, easily gulled. “I seem to remember meeting a Miss Joust in London,” he said. “Perhaps you could present my card and ask her if she would do me the honor of taking tea with me on the terrace?”
The manager bowed, took the card, and hurried off. The comte made his way to the terrace, which, in fact, was a long narrow room with French windows overlooking the sea. It was not the fashionable hour for tea, so there were few people about.
Agnes had been moping in her room when the comte’s invitation was delivered to her. She had been feeling very low at being left behind by the marquess, but the marquess had begun to think the less Miss Joust knew of Felicity’s a
ffairs the better. He had put her down as an unstable, gossipy woman.
She did not stop to consider that she had never met any French comte in London. Excited and elated at the invitation, she dressed in her best lilac gown, ran to Felicity’s room and borrowed a handsome cashmere shawl, and then made her way downstairs to the terrace.
That the comte must indeed know her appeared to be borne out by the fact that he rose and bowed as soon as she entered the room. But the comte, looking at the long-nosed dab of a creature, knew immediately this must be Miss Joust. Companions were always stamped with the mark of faded gentility.
As she came up to him, he seized her hand and kissed it, clicking his heels together.
“I am enchanted to meet you again,” he said.
Agnes blushed and simpered. He held out a chair for her, then snapped his fingers. The comte ordered tea and cakes, then sat down next to Agnes.
“I have been trying to recall where we met, my lord,” said Agnes.
“Sure …” he began, then remembered in time he was supposed to be French, not Irish. “Ma foi, Miss Joust,” he said. “I have a terrible confession to make. We have not met.”
“Indeed!”
“I saw you driving out with Miss Waverley, and I made it my business to know who you were.”
This was like one of Agnes’s very best fantasies. That she had only been companion to Felicity for a very short time and how truly amazing it was that the comte should have had a chance to see her in London and then miraculously appear so quickly in Scarborough did not enter her mind. She threw him a killing glance, and he looked suitably smitten, as though by Cupid’s arrow.
He began to ask her what they were doing in Scarborough, and Agnes looked down her long nose and said it was all very mysterious and dear Simon would be furious with her if she told anyone.
“Simon?”
“The marquess is my cousin.”
“If you are a cousin to a marquis,” exclaimed the comte, “I am bouleversé that he should allow you to work as a companion to such an eccentric young lady.”
“He did not want me to, of course,” said Agnes. “But I prefer to earn my keep rather than be anyone’s pensioner.” Agnes was not surprised to hear Felicity described as eccentric. Young ladies who carried pistols and knew how to use them were eccentric in the extreme.
“Most commendable. But an onerous task, considering the dangers attached to it.”
“Dangers?”
“I assume Miss Waverley has all her famous jewels with her. Attempts have been made before to steal them.”
“No,” said Agnes crossly, thinking of that dear emerald necklace. “She lodged them all in Simon’s bank before we left.”
The comte nearly rose to his feet and left there and then. But apart from his desire to get his hands on the jewels, he also wanted revenge on Felicity. He remembered her masquerade as Miss Callow and how her disguise had slipped when she had kicked him in the stomach. He had decided she had deliberately disguised herself and lured him to her home with a promise that he would be able to sell the jewels for her, only to unmask him.
Then he heard Agnes complain, “So silly to lock all the jewels away and not even take a few trinkets for the journey. Yet she leaves the bank receipt for the jewels lying about where anyone might pick it up.”
The comte let out a slow breath. He was glad the waiter arrived at that moment with the tea things, for his excitement was so great, he felt it must show on his face.
He did not immediately return to the matter of the jewels. He encouraged Agnes to talk and quickly learned that she was in love with the marquess and was bitterly jealous of Felicity and that she coveted those jewels almost as much as he did himself.
He slid in little barbed remarks. It was a pity one so fair as Miss Joust should have to wait hand and foot on a lady of doubtful background. Then he flattered her. Did she know lilac was her color and she should never wear anything else? Did she know her eyes were like moonstones? And Agnes’s eyes shone like pale oysters in a barrel of dough, and her yearnings for the marquess dimmed and faded to be replaced by yearnings for this handsome comte.
“It is a sad life being a companion,” said Agnes, “and also dangerous.”
“How so?”
“I shall tell you this in confidence. May I trust you?”
“Word of a D’Angiers,” he said, putting his hand on his heart.
Agnes leaned forward and looked to the right and left. Then she said slowly, “On the journey north, Felicity tried to poison me.”
Mad, quite mad, thought the comte. But he exclaimed in horror and begged for more details.
“Simon had been paying me … well, extra attention. He is, how shall I say, a little bit overwarm in his attentions to me. Felicity noticed. I was sick from the mad pace at which we were traveling, and she offered to make me a posset. She laced it with arsenic! Had not Simon heard my cries and given me an emetic, I should most certainly have died.”
“But milord, the marquess, did he do nothing to have her brought to justice?”
“She! She made sheep’s eyes at him, and then she bribed a savage Scottish doctor to say I was an arsenic-eater.”
The comte correctly interpreted all this to mean that Agnes was an arsenic-eater, had tried to bring disgrace on Felicity, and had overdone things and been unmasked. He had a weak pang of sympathy for Felicity. What a fright this woman was!
But the afternoon wore on as he charmed and flattered, and when he finally begged Agnes not to reveal their meeting, Agnes readily agreed, although she would not for one moment admit to herself the real reason for complying with the request, which was fear this comte should fall in love with Felicity if he set eyes on her.
He got her to agree to slip out that evening after Felicity had gone to bed and to take a walk with him in the moonlight. Agnes felt it was the happiest moment of her life.
***
The marquess and Felicity sat facing Mr. Baxter, the senior partner of Baxter, Baxter, and Friend. He repeated that Baroness Meldon owned some property in Scarborough that she rented out and that her main business affairs were handled by a firm in the city of London. He did not know anything of the baroness’s background and implied that if he did, he would not reveal it.
When the marquess and Felicity finally took their leave, Felicity asked, “Do you think he was warned of our arrival?”
The marquess shook his head. “He was behaving just like any ordinary provincial lawyer. But why should she buy property in Scarborough if she has no connection with the place? I wonder where it is.”
“He would not even tell us that,” pointed out Felicity.
“But somewhere in that musty office is a box, which, I feel sure, would tell us a lot more. Leave it to me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Break in after nightfall.”
“That will not answer,” said Felicity practically. “When he returns in the morning and finds the shattered door, we will be the first suspects.”
“He will not find anything out of order,” said the marquess. “I managed to get hold of a set of these before I left London.” He drew a ring of skeleton keys from his pocket.
“Let me come with you,” said Felicity eagerly.
“No, stay and get some rest.”
He remained resolutely deaf to her protests. “And do not breathe a word of my plans to Miss Joust. She is a good-hearted lady but silly and gossipy.”
Felicity had long ago come to the conclusion that Agnes was not good-hearted in the slightest, yet she felt a great pity for her. Felicity was firmly convinced all women had such a hard role to play in life, it was no wonder they turned out such poor creatures. She could not find it in her heart to blame Agnes for her silliness. She thought Agnes had poisoned herself not to try to get her, Felicity, accused of murder, but simply to draw attention to herself. Also Felicity had gradually realized that Agnes was in love with the marquess, and that awareness had made her treat her compa
nion with more kindness than she deserved.
Felicity decided to spend the evening after dinner being pleasant to Agnes. But she had become so used to London hours, she had forgotten dinner would be served at four in the afternoon. Agnes, because she had stayed on the terrace with the comte, had missed dinner, too, but declared wanly she could not eat a thing and would go to bed early.
The marquess ordered a late supper for himself and Felicity, late for the hotel, but at the London hour of seven in the evening.
He was abstracted and talked little. Felicity began to worry that he was becoming bored with the whole affair.
When dinner was over, he asked her to lock the door of her room and to make sure Miss Joust kept her door locked as well.
Felicity went to Agnes’s room. She knocked at the door but did not receive any reply. She tried the handle, but the door was locked. Assuming Agnes had gone to bed, Felicity sighed with relief. She would have the rest of the evening to herself.
But she did not want to stay confined in her room. It would be pleasant to go down to the terrace and drink coffee and listen to the sound of the sea. When she reached the terrace, she wondered at the propriety of what she was doing. She really should not be unchaperoned. But the tables in the terrace room were empty except for four old ladies drinking negus and eating sweet biscuits.
They all bowed as Felicity passed, and Felicity dropped them a low curtsy and sat at the table next to theirs.
She was soon to know they had all learned her name. Addressing her as Miss Waverley, they introduced themselves. The spokeswoman for the group was a Mrs. Crabtree. “Do you and Lord Darkwater plan to stay in Scarborough long?” she asked.
“Not very long,” said Felicity.
“Not on holiday, then?” asked Mrs. Crabtree after much whispering.
“Yes, in a way,” said Felicity, wishing she had sat at another table.
More whispering transpired and then Mrs. Crabtree asked, “You come from London?”
