Little Coquette

by Joan Smith

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For everything. For my carping, and that you and Mama could not—get along.”

  “We had a few good years. Perhaps that is as much as one can hope for.”

  “No, we can at least hope for more. Did I congratulate you on your promotion, Papa? I am very happy for you. You deserve it. You have worked hard all these years. I am proud of you.”

  She felt embarrassed when she saw a tear start in his eye. Had she never complimented him on his work before? If that was true, she had been a horrid daughter, asking him only what he had brought her when he came home and wanted to boast a little of his various successes.

  “That means a good deal to me, Lydia. It will be nice to have you in London when you and Beaumont marry,” he said in a husky voice, and left.

  How to atone for years of neglect? She could at least keep her father’s name free of scandal in this business about Prissie and the counterfeit banknotes. She thought, too, that it would be nice to be in London, near her father, sharing in his exciting life. She could not and would not want to replace Nessie, who had devoted her life to Sir John. Lydia didn’t want to live vicariously, forsaking any life of her own, but just to share things as a father and daughter. She thought of Beaumont, too.

  Since he had taken his seat in the House, he was taking an interest in politics. It would be a worthwhile project to help him in his career, to offer the sort of companionship and support her papa had been lacking. She felt almost a surge of panic to think of him resorting to the muslin company for such companionship, or worse, to some obliging married or widowed lady. She did not really think Beaumont would be satisfied with such simple folks as Sally or Prissie. He would have no trouble finding more interesting company. Nessie’s friends had made a great fuss over him that morning.

  She continued with these musings as she ate alone in the formal dining room, wishing she had asked for a tray in her room. How often had her papa eaten alone when Nessie was out? Being alone made a good excuse for not changing into an evening gown in any case.

  At eight o’clock she went abovestairs and examined her pistol to see that it was loaded and in working order. Her papa had bought it for her at her request. He had always been kind in executing any little order for her. Indeed, he had seemed to take pleasure in doing so. And he had never complained about selecting Mama’s patterns and woolens at Mr. Wilks’s on Regent Street either. She was bedeviled by a hundred past kindnesses, none of which she had properly appreciated, nor even begun to repay.

  At ten minutes past eight, she donned her evening mantle and went belowstairs to await Beaumont’s arrival. Newly awakened to her former carelessness, she greeted him warmly when he arrived.

  “I truly appreciate all this, Beau,” she said. “It is very kind of you to go so far out of your way to help me.”

  “No need to thank me. I’ve already told you I’m enjoying it very much. Where is everyone?” he asked, looking around the empty saloon.

  “They are out for dinner. Did you make the arrangement with Bow Street?”

  “Townsend will have a couple of men lurking about Maddox Street at first light tomorrow. Shall we go now?”

  They went out into the lingering twilight of a late June evening. A few carriages stopped in front of other houses, carrying guests to and from their evening’s entertainment, lent an air of excitement to the street. This could all be a part of her world, if she moved to London.

  The shadows were drawing long as they drove out of town toward St. John’s Wood. “We should be home well before midnight,” Lydia said. “And tomorrow morning, I shall be up and out of the house for the trip to Maddox Street before Papa and Nessie are awake.”

  “Then it will be back to Trevelyn Hall, eh?” Beau said.

  “Yes, for the summer, but in autumn, I shall come to London to be with Papa.”

  Beaumont gave her a quizzing grin. “Poor Papa! You will keep a sharp eye on him to see he don’t stray again.”

  “I am not his jailer! That’s not why I am coming. In any case, he will be too busy for that. I just want to look after him a little. He’s been very kind to me, you know, and I never truly appreciated it. I’m afraid I have been a selfish daughter.”

  “Modesty don’t become you, Lydia. Or is that my cue to recite your manifold virtues? You have never given your mama a moment’s worry, other than not making a push to nab a husband.”

  “I think I have given Papa a worry or two, though,” she said, still modest. “He has been lonesome, Beau. I seldom even wrote him a letter, except to ask for things.”

  He studied her a moment, then said, “All right. What has happened to put you in this slough of despond?”

  “I have grown up. That’s all.”

  He patted her fingers. “You have my condolences. It’s so nice and easy being a child.”

  When he realized she was fighting back her tears, he looked out the window, pretending not to notice, but he was touched all the same. What could have happened to soften her former stiffness? Very likely Sir John had given her a good Bear Garden jaw. Should he try to comfort her, or would she cut up at him?

  “Much farther?” she asked, before he had made up his mind.

  He looked at her then and saw she had dried her tears. “Almost there. We shall stop the carriage at the next corner and proceed on foot. Did you wear stout shoes?”

  She lifted her skirt, showing him her stout, laced walking shoes and a few inches of dainty ankle.

  “Hussy,” he chided, and pulled down her skirt. Then he lifted it again for another quick peek, to show her he was joking.

  Overhead, the deep blue sky of twilight had darkened to black with a white moon and a scattering of stars to show them their way. When the carriage stopped, they noticed a gig following them.

  “You don’t suppose that would be Dooley?” she asked in alarm.

  The gig turned in at a farm before it reached them, however, and they proceeded on foot.

  “I should have brought a rake or some such thing to fish the plates out of the water,” Beaumont said, fully expecting ridicule for not having done so.

  “I didn’t think of it either. We’ll find something at the Nevils’ place. The pond should be back there,” she said, pointing to the area Richard had indicated that afternoon.

  “We’ll leave the road here and go through the meadow.”

  He took her hand, and they slipped quietly through the tall grass that caught at their ankles. Lights burned on the bottom story of the Nevils’ house, but there was no one outside to observe them. A hundred yards beyond, they saw the gleam of moonlight on water and increased their pace.

  A spreading willow tree grew at the pond’s edge. Beaumont looked around for something to use to probe the pond. He found a long, forked branch and began to move it along the water’s bottom. Seeing what he was about, Lydia found a smaller branch to probe closer to the edge. She removed her mantle to keep the hem from becoming muddied and hung it on a branch of the willow. The ground there was wet. It was soon squelching through her shoes. The hem of her skirt was sodden, but she kept on probing.

  The pond’s bottom was six inches deep in mud. Looking for the plates felt like stirring a monumental cake. After twenty minutes, they had encircled the whole pond, and still found nothing. Her arms were tired, her feet were cold, she was becoming frustrated, and she felt guilty for putting Beaumont to so much trouble.

  “It may not have been the plates Prissie threw in here,” she said. “Perhaps it was love letters. And in the worst case, you know, at least no one can use the plates. If we don’t find them, I mean.”

  “This little pond will dry up in late summer. Someone will find them. I’m going to take off my boots and sox and wade in. You have a rest, Lydia. You’re gasping.”

  He removed his boots and sox and hung his jacket on the willow tree. She watched a moment as he continued his probing, standing in water to his hips. He must be ter
ribly uncomfortable. Whatever their mental abilities, she had to concede men were physically stronger than women. Her arms ached, but Beau’s strong arms kept moving rhythmically, effortlessly. While she rested, she thought about Prissie and those plates.

  “She couldn’t throw them very far, only being a woman,” Richard had said. If Prissie had taken the path from the house, she would have reached the pond just to the left of the willow. Lydia took up a small rock and pitched it into the pond where she thought Lydia would have thrown the plates. Beau looked all around.

  “It was only me,” she called.

  Then she began to probe about the area where her rock had landed, using her forked stick. It did not reach quite far enough. She took off her shoes and stockings, looped her skirt up around the waist ribbon of her gown, and waded in. The bottom of the pond was horrid, all soft and squishy and muddy up to her ankles. She moved the stick about until she felt something firm embedded in the mud.

  “What the devil are you doing?” Beau called in a low voice.

  “Thinking,” she said, touching her head. She tried to lift the hard object using the stick, but it just moved about in the mud. Sure she had found what they were after, she reached in, and felt a square, mushy cardboard box about eight inches long. She picked it up with a triumphant grin. “Amazing what even a mere woman can do when she puts her mind to it!” she exclaimed.

  Beau stared at the dripping parcel and began to wade toward her. “But she can’t throw worth a damn. The thing was right on the edge.” He reached for the sodden parcel.

  “Finders, keepers,” she said, laughing as they struggled. “I get to open it. And it is not billets-doux. It’s heavy.” She leaned back, holding the parcel at arm’s length to keep it from him.

  Beaumont leaned over her. She lost her footing and went tumbling into the pond, stifling a scream of dismay. In an effort to save herself, she grabbed on to Beaumont, pulling him in on top of her. She felt the cool water engulf her, seeping into her gown and hair; then she noticed other, more disturbing sensations. Beau’s taut body was on top of her, his legs caught between hers, while his weight pressed on her in an engrossingly intimate way. As he tried to rise, his hips thrust against hers, sending a shudder of alarm through her whole body. He lost his footing and moved again in that way that nearly drove her mad.

  The pond’s bottom was soft as a feather tick beneath them. As he struggled to rise, his ragged breath in her ear set off electrifying jolts of excitement. Their wet cheeks clung together a moment; then he slowly, almost reluctantly, lifted his head.

  She put her arms around his neck to keep her head from being submerged in the water. His arms were suddenly around her waist, crushing her breasts against his masculine strength to lift her up. He looked down at her, and they just stared into each other’s eyes for a long, silent moment, as if they had never seen each other before and were looking at some strange phenomenon. Neither of them spoke, but the silence seemed to echo eerily. Such delirious sensations consumed her that she was reluctant to be rescued. She had never felt anything like this before, as if she were on fire within, yet shivering outside.

  Beau gave a push and twisted aside to sit up, pulling Lydia up with him, her arms still around his neck and his arms around her waist. They both dropped their arms and sat side by side, still without speaking. Mud dripped down her face. Her curls hung in sodden clumps around her ears. Her sprigged muslin looked black.

  Lord Beaumont now looked every bit as bad as she did herself. They looked like a pair of mud babies. Sometime during the struggle, she had dropped the precious parcel. She suddenly felt a compulsion to laugh.

  “How ever shall I explain this sodden gown when I get back to Grosvenor Square?” she said. “Er, by the way, I’ve lost the parcel.”

  Beaumont spluttered and brushed the mud from his eyes. He felt an urge to curse, but when he saw Lydia’s laughter, his anger dissipated like a snow-flake in the sun. “Shall we dive for it?” he asked.

  “It should be right here, where we were—” She stopped in embarrassment. “Where I—”

  A wicked grin stretched his lips. “Where you dropped it?” he said, and they began to feel around until she found it.

  “Just look at us,” she said, gazing down at her disarray.

  “Only an engagement can save you from utter ruin now, my dear.”

  It did not immediately leap to her mind how an engagement could explain her condition, but she didn’t say so. The way he was looking at her with that wary, tentative smile suggested it was merely a pretext. “You’re right, but I promise I shall jilt you very soon, Beau,” she said.

  As he reached toward her, her heart began to flutter uncertainly and her breath came in short, panting gasps. His fingers touched the parcel, but instead of taking it from her, his arms went around her, pulling her against him. Below the cold wetness of his shirt, she felt his body’s warmth seeping into her. His head hung suspended above hers. His eyes glittered in his muddied face, with a lock of hair dripping over his forehead. She thought he looked marvelously handsome.

  “It is the custom for an engaged couple to seal the bargain with a kiss,” he said, watching her for signs of either objection or amusement.

  She blinked at him, with a fond, foolish smile, that encouraged him to kiss her. As her arms went around his neck, he heard the splash of the parcel returning to the pond. Then their lips touched, and they both forgot all about the plates as the first brush of their lips deepened to passion.

  “How soon will you jilt me?” he murmured later, with his lips nibbling against her ear.

  A soft croon came from her throat. “Mmmm. A month?”

  He kissed her again. “Make it a year.”

  A girlish giggle echoed from below his chin. “Do you think such a long engagement is ... safe?”

  “Who wants to be safe?” His fingers gently wiped the mud from her cheeks. “Make it ten years.”

  “You are catching cold, Beau. Let us go.”

  She tried to rise. He pulled her back. “Never! If you jilt me, I shall sue you for breach of promise.”

  “If you take a mistress, I shall divorce you.”

  “You will be my mistress and my wife. Sway for me, darling.” He drew her into his arms. The water lapped gently around them from their swaying motions.

  Wrapped up in their own world, neither of them noticed the two men behind the willow, waiting for them to emerge with the plates.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Beaumont led Lydia out of the pond, his arm around her waist, their hips bumping familiarly. She was still carrying the plates she had rescued.

  “All this trouble, and I don’t even know what counterfeiting plates look like,” she said.

  “Let us have a look.”

  The soggy cardboard was easy to pull away. She looked at two pieces of wood-backed metal whose engraving was impossible to see clearly in the dim moonlight. She handed one to Beau and examined the other herself.

  “All this trouble—Prissie’s death and everything— for these stupid plates,” she said, shaking her head.

  “And for the money they will print.”

  When Dooley was certain they had the plates, he stepped out from behind the willow, pointing a pistol at Lydia. A smaller man came behind him, pointing his gun at Beaumont.

  “I’ll take those, Miss Trevelyn,” Dooley said in a gloating voice.

  She stared at him in disbelief. In the darkness of the shadows, his smile looked infinitely menacing. It was easy to believe he had killed Prissie in cold blood. Then she looked at Beau. She had left her pistol in the carriage pocket. She knew Beau had done the same. Her frustration was nearly as great as her fear. Dooley had already killed once for these plates. He would hardly hesitate to kill again.

  His smile stiffened to determination. “Hand them over, now,” he barked. The trigger on the pistol clicked ominously.

  Beau quickly assessed their chance of escaping alive if they refused and said to Lydia, “Give it
to him.”

  It was the smaller man who stepped forward to take the plate with his free hand. He slid it into his pocket, then turned to Beau. “And yours, mister.”

  “No tricks, or the lady pays,” Dooley added.

  His pistol was pointed straight at Lydia’s heart. Beau had no alternative but to hand over the plate, which went into the man’s other pocket.

  Dooley allowed himself a swift smile. “Now back into the water, the pair of you,” he ordered.

  Lydia saw the murderous rage in Beau’s eyes, the dilation of his nostrils, and the rigid line of his lips. She was furious herself but not willing to risk her life. Fearing Beau would do something foolish, she reached for his hand. His fingers were bunched into fists. She tugged at his wrist and led him back into the pond. Dooley and his cohort watched until they were well out into the water; then they turned and ran.

  Beau immediately splashed out of the water and went after them, water droplets flying from him in his flight. Lydia tried to catch up, but was hampered by her clinging skirts. He had pulled some yards ahead of her when she heard the shot and saw the flash of light. An instant after the bullet flew, Beau fell. Her heart pounded in horror. If they had killed him ... She ran faster, stumbling and falling and rising again. Another shot rang out, and she was suddenly on the ground. Had she been hit, too? She lay still a moment, waiting for the searing flash of pain. None came.

  Then in the darkness, she realized something warm was gripping her ankle. She hadn’t been shot; she’d been tripped. Her scream of terror pierced the night air. She had no idea who or what was clinging to her.

  “Shhh! It’s only me. Best let them go,” Beau said in a low voice.

  She sat up and looked at him. “Are you all right?” she asked at once. “Did that bullet hit you?”

  “No, I thought it wiser to hit the ground, and to stop you from getting yourself shot as well. The better part of valor, et cetera. Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you?”

  “You scared the wits out of me.”