He arrived after ten o’clock, and it appeared that the whole family was out at one of Arabella’s entertainments. He let himself into Beau’s library with the intention of having a drink. The fire was lit, for which he was grateful. There was a nip in the air. Walking over to the fireplace, he poured himself a whiskey from the decanter that was on the mantel. Only then did he notice Lady Deveridge curled up on the sofa facing the fire, a book in her lap. He felt the familiar zing of his senses he was becoming accustomed to when she was near.
“Good evening,” she said. “I did not mean to startle you. I thought you were out for the night.”
“I thought the better of it,” he said. “What are you reading?”
“I am looking at the Renaissance sketches I told you about. They are remarkable.”
He sat on the other end of the sofa, sipping his drink. “Tell me what is remarkable about them. I confess to an ignorance of art.”
“Well, somehow in the Middle Ages, men lost the abilities of the great artists who had come before them. If you have ever studied their paintings, they are like those of a child. There was a vital element lost—perspective. Botticelli was the artist who restored it in painting. It is such a fundamental principle, it is hard to imagine how artists could have lost it. It’s the reason Medieval works are so flat looking.”
“That is fascinating. How did you come to be interested in art?”
“My father was a dabbler. As soon as I was old enough to understand, he taught me the principle of perspective. The reason I appreciate Renaissance art so much is because of him. When he was young, he went to Italy with his father. He made certain he retained a governess for me who had artistic training and knew Italian.”
He found himself enchanted by her serious conversation. In his experience, society women were superficial and silly. “You are telling me that you are an artist?”
“No. I do not have my father’s talent. I do only the womanly arts—embroidery, quilting, sewing. I find them fulfilling in their way, but I am still captivated by paintings.”
“Have you ever been to the Royal Academy? Do they have any Italian works?” he asked.
“A few. They have more Flemish works from the later Renaissance that came during the Reformation.”
“I should like it if you would accompany me to see them.”
He watched as her whole face underwent a change. It was as though it shuttered away all the passion with which she had been speaking. A look of wariness replaced it. She stood, and without saying anything shelved her book.
“I do not think that would be a good idea, Captain.”
“Whyever not?” he asked, feeling an unfamiliar frustration boiling up within him.
She looked away from him, her gaze resting on the fire. “We are already working together on this murder business and your charity for homeless sailors. I think I should like to draw the line there.”
“Why?”
Tension thrummed between them. She finally looked him in the eyes, her own serious. “I know widows are fair game in your world, and I am sorry if my easy manner misled you. I will never be your lover, Captain.”
He felt as though she had slapped him. Speechless, he watched her walk out of the room.
What the devil?
He had never run into a woman like this one. She was completely resistant to his charms. It ought to have been an easy matter to entice her into a comfortable liaison. But she was as comfortable as a bed of nails. From the very beginning of their acquaintance she had blown hot and cold.
He stayed drinking in the library until he finally gave up on the early return of his brother and went up to bed.
*
In the late morning, Ernest met Beau over breakfast.
“Care to come riding this morning?” he asked his brother.
“I’ve promised to take Gweet to the Royal Menagerie.” His brother gave him a close look. Ernest knew his sleepless night probably showed. “I’ve a half hour before we need leave, however. Come to my library?”
He agreed, and once they had finished breakfast they adjourned to the site of his humiliation the night before.
A fire was laid. Beau lit a spill and set the kindling ablaze. “What is troubling you, brother?”
“How well do you know Lady Deveridge?”
“I think I can say that I know the woman quite well. Before my marriage, I was a guest at Bertie’s home where she lived after her husband died. I even knew her before her marriage. I have been friends with her brother since we were boys. I was acquainted with Marianne when she was a child who climbed trees with us and wore her hair in plaits. I will not betray a confidence, however. Whatever is troubling you?”
“I am making no headway with the woman. One day it seems she is hand in glove with me; the next day she shuts me out.”
“She is not your usual type of lady, Ernie,” he said with a smile.
“She is a widow.”
“There is such a thing as a virtuous widow, believe it or not.”
“It is not just me to whom she objects? Because she seems to turn her feelings toward me off and on.”“I agree that she is probably fighting an attraction for you, but Penelope was wrong to invite her here when you were coming home. She thought to marry you off, but of course Pen didn’t know how set against marriage you are. Add to that the fact that Lady Deveridge will never, ever marry a sea captain, and there you have it. Move on, man. She is not for you.”
He felt unexpectedly hollow. “What does she have against sea captains, out of curiosity?”
“We already discussed the fact that Deveridge was gone for most of their marriage. According to Pen, she doesn’t want a marriage like that again.”
“Well, that’s torn it, I guess.” He must put the woman out of his mind, apparently. In theory, it shouldn’t have been hard. There was a whole city of women.
“She’s more than just a beauty, you know,” said Beau. “She’s uncommonly intelligent, which isn’t your usual type.”
“It’s actually refreshing,” Ernest said.
“Yes, she’s like my Pen that way. They are tremendous friends.”
He didn’t care to hear about Penelope just now. “Thanks for the information,” he said to Beau.
Going out to the stables, he saddled Doolittle. Today he was going to ride a full-out gallop to Richmond and back.
Chapter Thirteen
After her frank discussion with the captain of the night before, Marianne was shy of seeing him again. She was very relieved when he made it known that he did not intend to attend the Waverlys’ ball that evening.
Gweet chattered away to her as Foster dressed her and did her hair.
“The captain took me riding in the park after luncheon today,” she said. “It was so nice to be on horseback again. I think we shall have a very happy marriage.”
“Gweet, really,” Marianne said. “You are old enough to know that the captain does not have any intention of marrying you. In fact, I doubt he will marry at all. He loves the sea too much.”
“Perhaps I shall change his mind, if I am beautiful enough,” her daughter said.
“When I was your age, I fully intended to marry Lord Strangeways. And look how that turned out.”
“Mama! Did you really?”
“Like you, I did not have very many single men among my acquaintance. I built all my hope on him. I had a fearful passion for him.”
“Does he know that?”
“Oh, I imagine he guessed. But like the captain, he did not crush my feelings.”
“Well,” said Gweet. “We shall see, shall we not?”
*
The ball was the first that Marianne had attended since the attack. Beau cautioned her, “Be very careful in your speech tonight. I should not mention horses or races or anything of that nature.”
She agreed to be careful. Though she would have liked to find out what people were thinking about the race in a few days, she knew she must be cautious not to let people thi
nk she knew more than she did.
Halfway through the delightful ball, which had a Venetian theme with ornate masks on sticks handed out at the door, Marianne realized that she was holding herself with a great deal of tension. She missed the captain’s solid presence and cringed at loud noises. Clearly, her nerves had not recovered from the blow to her head.
Though she danced every dance and managed to appear merry, the effort soon brought on a massive headache. She asked Penny if she could order the carriage to take her home.
“Will you be all right, dearest?” her friend asked. “Should you like me to come with you?”
“No. You must stay with Arabella. I shall be all right on my own. The footmen and coachmen shall see that I come to no harm. It is but a short ride home, after all.”
Her head was pounding to such an extent that she could scarcely think. She could not imagine what was taking the carriage so long. It eventually arrived, however, the footman helped her inside, and she relaxed against the familiar blue velvet squabs. How glad she would be to be out of her stays, curled up in bed with a hot water bottle!
So concerned was she with this vision of comfort that she did not realize for a while that she was not being carried home. Had she mistakenly gotten into the wrong carriage? No, this was Beau’s carriage, with the mended tear in the seat that she could feel with her hands.
Standing, she knocked on the ceiling of the conveyance for it to stop. Nothing happened. She leaned out the window. “I say! Please stop! You’ve missed my house.”
Still the coach did not stop. Marianne grew alarmed. Was she being kidnapped?
She tried to see where they were, but it was too dark, and she was growing desperate. Should she open the door and risk jumping out?
Soon Marianne decided this was her only option. Counting to three, she threw open the door and hurled herself to the street.
She landed hard on her hands and knees but scrambled to her feet and started a hobbled run toward a house with candles in the window. She was stumbling up the walkway when she heard the footman jump off the coach and yell, “Oi, come back ’ere!”
The house she was approaching was large, so it appeared the carriage had not yet left Mayfair. The fall had scraped her hands and knees despite her dress and gloves. She pounded the large brass door knocker.
A butler answered. His eyebrows shot up as he took in her appearance.
“Please, sir. I’m Lady Deveridge. I just escaped from a carriage that was trying to make off with me! There it is, standing in the street!”
Apparently her general demeanor was convincing, for the butler eventually decided she was not a danger to his establishment. He allowed her entrance.
“If you would care to wait here, I will see if his lordship will speak with you. He is hosting a card party this evening.”
“Oh, I should not like to disturb him,” she said. “If I could just send a note off to the ball at Waverly House?”
“I beg your pardon, my lady, but you are injured. You are bleeding on the floor. I feel certain his lordship would want to know that a lady such as yourself needs assistance.”
Marianne looked at the floor in dismay. There was a small pool of blood forming from her torn knees.
At that moment, a gentleman came down the stairs. “What is it, Watson? Who was at the door?”
She was dumbfounded to be faced with Lord Webbingford, one of the very few gentlemen she knew in London.
“My lord!” she exclaimed. “I did not know you lived here. What a piece of good fortune. It is I, Lady Deveridge. I was being carried away in a coach against my will. I jumped out, and here I am, bleeding on your poor floor.”
“Lady Deveridge! Upon my soul!” The man’s handsome face was alive with surprise. He turned to his servant. “Watson, call Mrs. Thorne. This poor lady needs bandaging.”
“I am so sorry,” Marianne said. “Fortunately, I appear to have missed your beautiful Persian carpet.”
“A fig for the carpet. I think you need a brandy, my lady. What an experience! Have you any idea who was carrying you off?”
“No. I’m afraid not.” She remembered in time that she had feigned ignorance of Simpson’s murder.
“Ah! Here is Mrs. Thorne. She will fix you up in the housekeeper’s room and then bring you to me in the library.” He turned to the housekeeper. “This is Lady Deveridge, Mrs. Thorne. She is the victim of an unfortunate incident and needs bandaging. Bring her to me when you are finished, please.”
The housekeeper was a tall, angular person with eyes grown large in her long face.
“Oh, my lands. We will certainly see to her. Come, my lady.”
The housekeeper’s room had a fire and evidence of a hastily discarded knitting project. Mrs. Thorne gathered it up and bade Marianne be seated in the comfortable chair before the fire.
“Oh dear; I’m afraid your slippers are ruined, and your gown as well.”
“Yes, but I am otherwise intact, I believe,” she said. She drew her gown up to her knees. Both were torn and bleeding, one quite badly. Marianne gritted her teeth against the pain.
The housekeeper was a deft worker, however, and soon had the knees and the heels of her hands bathed and bandaged, all the while talking incessantly.
“Whatever were you doing to get so badly hurt?”
Marianne knew better than to add fuel to servant’s gossip. The story, as it was, would be all over London before morning. However, she simply could not think of an alternate explanation.
“Someone was making away with me in my carriage. I jumped out.”
The woman’s large eyes grew even bigger, and for a moment she ceased her ministrations as she took in this information.
“White slavers!” she said. “Oh, to think what might have happened were you not so brave as to jump out!”
“I shall be perfectly well now. Thank you so much for seeing to my wounds.”
“I am afraid you will be sore for a few days. I hope they do not become inflamed.”
“You are very kind. I think I should go to his lordship. I would not like to keep him waiting.”
“Would you like a cup of tea? I am certain you would. I shall bring it to you directly.”
*
Lord Webbingford’s library was a place of wonder. It was a large room with books shelved all the way up to the lofty ceiling.
“I see you are a reader,” she said upon entering.
He stood before the fire, fists on his hips. “I am. Why would those villains want to carry you off?”
“You housekeeper seems to think it was white slavers.”
“It seems unlikely that they would have risked targeting anyone of your stature. Where had you been? Was that Beau’s carriage?”
Webbingford’s inquiries made her uncomfortable. “It was Beau’s carriage. I was at the Waverly ball.”
Webbingford walked to a small table full of decanters and poured them both a drink. “Did you see the coachman?”
“No, only the footman, and I’m afraid I was so preoccupied I did not notice him at all. He was not at all remarkable.”
He handed her a snifter with an inch of brandy. “This will fix you up.”
“Thank you. I have a bit of a headache. I thought I should go home ahead of my party.” She sipped the liquor, which made her cough and caused her eyes to burn.
His piercing gray eyes searched her face. “And now? How do you feel now?”
“Like I should have stayed home.”
“We will get you home, all in good time.”
“I should like to send a note to Lady Wellingham at the Waverlys’, actually. Do you have a footman who could carry it?”
“Of course.” He went to his desk and pulled out a chair. “You can write it here.” He drew out a piece of stationery and placed it on the blotter.
Walking to the desk, she put down her glass and seated herself.
Only then did she realize she could not think of anything to write that would not seriously alarm
Penny.
“Perhaps, if it is not too much to ask, I could just ride home in your coach and explain later.”
“To me, that sounds the best plan. I will send the housekeeper with you.”
At that moment Mrs. Thorne appeared with the tea tray.
“Thank you, Mrs. Thorne,” said Webbingford. “Could I prevail upon you to accompany Lady Deveridge home in my coach?”
“I would do so happily, my lord.”
“Thank you. Tell Watson to come in please.”
“A cup of tea will be just the thing,” she said to her host.
He poured a cup and added cream and sugar at her request.
“Thank you,” she said after her first sip. “Now, I understand you are having a card party. I wish you would return to your guests.”
“But I prefer to stay with you until you are safely on your way. Tell me, are you going to the races next Friday?”
“I was planning on it.”
“Ah, here is Watson. Could you have the carriage brought around? Mrs. Thorne is to accompany Lady Deveridge to Wellingham House. I would like an extra footman sent with Lady Deveridge as well. Solomon will do well. He is sturdy.”
“This is very kind of you, my lord. I am so very glad you were at home.”
“As am I. I am always at your service, Lady Deveridge.”
There was an appreciative gleam in his eye, and she suddenly realized that she did not know if he had a roguish reputation. Uncomfortable, she merely sipped her tea and forbore comment.
“How do you know the Strangeways? I was surprised to see you speaking to Lady Strangeways at the at home when I called.”
Surprised, she answered, “I have known the viscount ever since I was a girl. He and my brother, Sir Bertie Backman, were inseparable.”
“That is a long acquaintance indeed. And how do you know the Wellinghams?”
“Lord Wellingham was the third friend in the triumvirate. His wife and I have become good friends. My daughter and I are staying with them for the Season.”
For the remaining time before the carriage was ready, they discussed his horses and the probability of Refulgent regaining her health before the Derby.
Marianne was very glad when, at last, the carriage was ready and she was finally on her way home. Lord Wellingham had marked her departure with a kiss on her hand, which was bare of its shredded glove. She had thought it a little odd but dismissed her concerns. Too tired to think anymore, Marianne almost nodded off before they reached Wellingham House.
Love Unexpected_A Regency Romance Page 9
