by M. C. Beaton
“I am sure I don’t know, sir. Have you come far? Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“No. On second thoughts, yes. I must think.”
Soon he was seated in the drawing room with a decanter of port. He turned the facts over in his mind. It was all very plain. His parents thought they were tricking the Pages and getting him an heiress. The Pages had thought they were tricking the Deveneys and that he really did have prize money. So they had seen to it that he had married Fanny—and then had left to avoid any repercussions.
How could he have been such a fool? Fanny’s predicament was understandable. She had thought she was gaining a rich and handsome husband. But after the wars and the carnage, he had thought naively he was returning to the innocence of home. He had believed his parents when they had told him that this marriage of his was necessary to save them from the debtors’ prison and that Fanny’s dowry would be their salvation. He could cope with it, as he had coped with so much already in his life. He liked Fanny. She was an endearing little thing. She should have been giggling at balls and parties and dreaming of beaux. Was Aunt Martha part of this plot? He had not seen her in years, but remembered her as being a rather grim and upright spinster. No, Aunt Martha would know nothing of this, and then with a sinking heart, he remembered her strong disapproval of his parents. He was beginning to think his aunt knew nothing of their impending arrival.
And then the words of Tommy Hawkes drifted into his worried mind. Tommy was fond of saying that to cut a dash in London society, one had to have a great deal of money, or, failing that, persuade society that one actually had a great deal of money. “If society thinks you are very rich,” Tommy had said, “then you can dine at other people’s houses and have endless credit.”
The marriage had not been announced in the newspapers. Only the locals knew of it, the servants and the vicar. London society would not. He thought of the weary years of living within his army pay, envying such men as Bohun their wealth. He began to feel that same reckless, heady sensation he had just before going into battle. He was accounted rich, was he? Then let London society think so. He would outdo his parents by living on credit, present Fanny as his cousin, and give her all the balls and parties she desired. It should be easy to get an annullment if the marriage were not consummated.
The first thing was to erase any record of that marriage from the parish register. The local church was small but accounted very fine. It often had visitors. He tossed off his glass of wine and let himself out of the house. He swung himself into the saddle and rode off toward the church. He seemed to have left all his ideas of thrift and moral rectitude behind. Had he not found a window in the vestry unlatched, then he knew he would have shot the lock in the door and stolen something from the church to hide the real intention of his visit.
The moon was striking down into the vestry, which smelled of damp hassocks, oil heaters, and incense. He swung open the heavy register. There was his name and signature and that of Fanny’s on top of a fresh page. He took out a penknife and sliced out the page, carefully slitting it as far in as he could manage so that there would not be immediate visible evidence of his crime.
A small voice of reason somewhere in the back of his head was telling him that he was behaving ridiculously, that he could not expect to get away with his outrageous plan, that should Fanny find the man of her dreams in London, it was going to be hard to keep a marriage quiet until they got an annullment. The normally sensible Sir Charles was revolted by his parents’ behavior.
He crumpled up the page of the register and put it in his pocket before riding back to the posting house. The bedroom was in darkness. He lit a candle, drew back the bed curtains, and looked down at his sleeping wife. There were marks of tears on her cheeks. He gave a little sigh. He was suddenly very tired and did not want to sleep in the one hard chair before the fire.
He undressed quickly and slipped into bed beside her. She yawned and murmured something in her sleep and snuggled up against him. Sudden desire coursed through his body and he edged away. He had not had a woman in too long a time. But he could not spoil the chance of an annullment by taking her virginity.
Fanny awoke and stared up at the bed canopy, wondering for a brief second where she was. Then memory came flooding back. Soft breathing on the pillow next to her own made her stiffen. She twisted her head and looked into the sleeping features of her husband. His nightcap had fallen off and his thick, fair hair was ruffled, making him look young and vulnerable. He had more lace on his nightgown than she had on her own: a new nightgown, one obviously bought for his wedding night. Misery at her own situation was alleviated by a sudden sharp concern for his. He should have been lying next to a loving wife.
As if conscious of her gaze, he opened his eyes, looked at her for a long moment, and then smiled. She stiffened again, expecting him to reach for her, but he yawned and stretched and said, “Goodness, I’m hungry. Couldn’t eat much of that supper last night with all this worry. We’ll have breakfast and I’ll tell you my plans.”
He swung his legs out of bed, stood up, and pulled his nightgown over his head, revealing a well-muscled back marred by a long, puckered scar. After one brief, shy look, she turned away from him and lay with her eyes tight shut—until he said in an amused voice, “Are you going to lie there all day, Fanny?”
“No, Sir Charles,” she said in a small voice. “But I have never been in a bedroom with a gentleman before.”
“I should hope not. Call me Charles, Fanny. You get dressed and I’ll go and order breakfast.”
She got up when he had closed the door behind him. Great waves of relief were flooding her. He had not tried to make love to her, he had not shouted or cursed her as he had every reason to do. She dressed quickly and then joined him in the parlor.
He waited until they both had eaten and the servants had retired, then said, “We have indeed both been sadly tricked. Your parents and my parents, having gulled us, have both headed off for different points of the compass and left us destitute. I am not going to let them get away with this. You should marry the man of your choice. In fact, if I can pull this off, you shall.
“Now, no one knows we are married, no one in the gentry or aristocracy, that is. The marriage was not announced. I tore the page recording the marriage out of the register. We will go to London as cousins. If I can catch Tommy Hawkes before he starts talking about our wedding, I will get him to put about the fiction that we are both fabulously wealthy. We will be invited everywhere. You will have all the balls and parties you desire. As soon as you meet the man of your dreams, we will set about getting the marriage annulled.”
Fanny looked at him round-eyed. “But the man of my dreams—as you call him—will promptly shy off.”
“Not if he loves you.”
“And if I don’t meet anyone?”
“Well, I’ll think of something. Why should we not have a bit of fun?”
She wrinkled her brow and looked at him doubtfully. “But what if someone from your regiment knows you, or their families? You cannot then maintain the fiction of prize money.”
“That’s true. Lord Bohun has sold out and he hates me—and he certainly would explode any tale of prize money.”
Fanny smiled at him, suddenly liking him immensely and thinking he was very much like the brother she always wanted to have.
“I have it!” she cried. “Say you have a relative, a nabob, left all his wealth to you. As for me, I will put it about that some merchant who owed Papa a favor left me all his moneybags.”
“That’s my girl. And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll just need to put up with each other!”
Chapter 3
SIR CHARLES AND FANNY waited anxiously beside their trunks in the hall of Miss Martha Grimes’s residence in Hanover Square. They had already been kept waiting half an hour.
“It’s as I thought,” said Sir Charles gloomily. “She was not even informed we were to visit her. And the fact that your parents had not paid the post
ing house bill is an insult. Don’t look so depressed, Fanny. If she doesn’t want us, we’ll go and look for Tommy Hawkes and see if he can find us a place to stay.”
He looked up as the butler descended the stairs. “Madam will see you now,” he said in the gloomy voice good servants use to impart to visitors that if they had any sense they would have known better than to call.
They followed him up the winding staircase and into a light, airy drawing room.
Martha Grimes rose as they entered the room and surveyed the pair with some surprise. Sir Charles looked like a fine young man from the top of his thick, fair hair to his shiny Hessian boots. She thought he had more the face of a scholar than an army man: clever and sensitive, with fine gray eyes.
His wife was a pretty little thing who looked half scared, half tired. But Miss Grimes hardened her heart. She had had more than enough of the sponging Deveneys. Through long years of being subjected to the wiles of adventurers and various grasping relatives, she had learned to keep the extent of her wealth a secret. She and her sister had received equal amounts of money in their parents’ will. She had invested hers and made her money grow. Her sister had married Mr. Deveney and managed to squander the lot in only two Seasons.
She was a tall, hard-featured woman of forty-five. She had thick, brown hair, without a trace of gray, under a starched cap. Her brown eyes were very dark, almost black, the kind of eyes that give nothing away.
“Sit down,” she said, “and tell me why you are come … and why you think I should entertain you.”
Sir Charles, during his wait in the hall, had thought up all sorts of tales to tell her, but he suddenly decided that nothing less than the truth would do.
Miss Grimes heard him out as he told her everything, including his intention to masquerade as Fanny’s cousin and pretend to be rich.
When he had finished at last, she fought down an unaccustomed desire to laugh. But she said sternly, “I do not hold with cheating trades people. I will not have you living on credit.”
“But if we were thought to be very rich,” said Sir Charles patiently, “we would spend most of the Season being entertained at other peoples’ houses.”
“You would be lying … tricking people.”
“True, but only for a little, only until Fanny finds someone suitable.”
“And what is wrong with you?” asked Miss Grimes. She looked curiously at Fanny.
“Sir Charles is very kind, quite like a brother,” said Fanny. “But it would be wonderful to have some fun, if only for a little.”
“Both of us are in need of some larks,” said Sir Charles. “I am war-weary, and Fanny must not be denied a few pleasures because of her parents.”
“In order to maintain this fiction,” said Miss Grimes, “I would need to support it in every detail—to help you with your lies, to chaperon Lady Deveney. Did you think of that?”
Fanny bent her head. “No,” she whispered. “I do not think we did.”
Sir Charles reached out, took her hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Was ever a pair so admirably matched, marveled Miss Grimes, and yet so determined not to be tricked any further that they do not realize it?
And what would this deception entail? It would mean an end of her lonely days for a little, it would mean going back into society, the society she had shunned for so long, which, in fact, had also shunned her, a middle-aged spinster not being considered at all interesting. Had she broadcast the extent of her present fortune, her life would have changed, but she had no desire to be a target of leeches and adventurers.
None of her thoughts showed on her face, a face well schooled over years of loneliness and rejection to mask hurt or worry.
Sir Charles gave a little sigh. Miss Grimes had a certain dignity and decency that made him feel guilty he had ever put such a shameful scheme to her. He rose. “Come, Fanny,” he said.
Miss Grimes looked across at him. “Sit down, young man,” she said. “I haven’t finished with you,” and sank back into a thoughtful silence.
The cries of the hawkers filtered through from the street below. A brewer’s dray rumbled over the cobbles. The postman rang his bell. Inside the drawing room, a fire of sea coal spurted and flamed on the hearth.
“Very well,” said Miss Grimes, breaking her silence. “From now on you are the rich Sir Charles and the rich Miss Fanny Page. Are you sure there is no one in London who knows of your wedding?”
“Only my friend, Tommy Hawkes, and he won’t say anything.”
She tugged at the bell rope. “You will be shown to your rooms. I advise you to rest; we shall meet at dinner and discuss this matter further.”
As the couple left, following the housekeeper, Miss Grimes noticed the way Fanny clung trustingly to Sir Charles’s arm. Let the pair have a little fun. In a week’s time, they would be in love.
Sir Charles visited Fanny’s bedroom half an hour later. “Is not Miss Grimes a treasure?” cried Fanny. “We shall be so comfortable here. She is not at all what I expected. Not at all like your mama.”
“Had you not met her before?” asked Charles, stretching out on the bed and putting his hands behind his head.
“You should take off your boots,” chided Fanny, “if you are going to lie on my bed.”
“Goodness, I’m tired,” Sir Charles said, yawning. “You have definitely got the better bed, Fanny. Amazing soft.”
“Boots off,” said Fanny impatiently, and tugged off his Hessians and put them on the floor. “I am just going to find a suitable dress for dinner and lay it out, then you must go off to your own bed because I want to sleep as well.”
He mumbled something indistinct. Fanny selected a sprigged muslin. The house was well fired, but the dining room might be cold, so she put a colorful Indian shawl beside it, kid gloves, thin kid slippers, the dress and shawl arranged on the chair and the slippers underneath, and then, satisfied, turned to say something to her husband and found he had fallen asleep.
She looked down at him and decided it would be cruel to awaken him, so she climbed in the other side of the bed, put her head against his arm, and cuddled against him and fell asleep as well.
Miss Grimes came in an hour later to see how Fanny was and stood for a moment watching the sleeping pair. This will not do at all, she thought. Sir Charles had given their names to the butler as Sir Charles Deveney and Miss Fanny Page. What on earth would the servants think if they found them in bed together?
She shook Sir Charles awake.
He looked up at her stern face and then twisted round to find his wife snuggled up against him. “Oh. Lord,” he said. “I am sorry. I fell asleep on her bed—and she is such an innocent, she probably saw nothing wrong in sleeping beside me.”
“Don’t let it happen again,” whispered Miss Grimes severely.
Captain Tommy Hawkes was feeling ill done by. Like Sir Charles, he lived on his army pay. He was a younger son, so his family home and estates had gone to his elder brother, who did not encourage visitors. Tommy had been hoping for a pleasant stay with Sir Charles’s parents. He had not expected to be sent packing by the Deveneys immediately after the wedding. He was staying at Limmer’s Hotel in Bond Street—and had just been thinking gloomily that he had better face up to the fact that he could not afford to be on leave for much longer and had better rejoin his regiment—when a footman arrived with a letter summoning him to dinner at the home of Miss Martha Grimes. He remembered that the lady was Charles’s spinster aunt, and where the married couple was staying, and brightened at the thought of seeing his friend again.
He brushed and cleaned his dress uniform—glad that he never put on any weight, for he could not afford a new one—and then with his brown hair pomaded and his large feet in pumps, carefully painted to conceal the cracks of age, he set out to walk to Hanover Square, happy that the day had been dry, for a wet day would have meant having to pay for the cost of a hack so that his white stockings did not get spattered with mud.
Miss Grimes was a great believer in judging people by their friends, so she felt reassured that her decision to aid and abet Sir Charles had not been wrong when she first set eyes on Capt. Tommy Hawkes. He was, she judged, only a few years younger than she was herself. He was a tall, ungainly man with powdered hair, bright blue eyes, a great beaky nose, a firm mouth, and a long chin.
He listened, amazed, as the plan of deception was outlined to him. “Of course, if you’ve gone and told anyone about our marriage,” said Sir Charles, “we’ll need to forget about the whole thing.”
“No, didn’t even tell Bohun, and I met him the other day. Don’t socialize,” said Tommy ruefully. “Not the sort of fellow who gets asked anywhere.”
“I am sure your association with the rich Sir Charles and the very rich Miss Page will bring you invitations to most houses,” said Miss Grimes.
“So,” said Tommy eagerly, “how goes the plan of action?”
Miss Grimes picked up a sheaf of notes from a side table. “I have not been out in the world for some time, but being the sponsor of a young heiress means I have something to sell, society being extremely cynical, or rather, I being extremely cynical about society. I wrote to a number of my old friends, now married, and bemoaned the fact that I felt myself unfit to do justice to bringing out a rich young lady. If I am not mistaken, I should start to receive calls by next week.”
Tommy’s face fell. “I would dearly love to stay and see the action, but I fear I must return soon to my regiment.”
Miss Grimes’s experienced eye took in the well-brushed but old coat and the carefully painted shoes. “We assumed you would be staying at Limmer’s. Perhaps you would aid us by being part of this scheme?”
“I would dearly like to,” said Tommy awkwardly, “but …”
“I have plenty of rooms here,” said Miss Grimes. “You are welcome to stay.”
“Please do,” said Fanny. “Charles would like it above all things, would you not, my dear?”
