by M. C. Beaton
She put a hand on her husband’s arm and he covered her hand with his own and smiled down at her. “Oh, we must have Tommy,” he said.
Tommy threw Miss Grimes a startled look that she returned with an amused one. Sir Charles and Fanny looked the very picture of a happily married couple.
Dinner was a merry affair, Tommy, normally shy, feeling unusually at ease in such undemanding company. After dinner, they went back to the drawing room, where Fanny said she would play them something on the pianoforte, and Sir Charles stood beside her to turn the music.
“This is a rum do,” said Tommy in a low voice to Miss Grimes. “What on earth does she want to go husband hunting for? She’s perfect for Charles.”
“They will both find out very soon they are perfect for each other,” said Miss Grimes.
“I rely on your good sense,” replied Tommy warmly, and something stirred in the depths of Miss Grimes’s lonely soul, a little stab of pure happiness.
She would not have been so happy had she known that her optimistic plans for Sir Charles and Fanny would go disastrously wrong.
At first it all seemed plain sailing. Society matrons called, invitations began to come in, news of the wealth of the “cousins” spread through London like wildfire. The four plotted and planned in the evenings, played cribbage, dined, and talked, swapping stories about all the stratagems that were afoot to get the goodwill of this wealthy pair.
And then it was the day of their first social outing, Lord and Lady Varney’s ball in Grosvenor Square. Fanny had very few qualms about going, for she would be escorted by Sir Charles, she would have Sir Charles to talk to and laugh with, and after the ball they would all gather in Miss Grimes’s drawing room and exchange stories.
Both Sir Charles and Fanny were too involved in their own affairs to notice that Miss Grimes was subtly changing. Her severe face was more relaxed. Instead of hard starched muslin caps, she wore dainty lace ones. Her gown for the ball was of lilac silk shot with gold and of a modish cut. She wore a Turkish turban on her head of the same material.
Sir Charles had eyes only for Fanny. He thought she looked enchanting in a white silk gown with a silver gauze overdress and with silver flowers in her hair.
“You’ll be the belle of the ball,” he said proudly. But Fanny was not.
She was dancing the cotillion with Sir Charles when she suddenly noticed his eyes fixed on someone who had just entered the ballroom—and that he colored slightly and his steps faltered. Curious, she looked to see what had caught his attention.
A beautiful girl stood there, surrounded by courtiers. She was as fair as Sir Charles, springy golden curly hair framed her enchanting face like an aureole. Her blue eyes were flirting this way and that as she received compliments from the men around her. She looked, despite her youth, sophisticated and at ease.
Fanny did not know that Sir Charles had recognized the beautiful face he had first seen in the miniature his mother had sent him. She also did not know that the beautiful Miss Woodward, for it was she, had been told by her parents of this rich Sir Charles Deveney and had been told to enchant him.
Fanny only knew that she felt suddenly insecure and lonely. The huge ballroom with its crystal chandeliers and its banks of hothouse flowers, its throng of bejeweled dancers, became an alien world in which she had no part.
And yet because of the stories of her wealth, she was besieged by partners for the rest of the evening, and she laughed and flirted while her heart and feet began to ache. For Charles had danced twice with Miss Woodward—Fanny had discovered her name—and not once had he crossed to her side to ask her how she was getting on or to laugh or share any gossip.
“What is he playing at?” Miss Grimes asked Tommy Hawkes in alarm. “This whole scheme is to find a beau for Fanny, although I did hope that they would realize the folly of it and settle down into being a happily married couple. Why is he making a cake of himself over Miss Woodward?”
“I recognize her,” said Tommy bleakly. “You remember Charles told you that part of the way he was tricked into marriage was because the Pages sent him a miniature supposed to be of Fanny? Well, it was a miniature of Miss Woodward. He’s been carrying it about with him. I’ve seen him looking at it. And now he’s struck all of a heap. And only see the effect it is having on Fanny.”
When they returned home, a silent party, by common consent all went off to their respective rooms. Miss Grimes decided to have a severe talk with Sir Charles in the morning but was too depressed to tackle him that night.
Fanny went to her room and dismissed Miss Grimes’s lady’s maid, who was waiting up for her, and sat down in an armchair by the fire and stared bleakly into the flames.
The door opened and Sir Charles came quietly in. He sat down on the floor at her feet and clasped his arms round his knees. “I’ve found her at last,” he said simply.
“Have you?” asked Fanny in a small voice. She reached out a timid hand and stroked his fair hair; he almost absentmindedly reached up and took it and held it in a firm grip.
“Miss Woodward,” he said. “Hers was the face in the miniature your parents sent me, Fanny. That face has been haunting me … and suddenly there she was. I—I am taking her driving tomorrow. I—I think I am in love, Fanny.”
“I am glad you have found someone,” said Fanny. “Tell me more about her.”
He talked on while the flames in the fire sank down and Fanny held his hand tightly, wishing Miss Woodward at the devil.
“But I shall do nothing until you find someone first, Fanny,” he said, twisting round and looking up at her. “What is the matter, my dear? You look so sad.”
“I suppose it is like losing a brother,” said Fanny on a little sigh. “I have been so happy.”
“Fanny, I shall never leave you until this farce of a marriage is over. I am a beast to keep you up this late. You must go to bed.” He rose, drew her to her feet, and kissed her gently on the forehead.
“We are in this together, Fanny, this deception.”
“What will Miss Woodward say when she finds you do not have any money?” asked Fanny.
“We will cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Sir Charles enjoyed a pleasant drive with Miss Woodward, blissfully unaware that behind him in the house in Grosvenor Square, three people had been praying for rain. But the sun shone and Miss Woodward was enchanting. Occasionally a deep chord of warning sounded somewhere inside him, a note of dread telling him that a difficult road lay ahead and that Fanny’s happiness came first. But mostly he felt dizzy and elated. He was sure from the way she laughed at his sallies and looked up at him with her blue eyes that he had never been so witty or entertaining.
“Nice but dull,” Amanda Woodward said to her mother, sighing, when she arrived home. She untied the strings of her bonnet and tossed it petulantly into a corner.
“But so amiable, so rich,” said her mother.
“I thought we were rich enough.”
“Tsk! Only the vulgar talk about money,” said Mrs. Woodward, a small, fussy matron, proceeding then to talk about it herself. “The Woodwards have remained rich by marrying prudently. This is your second Season and you have already turned down several offers. You cannot have another Season. People are already beginning to damn you as a sad flirt.”
Miss Woodward’s eyes widened. “Yes, you did not know that, did you? And the gentlemen close ranks sooner or later against any female they consider to be merely flirting with them. Sir Charles Deveney can only help your standing. He is considered the best prize this year, for the other candidates are either too old or too poor. There’s Bohun, mind, but he has an unfortunate reputation. A sad crop this year,” commented Mrs. Woodward gloomily—like a farmer looking at a bad harvest.
“You must try to befriend that little cousin of his,” she went on, “and I will flatter that silly old woman, Martha Grimes.”
“What makes you think her silly?” asked Miss Woodward. “She looks uncommon sharp to me.”
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“Any woman who hasn’t the wit to marry is stupid,” said Mrs. Woodward roundly.
While Sir Charles had been driving Miss Woodward in the Park, Fanny had gone out for a walk. Miss Grimes had wanted to buy china in Pall Mall and Tommy had volunteered to accompany her. Fanny did not want to go with them. She wanted to walk by herself and think. She knew that if she had mentioned his plan, Miss Grimes would have ordered a maid or footman to accompany her and Fanny wanted to be alone.
She walked through the streets of the West End, not noticing the goods displayed in the shop windows, immersed in sad thoughts of how she had been tricked into marriage, how she had at least found a friend in Sir Charles, and how life had become extremely complicated now that he was so obviously infatuated with Miss Woodward. If only she could meet that dashing black-haired man in the portrait, the man she had thought was Sir Charles. She became uncomfortably aware of the fact that well-dressed, pretty young ladies should not go walking alone in London, even in the West End, when one Bond Street lounger deliberately caught his spurs in her skirts and tore them, “cracking the muslin,” as it was called. He cackled with laughter and she scurried off, her face flaming, and bumped into a tall, dark man.
She looked up at him, one swift, fleeting glance, and then stood stock still. Here was the man of the portrait. Above her, looking down at her quizzically, was the dark, ruthless, handsome face.
“Your servant, ma’am,” said Lord Bohun.
“I am sorry I bumped into you,” said Fanny, looking every bit as flustered as she felt. “But some cad tore my skirts quite deliberately with his spurs and—and … I suppose it is all my own fault for walking out alone.”
“Permit me to escort you,” said Lord Bohun. This charmer, he thought, might take his mind off Sir Charles Deveney. For he had just learned that morning that not only had Sir Charles come into a fortune but his cousin, a Miss Fanny Page, was a rich heiress and residing with him. He had hoped to escape from his own gnawing jealousy of Sir Charles by selling out of the army. But here was Sir Charles in London and the talk of society.
In an abstracted voice, he asked, “What is your direction, Miss … er …?”
“Miss Page, Miss Fanny Page.”
“Bohun, at your service.”
He talked lightly of this and that as they walked along, while all the time his mind was racing. This then was Deveney’s cousin. A beautiful little heiress. And from the admiration in those eyes—glancing up into his face from under the shadow of a pretty bonnet—his for the taking, if he put his mind to it. But if Deveney got wind of anything, he would soon put a stop to it. There had been that trouble with that Spanish woman. Only a Spaniard. No need for Deveney to cry rape, and all the while he chatted easily about plays and opera, while Fanny felt as if she were floating somewhere above the ground.
When they reached Miss Grimes’s house, she looked up at him shyly. “I am indebted to you. Is it Lord Bohun?”
He nodded. “Lord Bohun. I shall never go walking on my own again.”
She summoned up courage. “Would you care to step inside … for—for a glass of wine or a dish of tea?”
“Alas, I know your cousin, and I would rather you did not mention meeting me at all.” Fanny looked at him in distress. “But why not?”
“Various reasons I would rather not explain. I would not stoop to criticize the relative of so beautiful a lady. But we shall meet again.” His eyes seemed to glow as they held her own.
“I—I do hope so,” said Fanny breathlessly. “I will not say a word to Charles, as you obviously do not wish it.”
“Do you go to the Marsdens’ breakfast?” “Yes, I believe so. Tomorrow, is it not?” “I shall see you there.”
He raised her hand to his lips, deposited a burning kiss on the back of her glove, and strode off down the street. Fanny let out a little sigh of pure rapture and tripped indoors.
So that when Sir Charles returned, instead of finding a downcast Fanny, he found an elated young girl.
“You are looking very fine, Fanny,” he said, dropping a careless kiss on her cheek.
“I am feeling very well,” said Fanny. “I think the air of London suits me. Are we going to the Marsdens’ breakfast, Charles?”
“Aunt Martha has accepted for us. But to tell the truth, my aunt has been out of the world for too long. The Marsdens are a most rackety couple and perhaps we should not go.”
Fanny’s soft lips set in a stubborn line. “I have never been to a breakfast before,” she said.
“There was our wedding breakfast.”
“That doesn’t count,” said Fanny, sounding almost pettish.
“Fanny, these breakfast affairs, as you know, begin at three in the afternoon and can go on until dawn. Mostly they are served in the gardens, and if it should rain, everybody is bundled into the house in a sort of makeshift way.”
“It sounds like fun. Isn’t Miss Woodward going to be there?”
“I do not know. I did say something about us going.
“Then she will be there.”
“Why are you so sure, kitten? Is she enamored of my charms?”
“Of your fictitious moneybags, no doubt.”
“What a petty thing to say!”
“I am sorry,” said Fanny contritely. “I do so want you to be happy—and will do nothing to stand in the way of that happiness. I mean, you would not stop me from enjoying the company of the man of my choice.”
“Of course not.”
“Swear. Swear on your heart.”
“How ferocious you are! There, I swear it, Fanny. Whatever cavalier meets your fancy will receive a welcome from me.”
“Good,” said Fanny. “I’ll keep you to that promise.”
Lord Bohun made his way to the Chelsea home of the Marsdens. Mr. Marsden was out, but his wife, Dolly Marsden, was pleased to receive him. They had had a brief affair on Lord Bohun’s last leave. She was a plump little woman with china blue eyes and sandy hair. Sunlight struck through the window of her drawing room … showing her appreciative guest that under her transparent muslin she wore nothing but stockings and garters. His senses quickened, but then he remembered Fanny.
“I want you to do something for me, Dolly.”
“Anything, my heart.”
“Have you heard of the latest heiress on the London scene? Fanny Page?”
“Of course. That is why I invited that old fright, Martha Grimes, to my breakfast. And what needs she do but demand an invitation for some army captain.”
“Name?”
“Tommy Hawkes.”
Lord Bohun’s face darkened. “Look, Dolly, I have an interest in this Miss Page.”
Dolly pouted. “So you are bent on marriage after all?”
“Perhaps. But revenge interests me more. This Miss Page has a cousin, one Sir Charles Deveney.”
“Yes, he is the reason that Miss Grimes and her dreary captain are invited as well. He stays with her. A delightful man I have heard. And very rich.”
“He is everything I despise, puritanical, strait-laced, always around to stop any fun and games. I would like to see him sweat a little.”
Dolly’s face lightened. “A game,” she cried, clapping her plump hands. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to befriend Miss Page, to tell her that I am no end of a fine fellow, but subject to jealous spite from other army officers such as Deveney and Hawkes. You know me to be a brave man, desired by every lady in London, that sort of thing. Gradually introduce her to some of your ways and to that little gambling club you run.”
“You want me to corrupt her,” said Dolly.
He laughed. “Did I say so? There’s money in it if you play your part well. But nothing too obvious, mind. Place her next to me at your breakfast and put Deveney as far away as possible.”
“I heard a report that Deveney is much taken with Miss Woodward and her grasping mama is anxious to encourage him,” said Dolly. “Mrs. Woodward turned down my invitation but must h
ave found out that Deveney was to be present, for she sent a note saying she had changed her mind, along with a giant box of sweetmeats. So I shall put La Woodward next to Deveney. Dear me, I never thought to be helping you in your love life, Bohun.” She glanced at him slyly. “Here we are, all alone …”
He laughed and reached for her. “One more time, hey, Dolly? No harm in one more time.”
Chapter 4
MARTHA GRIMES CAREFULLY donned a new silk gown, one she had never worn before. It was pale lilac with a tucked and embroidered bodice, long sleeves, and several flounces at the hem. But the neckline was surely a trifle low for a lady of her advanced years. She tugged at it fretfully. But—she glanced out of the window—the day was very fine and warm, quite un-English weather. It would be hot in the Marsdens’ garden, and therefore it was sensible not to be too covered up, and perhaps the captain might notice that she still had a fine neck …
She had to confess that her thoughts were now filled almost every minute of the day with thoughts of the captain. Yet she felt uneasily that time was flitting past and she had a serious situation on her hands. She had lectured Sir Charles about his interest in Miss Woodward, saying he should put all thoughts of his own happiness aside until Fanny was settled, but Sir Charles had listened to her gravely and had replied quietly that he was convinced that he could take care of his own future and that of Fanny’s at the same time. Miss Woodward was all that was kind and beautiful. Once he had her confidence, he would tell her the truth and she would be a valuable friend for Fanny to have. Tommy had walked into the room at that moment and Miss Grimes had immediately, if temporarily, forgotten all about the troubles of this oddest of young married couples.
But she did reflect before they set out that Fanny had never looked prettier—or more enchanting—in a chip straw bonnet ornamented on the crown with marguerites and a filmy white muslin gown with a wide yellow silk sash. Her huge eyes sparkled and her perfectly shaped little mouth was pink and soft. Miss Grimes felt a slight qualm of uneasiness as she looked at that mouth. It looked ready for kisses. It was as if something had awoken Fanny to the world of men.
