by M. C. Beaton
Dawn filled the room with a gray light. Outside, the sparrows of London began to chatter awake Then came the milkmaids calling, “Milk-o,” and then one after an other, the other cries of London: “pies, mackerel, watercress, and strawberries.”
At five to nine, she rose and pulled a cloak about her shoulders. She leaned over the sleeping Sir Charles and kissed him on the mouth. He murmured and smiled in his sleep.
She placed the letter she had written on the pillow beside him. Then with one last look round, she left the room and went down the stairs. The clatter of dishes and the hum of voices rose from the servants hall in the basement.
She unlocked the front door, grateful that the lock was so well oiled that the turning of the large key hardly made a sound. She closed the door gently behind her and stood on the step.
It was a miserable gray morning and rain was beginning to fall. Over on the far corner of the square was a closed carriage, black with red leather curtains. Standing beside it was Lord Bohun.
With slow steps she walked across the square.
“Good morning, my love,” said Lord Bohun. He held open the door of the carriage. “Get in.”
She hesitated with one foot on the step and cast an anguished look back at the house across the square. “I can’t,” she said suddenly.
He gave her a rough push on the back and sent her flying into the carriage. “Hammersley,” he called to the coachman, before jumping in after Fanny and slamming the carriage door.
“It has been a long night,” said Mr. Featherstone, stifling a yawn. “Are we going to sit here forever?”
His latest love, Mrs. Dolly Marsden, was seated beside him in his phaeton. He had set off to drive her home after a night of pleasure, but just outside the pillared portico of the church, just outside Hanover Square, she had given an exclamation and told him to stop. Dolly watched avidly as Fanny walked slowly across the square, saw Bohun say something, saw Bohun thrust Fanny into his carriage, heard his voice clear across the square calling, “Hammersley,” to his coachman. Had one glimpse of Fanny’s white and anguished face at the carriage window as the coach rolled past.
“Now there’s a thing,” said Dolly, paying no heed to her lover. She was still furious with Bohun over his threats. Hammersley was Bohun’s country home in Gloucestershire. Elopements went to Gretna Green. Seductions, as Dolly knew too well, were often taken out into the country, as she herself had been some years ago, when Bohun had first had her. She was sure he was up to no good.
That spinster, Martha Grimes, lived in Hanover Square—and so did Sir Charles Deveney. Did Sir Charles know of it? She doubted it.
This was surely a way to get even at last with Bohun. She would tell Sir Charles what she knew and swear him to secrecy. He was an honorable man, unlike Bohun.
“Love of my life,” complained Mr. Featherstone, “I am getting deuced wet and so are you, or had you not noticed?”
Dolly jumped down from the carriage. “I shall find my own way home,” she cried up to him.
“But what have I said? What have I done, my heart?”
Unheeding, she scurried off. The rain began to fall heavier than ever and Mr. Featherstone realized, at last, that Weston’s excellent tailoring was not immune to shrinkage and drove off.
Dolly hammered hard at the knocker on Martha Grimes’s door. A correct butler answered it and stared disapprovingly at this wet matron with the highly rouged cheeks.
He was about to close the door in her face-without even asking her business—when Dolly shouted at him, “Get Sir Charles and tell him his cousin has been abducted.”
The door swung wide and then the butler, forgetting his dignity for the only time in his life, ran up the stairs shouting, “Help,” at the top of his voice.
Sir Charles was not in his room, so the butler flew to Fanny’s and shook him awake.
For a few moments Sir Charles did not know where he was. All he knew was that he had a banging headache and this butler, Hoskins, was red in the face and yelling something at him.
At last he took in what was being shouted. Some person was downstairs saying Miss Page had been abducted. Sweet memories of the night collided with a wall of black fear. He leapt from bed and was about to rush to his own room to dress when he saw the letter on the other pillow. He snatched it up and read it feverishly.
“My dearest love,” Fanny had written. “I must go with Bohun or he will betray us and you will never marry your Miss Woodward. Be happy with her. Do not think of me again. I will always be your Fanny.”
He crumpled the letter in his hand and then rushed to put on his clothes, after telling Hoskins to have his hunter brought round from the mews.
Miss Grimes appeared in her nightclothes, her nightcap askew. “What’s amiss?” she cried.
“Bohun’s gone off with Fanny.”
“Tommy! I must rouse Captain Tommy!”
“No time,” said Sir Charles. “Pray God I bring her safely home.”
Fanny’s manufactured sleep in Lord Bohun’s carriage soon became reality. He left her alone. He had no wish to start an undignified seduction in a rocking carriage. They would break their journey for the night at a posting inn in Henley-on-Thames. Perhaps, he mused, it might be better to leave her alone there, wait until he had her in his home. Yet why not take her? She could not cry out and alert the inn servants—or her precious husband would face ruin.
As the miles flew past, Fanny slowly came awake. She threw Lord Bohun a look, half scared, half defiant. He smiled at her slowly, and as she saw that smile, Fanny realized she could not go through with it. There was another way that Charles could be made safe—and that way lay in her reticule, in the form of one well-oiled and serviceable pistol.
She closed her eyes to fight down the wave of fear. She would need to kill him and then herself. She felt very young and lost. But slowly she began to experience a cold courage. If she had not been so light-headed and stupid, she would have accepted her marriage, have become a soldier’s wife.
But it was no use worrying about what might have been. The rain was now falling steadily. The coach was moving more slowly now and lurching from one muddy hole in the road to another. A brief hope that the carriage might overturn and that Lord Bohun might break his neck flared up and quickly died. The time for dreams and fantasies was over. This was cold reality. She was about to commit murder.
By the time they reached the posting house at Henley-on-Thames, a deluge was falling. She stiffly got down from the carriage, ignoring Lord Bohun’s offered hand, walked into the inn, and stood like a small statue while Lord Bohun ordered the best bedchamber for himself and his “wife,” as well as a private parlor.
When they reached the bedroom, there was something about Fanny’s coldness and stillness that made him nervous. He needed to change for dinner—but had no desire to expose himself in all his diminished form at this early stage when he took off his buckram-wadded coat. He told her curtly to get changed while he waited in the parlor.
“I did not bring a change of clothes,” said Fanny in a flat voice. “I will wait for you.”
She walked off into the parlor without staying for his reply and shut the door behind her. Waiters were setting the table. She sat down in a chair by the fire after taking off her wet cloak and handing it to one of the servants, who took it off to the kitchens to be dried and pressed. She was wearing a plain serviceable gown. A wet feather on her hat was sagging down and tickling her nose. She untied the ribbons, took it off, and laid it on the floor beside her. Then she picked up her heavy reticule and held it on her lap.
She had had her moment in the sun, she thought bleakly. Hold on to that thought. Rain drummed against the windows with a monotonous sound. Laughter came from the corridor outside as a coupie made their way out, laughter belonging to a sane world in which she no longer had any part to play. What a mad idea it had all been to pretend they were cousins. How stupid of them! But if Miss Woodward truly loved Charles, then she would marry him—and with his wife out
of the way, Charles had no reason to tell her he had been married. She heaved a broken little sigh. All folly had its price, and she was about to pay dearly.
At last Lord Bohun came in, resplendent in evening dress. He scowled at Fanny’s drab gown. Although he had said she would need no baggage, he had not expected her to come without even one change of clothes. He also felt that she might have tried to maintain the fiction of being his wife in front of the inn servants.
He walked to the table and pulled out a chair for her. She rose stiffly and sat down without looking at him. He felt himself becoming more and more uneasy. Her face was white and her eyes made even more enormous by the violet shadows under them.
He ate a good meal while Fanny sat there like a stone, not touching a bite. She drank two glasses of water but refused any wine.
Lord Bohun had believed that once Fanny had become reconciled to her fate, she would behave in a … well, more womanly manner. But the dignified little creature with the sad eyes, opposite him, had become peculiarly sexless.
When the covers had been cleared and the servants had retired, Lord Bohun grinned at Fanny, rose, and locked the door. Fanny slid the pistol out of her reticule, dropped the bag on the floor, and held the gun firmly on her lap.
“Now my beloved,” chided Lord Bohun, “this will not do at all. Accept your fate and be merry. Have some port. It will bring color to your cheeks.” He pushed the decanter toward her.
She raised the pistol, held it firmly in both hands, and pointed it directly at his heart.
He goggled at her.
“Put that thing away,” he shouted.
“No,” said Fanny, all deadly, frozen calm. “I shall kill you first and then myself.”
He felt himself relax. She could never pull the trigger.
He stood up and walked toward her. “Give me that,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Have it!” shouted Fanny, and pulled the trigger.
There was a miserable click and then silence. Then Fanny pulled the trigger again … and again … and again.
“It’s not loaded!” cried Lord Bohun, and began to laugh.
Fanny hurled the pistol away from her, covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.
“It is no use mawping and mowing,” he sneered. “I would you were in a more … er … loving mood, but I shall have you here and now.”
Fanny took her hands away from her face and looked desperately around for a weapon. She had been so sure that pistol was primed. She should have taken the carving knife earlier in the evening.
But she was in a public inn, she thought, and throwing back her head, she screamed, “Help!” for all she was worth.
“Scream away,” said Lord Bohun. “I told the servants my poor wife was given to manic outburts. No one will come.”
And then there was a deafening report of a gunshot. For one split second, he stared stupidly at Fanny, convinced that she had found another pistol, one that worked.
Then behind him, the door was thrust open and Sir Charles Deveney stood on the threshold, a smoking pistol in his hand. He had shot the lock.
Behind Sir Charles clustered a group of chattering and exclaiming servants.
“You cannot shoot me in front of these people,” snarled Lord Bohun.
“No, but I can thrash you,” said Sir Charles. “Out into the yard with you, Bohun.”
“Don’t,” whispered Fanny. “Take me away, Charles.”
“Later. Out, Bohun.”
“But he will murder you,” cried Fanny, her eyes ranging wildly from her husband’s slim, athletic figure to Lord Bohun’s tall and broad one.
“Let him try.”
Bohun marched out past Sir Charles.
“Stay here, Fanny,” ordered Sir Charles.
But Fanny could not bear to wait and wonder what was happening and followed him out and down the stairs. Cries of, “A mill! A mill!” were sounding all over the inn.
The rain was drumming down on the slippery cobbles of the inn yard as Sir Charles and Lord Bohun began to strip to the waist, each handing his clothes to an eager gentleman who had volunteered to be second.
Despite her distress, Fanny could only marvel at how little there was left of Lord Bohun minus his splendid coat. The inn yard was crowded with spectators, and servants hung out of every window. More people were streaming from the town as the news spread like wildfire.
Lord Bohun was nearly insane with rage. The landlord, who had appointed himself referee, dropped the handkerchief and Lord Bohun flew at Sir Charles, his fists swinging. Sir Charles twisted and ducked, and then, with almost mocking ease, landing a punch full on Lord Bohun’s aristocratic nose.
That was when Lord Bohun reeled back, and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out a dagger. Cries of “Shame” rent the air. Several of the onlookers moved forward, then shrank back as the waving blade glittered menacingly in the light.
Lord Bohun and Sir Charles edged round each other, Sir Charles’s eyes fixed on the dagger. His fair hair was plastered to his head like a helmet. The puckered scar on Sir Charles’s back gleamed lividly in the flickering lamps held by the spectators. Suddenly Sir Charles’s foot lashed out and caught Lord Bohun on the wrist; the dagger went spinning across the cobbles. But that kick made him lose his footing and he fell on his back. Lord Bohun kicked him viciously in the stomach—and as Sir Charles doubled up, kicked him in the face.
Sir Charles staggered to his feet. Five men shouting, “Foul!” held Lord Bohun at bay. Then as soon as Sir Charles had taken up his stance, Lord Bohun was released. Rage had given him new courage and energy. Sir Charles aimed his blows at Lord Bohun’s head and body, but Bohun concentrated on the head alone. And then suddenly Sir Charles darted under Lord Bohun’s guard and seized him round the waist with one hand, and, supporting himself with the other hand pressed on the cobbles, threw Lord Bohun clear across the inn yard with the force of a cross bullock. Lord Bohun’s head hit the cobbles with a resounding thwack.
He lay still.
Men murmured congratulations and clapped Sir Charles on the shoulder, but there were no cheers. As one man said loudly, Bohun had fought as dirty a fight as he had ever seen.
Fanny threw herself on her husband’s naked chest and he held her close. Rain and blood ran in rivulets down his face.
“Get me indoors, Fanny,” he said, with a shaky laugh, “I shall look the deuce in the morning.”
He looked over Fanny’s head and saw the landlord. “Get Bohun out of this inn. Bring round his carriage and send him on his way. My wife and I will take his room.”
“Your wife?” exclaimed the landlord.
“My wife,” echoed Sir Charles, “who was cruelly abducted by that bastard son of a whoremonger.”
Holding Fanny round the waist, he led her into the inn.
A surgeon attended to Sir Charles’s face and said that apart from a few minor cuts and bruises, he would do very well.
“Now we really are a disgraced couple,” said Sir Charles as they sat by the fire in the parlor after the surgeon had left, Sir Charles in nightgown and dressing gown lent by one of the guests, Fanny wrapped in one of the buxom landlady’s voluminous nightgowns. “The local newspaper will carry a report of the fight and it will be in the London papers the day after tomorrow. If we were still the rich Deveneys, all would be forgiven. But society is not going to forgive a poor couple.”
“I don’t care,” said Fanny. “We are safe and we are together, and that is all that matters. I still feel sick. I meant to kill, Bohun. I really did.”
“What a sad mess we have made of things,” he said. “If we had just accepted our marriage, none of this scandal would have happened. But it is no use crying over the mess. We will drink our wine and eat some of that cold meat the landlord has left for us and go to bed. Tomorrow we will return to London and face Aunt Martha. You left your five hundred pounds. I brought it with me, so we can hire a carriage. Do you mind? Were you saving it for gew-gaws?”
> “Anything of mine is yours, Charles,” said Fanny fiercely.
They sat down at the table and ate but talked little. Fanny was still feeling shocked and cold after the events of the evening and Sir Charles was suffering from an aching head.
At last, he stretched and yawned. “Bed, I think, Fanny. We will cuddle up and keep warm—and leave romancing to another day.”
At first it was comforting to lie together, wrapped in each others’ arms, but then Fanny began to feel hot and breathless and her treacherous body began to yearn for his. I am turning into a slut, she thought, alarmed. He must sleep. He must be exhausted. She disentangled herself and edged away from him.
His voice came to her ears in the darkness. “What? No good night kiss, Fanny?” She turned toward him and felt his mouth brush over her face, seeking her lips. And then a madness seized both of them as they kissed and kissed, and feverish hands removed nightclothes and sent them hurtling out of the bed.
When the first storm had passed and she lay, tired and drugged with lovemaking, he said softly, “If it weren’t for Aunt Martha, I would suggest we stay here in this bed for several days.”
Fanny gave a sleepy giggle. “We are shameless.”
He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her, her face glowing in the light from the fire.
“It’s love, Fanny,” said Sir Charles. “Only love.”
Chapter 9
MISS GRIMES SELDOM DRANK strong spirits and hardly ever gin. But as the news of the marriage of Sir Charles Deveney spread ahead of the couple’s return to London, along with the scandal that they were not even rich, she felt she needed something to restore her nerves.
Ladies referred to gin as white wine; the dandies called it blue ruin; the laundress, Ould Tom; the fiddler tossed off a quartern of max; the costermonger referred to it as a flash of lightning; and the Cyprian called for draughts of jacky. The linkboys and mud larks called it stark naked, while the out-and-outers added bitters to their gin and dubbed it fuller’s earth. Gin was the comforter of both high and low, and on that sad day Miss Grimes refilled her glass from a squat bottle, too frightened to go out of doors and face the cold and contemptuous eyes of the ton. For she herself had been party to this deception. She and Captain Tommy were to be married the following week by special license. Miss Grimes had planned to invite a select few of the cream of society. Now she did not dare, for she knew all would refuse. Tommy had said staunchly that if they had never been embroiled in Sir Charles Deveney’s affairs, then they would have never met, but on this gray London day, Miss Grimes found more comfort in gin than in her fiancé’s nobility.
