The Wolfe's Mate

by Paula Marshall

  ‘You must all be aware of what such an action does to the reputation of a woman, however innocent she might be, and I was truly innocent—but I was ruined, none the less. No man wishes to marry a woman who has been jilted.’

  Madame said thoughtfully. ‘So, you are that Miss Beverly, the late William Beverly’s only child and heiress. I did wonder if you might be, but I thought it would be considered tactless to question you on the matter if you proved not to be her.’

  Ben Wolfe, however, leaned forward in his chair, intent it seemed, on quizzing her further.

  ‘You say that you are employed by the Westerns as a duenna. I was out of England at the time and consequently knew nothing of the scandal which followed. But if you are the India merchant William Beverly’s heiress, how is it that you have descended into becoming a duenna, a paid servant? He was as rich as Croesus, to my certain knowledge.’

  However painful it might be to tell them more of her sad situation, Susanna had no alternative but to do so.

  ‘And so I thought when he died, some twelve years before I was to have married Lord Sylvester. My mother married again, one Samuel Mitchell, soon after my father’s death, but after I was jilted my stepfather informed me that, contrary to public—and my—belief, my father had died a ruined man, and he had been keeping me since my mother’s marriage.

  ‘It was, he said, he who was providing my ample dowry in the hope that I would make a good marriage. Now that my chance of making any sort of marriage had gone, he was no longer prepared either to keep me or to be responsible for my dowry. Consequently it was necessary for me to find employment.’

  No one spoke for a moment. Madame said gently, ‘En effet, he turned you out?’

  ‘I suppose you might say so.’

  ‘Oh, I do say so.’ It was not Madame who answered her, but Ben Wolfe, and the look he gave her was quite different from any he had offered her before. There was pity in it for the first time.

  Damn his pity! She didn’t want it, or anything else from him—especially the odd sensations which she was feeling every time she looked at him.

  ‘You were not to know,’ she told him.

  ‘No, but nor should I have treated you so harshly this afternoon—but, in fairness to myself you did, at first, lead me to think that you were Amelia Western, which made it difficult for me to believe that you were telling the truth when you finally claimed to be Susanna Beverly. My apology to you for carrying you off, and then vilifying you, may be late but, believe me, it is sincere.’

  They might as well have been alone in the room, so intent was each on the other. His grey eyes were no longer cold, his harsh features had softened into a smile. Susanna found it difficult to offer him one back. What she did do was acknowledge to him her own complicity in creating the situation which had set them so distressfully at odds.

  ‘I should not have claimed to be Miss Western,’ she admitted, ‘but your cavalier attitude towards me—and indirectly towards her—angered me beyond reason. I am still at a loss as to why you should plan to do anything so wicked as carry off a young girl in order to make her your forced wife.’

  As she said this, Susanna registered that Madame la Comtesse de Saulx was nodding her elegant head in agreement.

  ‘That is neither here, nor there,’ riposted Ben loftily.

  Rightly or wrongly, Susanna could not leave it at that. ‘And do you still intend to kidnap poor Amelia? If so, then regardless of anything which is done to assist me, I must inform the Westerns—’

  Ben said, his tone regretful, ‘Alas, no, that plan has been thwarted forever by the mistake which I made in identifying the wrong woman. Miss Western has nothing further to fear from me. More than that I cannot promise.’

  So he was still considering further action of a lawless kind and, judging by what he had said in their first furious interview, it must concern the Wychwoods. But this was no business of hers. She owed them nothing. Her one concern was that young and innocent—even if silly and selfish—Amelia Western should be protected from the predator named Ben Wolfe.

  Something of her emotions showed on her face, or Ben Wolfe was mind reading, for he said gravely, ‘What are you thinking of, Miss Beverly, that causes your smooth young brow to furrow and your eyes to harden as they examine me in my own drawing room?’

  ‘That you are a ruthless man, Mr Wolfe, and that I should not like you for an enemy—and that once you have set out to perform some action, whether lawful or lawless you are not easily deterred from carrying it through.’

  ‘Bravo, Miss Beverly!’ exclaimed Madame de Saulx, ‘our friend Ben Wolfe is often in need of hearing some plain speaking and in this case you are the right person to supply it!’

  Susanna’s eyes glowed with honest indignation. ‘He is not my friend, Madame, and it was an ill day when he mistook me for another woman. I shall accept his help in restoring myself, unstained, to society again, for he owes me that favour, but afterwards I shall thank him, bid him goodbye and try to forget that I ever met him.’

  This brave and spirited declaration was admired by all three of her hearers, including Ben Wolfe. Madame clapped her hands together, and Jess could not restrain himself from saying, ‘Well spoken, Miss Beverly, but may I be excepted from the interdict which you have proclaimed against Mr Wolfe since I should so wish to meet you again under happier circumstances?’

  He avoided looking at Ben as he came out with this small act of defiance. His reward for it came when Susanna, regarding him thoughtfully, said, ‘So soon as I am settled in life again, Mr Fitzroy, you may call upon me. More than that I cannot say. I must remember that you were merely carrying out your employer’s orders, and only those like myself who are in a similar subordinate position can sympathise with the necessity to do so in order to earn one’s bread.’

  ‘Earn one’s bread!’ exclaimed Ben sourly, glaring at Jess’s peacock-like splendour. ‘I pay him much more than that, I think, if he can turn himself out like a Bond Street dandy, ready to make eyes at any pretty woman.’

  Jealous! thought Madame, he’s jealous because Miss Beverly spoke kindly to his aide, but not to him. Whoever would have guessed it? Now, what does that tell me? She examined Ben with knowing eyes. That’s the first time in our long acquaintance that I have ever known him display such an emotion or care two pins about what any woman thought of him—or any man, either. Always excepting myself, that is.

  Goodness, does that mean that he thinks of me as pretty? was Susanna’s response. And could he possibly have been hurt because I spoke kindly to Mr Fitzroy and not to him?

  Ben, indeed, scarcely knew what to think of himself. He waved a hand at Jess who opened his mouth to answer him. ‘No,’ he said, ‘forgive me. I have made enough mistakes, as well as one unwanted enemy today, without my being graceless to my most faithful friend—for that, Miss Beverly,’ he added, turning to her, ‘is how I think of Jess.’

  Jess, surprised by this unwonted declaration mumbled, ‘You do me too much honour, Ben,’ while Susanna murmured,

  ‘So you can be kind, Mr Wolfe, and, after a fashion, you have reprimanded me, for the Lord tells us to forgive our enemies, and now that you are not even my enemy I should have answered you more kindly.’

  ‘And that,’ announced Madame firmly, ‘is enough of that. Heartsearching is a thankless occupation if overdone. Do you sing or play, Miss Beverly? Ben has a fine Broadwood piano and I have a mind either to play it, or to hear you play.’

  ‘I can play a little, but I am a better singer,’ answered Susanna.

  ‘Good,’ said Madame, ‘then we shall entertain the company. Are you acquainted with Mr Tom Moore’s songs?’

  ‘Certainly. My favourite is “The Last Rose of Summer.”’

  ‘How fortunate, for it is also one of mine! And, that being so, let us perform it first of all. Shakespeare has said that music hath charms to soothe the savage breast. Let it soothe ours and we shall all sleep the more easily.’

  Was it a coincidence that
Madame was gazing at Ben Wolfe when she came out with this? Ben thought not. As he listened to Susanna’s pure young soprano soar effortlessly towards the painted ceiling, the power of the music lulled his restless mind and his busy plotting brain into temporary tranquillity, as well as increasing his unwilling admiration for his unwanted guest.

  What had he done to his calmly controlled existence by dragging Miss Susanna Beverly into it? For the first time in his life he found himself considering a woman as something more than someone there to entertain him briefly and then be forgotten.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Has no one any notion where the wretched woman was going?’

  Mr Western, on the urgings of his wife, was interviewing the servants two days after Miss Beverly’s disappearance. Any hope that she might suddenly return was fading, and since an examination of her room had shown that she had taken nothing with her except the clothes in which she had left the house, it was beginning to appear extremely likely that some misfortune had befallen her.

  The butler answered for his staff. ‘None at all, sir. As you know, we had little to do with Miss Beverly, nor she with us. She exchanged no confidences with anybody—indeed, until she failed to return, no one was quite sure why she had left the house.’

  ‘Then we must inform the authorities of her disappearance,’ said Mr Western gloomily. ‘She is, after all, of good family, and we must not appear to be negligent or careless concerning her safety.’

  ‘Oh, we must be seen to be doing the proper thing,’ said his wife contemptuously. ‘For my part, I still think that she has run off with someone. Such creatures are more trouble than they are worth.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t want her back,’ offered Amelia.

  ‘I shall start matters in train this afternoon,’ said Mr Western. ‘But first tell Cook to provide us with some nuncheon. Such matters are best discussed on a full stomach.’

  ‘Or not at all,’ commented his wife acidly.

  They were about to enjoy the nuncheon when the butler entered, a strange expression on his face.

  ‘Madame la Comtesse de Saulx has arrived, sir, and has asked to see you at once. She says that the matter is most urgent.’

  ‘Madame de Saulx!’ exclaimed Mrs Western, throwing down her napkin. ‘What can she want with us?’

  ‘She might have come at a more convenient time,’ moaned Mr Western. ‘Have you any notion,’ he demanded of the butler, ‘what this most urgent matter might be?’

  ‘Only that she has Miss Beverly with her.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Mr Western, throwing his napkin down, too, and leaping to his feet. ‘Have you admitted them?’

  ‘Indeed, they are in the drawing room.’ The butler smirked. ‘One does not turn away such as Madame.’

  ‘True, true,’ said Mr Western. ‘Come, my dear. As the young woman was our daughter’s duenna, you must accompany me.’

  ‘May I come too?’ asked Amelia. ‘I’m sure that I wish to know what Miss Beverly can be doing with the Comtesse de Saulx.’

  Both her parents said together, ‘No, it would not be proper.’

  Mrs Western added, ‘I promise to tell you all that transpires, my dear.’

  ‘Not the same as being there,’ grumbled Amelia, subsiding into her chair and picking up a buttered roll.

  ‘Be sure not to overeat, my love,’ ordered her mother. ‘You are already a trifle too plump to be fashionable.’

  Amelia made a face behind her mother’s back as the door closed on it. It was bad enough that the duenna had bullied her about her eating habits, but it would be the outside of enough if her mother started singing the same tune!

  Mrs Western was not singing any tune when she walked into the drawing room on her husband’s arm to find there, as the butler had promised, not only the Comtesse, but also their duenna, dressed a` point, although looking a trifle pale.

  Susanna had been amused when, earlier that day, Madame had entered her bedroom in Stanhope Street carrying a bowl full of a fine white powder, a pot of oil and a large powder puff on the end of a stick.

  ‘You look altogether too healthy, my love,’ she proclaimed, ‘for a young woman suffering from an unexplained fainting fit in Oxford Street. Permit me to remedy the matter.’

  With that she sat Susanna down and tied a shawl around her shoulders before smearing oil gently on her face. Next she swirled the puff in the white powder before applying it to Susanna’s too-rosy cheeks. She then produced a smaller puff with which she removed the surplus powder, leaving Susanna with an interesting pallor suitable for a convalescent from a sudden attack of some unknown, but mercifully brief, illness.

  ‘Much better,’ pronounced Madame, removing the shawl. ‘Try not to rub it off and your late employer will have no suspicion of the truth.’

  ‘My late employer,’ echoed Susanna, a trifle bemused. ‘She has not yet dismissed me—although she doubtless will.’

  ‘I assure you that she will not have the opportunity to do so, for Mr Wolfe and I are adamant that you shall not return to the Westerns. The reason, of course, being that you need to recuperate and, after that, you will become my companion—saving me the trouble of going to Miss Shanks’s excellent bureau to find one.’

  The mention of Mr Wolfe had Susanna up in arms immediately. ‘Since when did he gain the right to decide my future?’ she exclaimed, her eyes shooting fire.

  Madame regarded her with approval. ‘I admire your spirit, my dear, but he gained that right when he did you such a great wrong. To make up for that he has decided, with my help, to safeguard your future. Do I understand that you do not wish to become my companion?’

  There was nothing Susanna would like better. From what she had seen of Madame and of her home, her own life would be infinitely more pleasant in Madame’s establishment than in any other in which she had ever worked. It was only Mr Wolfe’s meddling hand that she resented.

  ‘Of course,’ she admitted. ‘You are being most generous, and I must sound thankless, but—’ She stopped, not sure how to continue.

  ‘But you dislike the notion that Mr Wolfe had a hand in things. Believe me, he has a hand in more things than you can possibly imagine. Forgive him—particularly since to my certain knowledge it is rare for him to condescend to repair his mistakes—not that he makes many.’

  Well, it would have to do and, sitting in the Westerns’ drawing room, Mrs Western’s baleful eyes on her, she was grateful to both him and Madame as Madame poured treacle over them, admitted to being Miss Beverly’s good Samaritan and detailed the brief loss of memory which had resulted in her delay in returning Miss Beverly to them.

  ‘Not that that return will be permanent, I hope,’ she ended, bathing her hearers in smiling condescension. ‘My physician has urged rest and recuperation for Miss Beverly before she returns to any duties she may have to perform. I understand that your daughter is soon to marry and that consequently you will have little further need of Miss Beverly’s services. I suggest that it would be to the benefit of us all if you were to allow Miss Beverly to resign from your employment immediately so that she can become my companion as soon as her recovered health permits. I fear that at the moment she is still feeling weak.’

  This last sentence was a signal for Susanna to lean back in her chair, hang her head while sighing gently before fetching one of Madame’s fine lace kerchiefs from her reticule in order to hold it before her eyes as though overcome.

  This artistic manoeuvre was the result of some careful coaching by Madame before they left Stanhope Street for Piccadilly.

  ‘I really do feel the most awful fraud,’ Susanna had said whilst being instructed, ‘and I am also fearful that I shall give myself away by laughing at the wrong moment.’

  ‘Nonsense, child,’ said Madame briskly. ‘Only imagine that you are contemplating the death of your pet dog or bird—if you ever had one—and even tears will not be beyond you. Do you think that you could manage tears?’ she added hopefully.

  ‘I’d
rather not,’ said Susanna, wondering how Madame had gained such a reputation for virtue when she was the mistress of so many artful tricks. Nevertheless, in the Westerns’ drawing room, she achieved the appearance of one suffering a major attack of the vapours by remembering her poor pug who had expired twelve years ago and whom she had forgotten until this moment.

  Only Madame, thrusting a bottle of smelling salts under her nose and saying, ‘There, there, dear child, we shall soon be home again where you may rest. We can collect your belongings on another day if you do not feel equal to the task today,’ prevented her from succumbing to a severe attack of the giggles, something from which she had not suffered since she was thirteen.

  Both Mr and Mrs Western were grateful to Madame for disposing of the duenna so easily and leaving them with nothing to reproach themselves had they turned her out with nowhere to go.

  They parted with mutual expressions of admiration as though all four of them had been oldest and dearest friends for years—and Susanna was free once again.

  Not before, however, Mrs Western, quite overcome by the graciousness of a grand personage whom she had never expected to find in her home, begged to be allowed to present Amelia to Madame while arrangements were being made to collect Susanna’s few possessions and stow them in the boot of Madame’s chaise.

  ‘By all means, nothing would please me more,’ trilled Madame untruthfully. ‘And I am sure that Miss Beverly would wish to make her adieux to her late charge.’

  Susanna was not sure that she would but, since polite deceit appeared to be the order of the day, she smiled her assent. She was not quite capable, she decided, of uttering an outright lie.

  Her late charge, though, was delighted to be admitted to the great lady’s presence and to discover that she was to lose her duenna immediately. Nothing would satisfy her but that Madame should recite all over again the saga of Susanna’s misadventure and rescue.