Lord Devere's Ward

by Sue Swift

  Kate interrupted. “Bettina is my servant, not yours, my lord. It is not your place to berate or reward her.” She turned to Bettina. “Remind me, if you please, to raise your salary.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He looked down his nose at his pert young wife. He glanced at Bettina.

  “Katherine, we will continue this discussion of your illusions elsewhere.”

  “Illusions, my lord?” Kate looked miffed.

  He put his finger to his lips, then turned to Bettina again. “I have noticed that the countess tends to be abominably blue-devilled in the mornings, Bettina.”

  “With all respect, I must disagree, my lord. My lady has generally been cheerful at all times—until four days ago.” The maid’s voice was heavy with reproach.

  He sighed, closing his eyes. He leaned back against the squabs, weary resignation weighing down every bone. “The both of you are blue-devilled in the mornings.”

  * * *

  Snores filled the carriage. “Bettina, you are my witness that Lord Devere snores.” Removing her bonnet, Kate handed it to her maid, then settled herself back against the curve of Devere’s arm for a short nap.

  * * *

  As the carriage entered busier precincts of London, the early morning noises of hawkers, coachmen and others who were abroad roused Devere from his slumber. Blinking sleep out of his eyes, he glanced down to see his wife cuddled next to him. He smiled. He adored the managing wench, even when she snored.

  “I say, Bettina,” he whispered. “Don’t mention it to her, but you will please note that the countess snores.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The coach pulled up outside Limmer’s Hotel with a jerk. Quinn thrust out an arm to keep Kate from falling off the seat. Clinging to him, she blinked drowsily. “Are we there yet?”

  “We are. This is Limmer’s Hotel,” he said.

  She peered out of the window. “What a grubby, gloomy spot.”

  “It is. Very bad ton, caters primarily to country squires, racetrack touts, and people who don’t particularly care what they eat. Stay here,” he ordered and, for once, it seemed that his Kate had no particular desire to argue with him. Opening the door from the inside, he jumped down to the ground without the aid of the retractable steps or the coachman.

  Entering the dim lobby, he encountered Hawkes and Pen. Pen looked angry, but Hawkes seemed quite amused. “Bad luck, Devere, the bird’s flown.”

  “What?” Quinn stared at his friend.

  Hawkes gestured at the clerk behind the polished wooden desk. “This chappie tells me that our friend Badham and his puppy paid their shot two days ago and haven’t been seen since.”

  Pen glanced at Quinn. “I thought you had the Bow Street Runners on their tail.”

  “I did. But after I called him out, there didn’t seem to be any more need.” Quinn turned to the clerk, who shuffled his papers. “Is there any rumor or clue as to Badham’s destination?”

  “There is, sir.”

  “My lord,” corrected Hawkes.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Quinn said. “Out with it, man!”

  “When Badham signed the final bill, he used the name Scoville and indicated he had a forwarding address of Boston, in the Americas. See?” The clerk waved a scrap of paper.

  Quinn took the paper and squinted at it. He could sense Pen and Hawkes hovering over his shoulder.

  “That certainly seems to be the case. Boston, in the Americas, not Boston in Lincolnshire.” Frustration built in his chest. He felt like a cat waiting at a mouse hole, unaware that the prey had scampered out of a different crack in the floor. “Damn and blast!” He slammed his fist into a nearby wall, smashing through the cheap wainscoting.

  “Here, here! There’ll be none of that!” The clerk rushed out from behind his desk. “Lord or no lord, you’ll pay for the damage, sir!”

  “Of course.” Quinn massaged his hand after he pulled it out of the wall.

  Pen removed a wallet from his coat. “If it wasn’t you, it would have been me, brother,” he remarked to Quinn as he passed a few banknotes to the clerk.

  * * *

  “What next?” Kate asked, as the footman deposited another slice of carved beef onto her plate.

  Light shafted down into the dining room of Quinn’s Berkeley Square house, where the party had repaired for a bit of sustenance and to discuss their next move.

  Her husband considered. “I’m not sure. P’raps I’ll have the Runners and my man of affairs make some inquiries.”

  “I think we should go to the Abbey,” Kate said. “I don’t quite believe in this Banbury tale of Herbert and Osborn going to the Americas. They’re nothing there, while here, he’s an Earl, even if everyone cuts him.”

  “On the other hand, if they’d sold the Abbey, they might have a spot of money to start over with,” Pen said. “They must have known that we’d never rest until they were dead. The only way to keep their shabby skins whole was to go very far away.” He glanced at Quinn. “With you married, they must have known that we wouldn’t pursue them to America.” Quinn emitted a snort of laughter. “Quite right about that. I, for one, have no desire to visit the benighted place, even for the pleasure of killing Herbert Scoville.”

  “Whether or not he’s gone, I want to go to the Abbey.” Kate waved at a servant to serve another bottle of burgundy.

  “Why, Katie?” her husband asked. “You cannot have happy memories of the place.”

  “I don’t, but if they’re gone, it’s now my property,” she said. “And if they’ve sold it, I want to talk with the new owners and ask if I can retrieve some family heirlooms.”

  “I doubt if they’ll allow you to take anything very valuable away,” Quinn said.

  “I don’t want anything very valuable. I want to inquire about the disposition of some of the family portraits. After all, they’re paintings of my family, and no one else’s. Surely the new owner can’t care about them as much as I do.”

  “The child has a point, Quinn.” Pen spoke. “You can also take the opportunity to see if Badham and his whelp are lurking in the vicinity. Two birds with one stone.”

  “The new owner might also grant me access to my parents’ graves.” Kate cut her beef.

  Quinn raised his hands in defeat. “Very well, I am persuaded that a journey to Wiltshire is the right course of action. Kate, you are very persuasive. And, we have the opportunity to find Mr. St. Wills.”

  “Yes, Bryan is a concern,” Kate said. “I feel responsible because he did ride east to find me.

  You’ve heard nothing, from anybody?”

  Quinn shook his head.

  “People don’t just disappear off of the Great Western Road.” Hawkes frowned. “It’s a bit wild along Bagshot Heath, isn’t it? Did the Runners search the place?”

  “They did,” Quinn said. “Didn’t even find his horse.”

  “Sounds like a dead end,” Pen said.

  What a frightful turn of phrase. A shudder ran through Kate. She gestured for the footman to close the window. The sunlight pouring through the glass panes didn’t affect her chill. “Well, if we’re leaving Town soon, I must see about packing.”

  “Cannot your maidservant see to that task?” Quinn’s lazy gaze went from her hair, down to her bosom, and back up again to meet her eyes. He smiled.

  She warmed beneath his heated glance. His intentions were as clear as a balmy summer day. “Er, no,” she said. “As I have married, I must bespeak more suitable attire. It will not do for me to continue to wear white and pink. Most inappropriate.”

  “That is so.” Rising, he offered her an arm. “I should have liked to accompany you, Katherine, but I fear that I must meet with Carrothers if we are leaving Town again.”

  “I understand, my lord. I shall take Bettina or perhaps meet Sybilla Farland at Grafton House.” Unfortunately, Sybilla would not meet Kate, claiming indisposition. Kate suspected that the prospect of shopping bored the intellectual Miss Farland. Sybilla had never seem
ed interested in frills and furbelows like other girls. Kate sighed, wishing that Louisa, who loved to shop, still lived in Town, but Lady Anna had taken the young women back to Kent for a rest after the excitement of Kate’s abduction.

  Kate, followed by her maid, first visited Grafton House to buy fabrics, then directed the footman to take her purchases in Quinn’s barouche to Madame Mirielle’s establishment off of St. James’s Street. She decided to walk, since the activity was perfectly unexceptional at this hour with other shoppers thronging fashionable Mayfair.

  After luncheon, she knew St. James’s Street, with its wealth of gentlemen’s clubs, would become a male domain. Any female seen there between the hours of two and six risked gaining a reputation as fast.

  The caricatures in the window of Mrs.

  Humphrey’s Print Shop caught Kate’s eye.

  “Oh, let’s stop here,” Kate said to Bettina.

  Kate giggled at a cartoon of the monarch in a costume which more closely resembled a striped balloon. George IV had fancied himself a dandy. Ha!

  King or no, he couldn’t hold a candle to her husband, she thought with pride.

  Other pedestrians stopped to look at the drawings as her gaze passed to a cartoon of an interior of a church, which depicted a string bean of a man with an exaggerated, long nose holding fast to the arm of a silly-looking chit with big eyes, a bosomy body, and a mooncalf smile. His other hand lifted her skirts, exposing one garter, tied around her plump knee.

  The hair of the man was colored red, and the blue-eyed wench looked at him with the expression of a love-struck fool. With shock, she recognized herself and her husband on the occasion of her wedding, just a few days before. She tore the cartoon off the window to peruse it closely.

  The title of the drawing was “Ton Manners and Morals.”

  Kate covered her mouth with her fist. She couldn’t breathe.

  The dialogue in the bubble above Quinn’s head read, “Having bedded her I’ll marry her and take all that is valuable from her. What else shall a honorable guardian do?”

  The words from the simpering girl’s mouth were no less humiliating. “My dear lord, how lucky I am to have such an attentive swain!”

  Two people in the background said to another,

  “And she isn’t even out yet!” His companion responded, “Milord has a preference for virgins…” She bent over at the waist, gasping for air, the vicious caricature crushed in one clenched hand. She heard Bettina’s voice as though it came from far away.

  “My lady! My lady!”

  She straightened with an effort, hoping that she hadn’t attracted the attention of any passers-by. She heard laughter. Blinking back tears, she turned to see two young bucks chuckling at another cartoon. She felt ill. What if they’d seen the caricature she now held, and identified the chit in it as her?

  Worse, the drawing wasn’t an original but an engraving. Dear God. There could be thousands of copies of this mean, hateful rubbish distributed all around London. She leaned against Bettina, closing her eyes.

  “My lady, are you unwell?”

  Kate pressed a hand to her lips, from which her lunch now threatened to issue. She gulped. “Yes, I am most unwell, Bettina. Let us proceed to the barouche with all haste. I must return home at once.” She reached for the veil adorning the poke of her bonnet, tugging it down to conceal her face. Leaning on Bettina’s arm, Kate staggered down St. James’

  Street. She reached the haven of Quinn’s carriage none too soon.

  Bettina turned to the door of the dressmaker’s establishment, but Kate called her back. The maid looked astonished.

  “We shall attend to clothing another day, Bettina.” Kate ordered the coachman to return to Berkeley Square, then collapsed against the squabs.

  She closed her eyes, willing her tears to disappear until she had reached the safety of her room.

  Slamming the door in her maid’s astonished face, Kate flung herself across her bed. Sobs racked her body. She curled herself around a pillow and wept.

  How could she face her husband and his sophisticated friends after this humiliation? Is this what people would think of their marriage, that it was a sham, so Quinn could take her virtue and her fortune?

  Pain stabbed Kate deep in her soul when she remembered that Quinn had never told her that he loved her. Dear God. She’d given a heartless man her heart. He’d said he needed her, but it was well known that a man did indeed require a well-born wife, to give him heirs and to use for his pleasure. And he was very, very adept at using her for his pleasure.

  He’d desired another woman because she was a proven breeder, and seemed most concerned about leaving his seed in her body at every opportunity.

  Worse, it seemed that the entire world knew that the charming dandy turned into an insatiable beast behind closed doors. Milord has a preference for virgins… Is that all she was to her husband? A suitable vessel for his use?

  She sat up. He wouldn’t win. She wouldn’t let him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Where on earth was his Kate? After returning from an afternoon at White’s, Quinn prowled the house, which seemed strangely large and empty, despite the hordes of servants crowding the manse.

  Darkness fell, and still she shopped? Most peculiar and absurd, but both his wife and her maid were absent, as was his barouche.

  Worry stung his mind. What if Badham and his noxious offspring had taken her yet again? Seemed unlikely, with Osburt wounded and the both of them out of the country, but odder events had transpired since she had entered his life.

  Approaching her bedroom, Quinn hesitated. He did not like to intrude, but this room was the only place he hadn’t looked for her. After opening the door, he gasped in shock. The room looked as though a high wind had swept through. Every drawer had been opened, and the doors of the clothespress were flung wide. Few dresses remained therein, and no shoes. Ribbons and bows lay scattered over the dressing table. What the devil was going on? Where the hell was Kate?

  He grabbed the bell pull and shouted for Harper, embarrassed to hear the sharp edge of panic in his voice. Surely the chit hadn’t run! Why would she?

  Everything was wonderful. Herbert was gone, and they loved each other. Didn’t they?

  He couldn’t help the suspicion that roared through his mind. With Badham gone, the danger in her life was over and she…she didn’t need a protector anymore. Damn her. She’d hinted that she needed a champion, and he’d been there for her. She’d used her lovely body to get what she wanted, a marriage of convenience to protect her from her wicked uncle.

  And now that Bad Uncle Herbert was gone, well, Kate was also. Or so it seemed.

  Anger heated his blood. How dare she? She belonged to him, and he’d have her back. She could be carrying his child at this very moment. Did she think she’d steal his heir?

  Harper entered, the picture of calm in her neat gray dress and ruffled cap. “Yes, my lord?”

  “The countess. Did she return from her shopping expedition?”

  “Yes, my lord, but set out again thereafter.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I do not know, my lord, but I was under the impression that you were aware of the journey. The countess left quite openly, taking several portmanteaux.” Harper withdrew a flint from her pocket to light the lamps and candles set about the room, eyeing the dishevelment with a frown.

  “Damn and blast! Did she go alone?”

  “No, my lord. Accompanied by her maid, she left in the barouche. Is there a problem? I thought that you and the countess had planned to leave London for Wiltshire and understood from Bettina that you intended to travel separately.”

  “Yes, there is a problem. We had no such plans,” he said through his teeth. He’d have to whip her when he found her. He did not like to think of whipping Kate, but he could not tolerate a willful and disobedient wife.

  * * *

  Rich with fragrant summer greenery, Wiltshire delighted all Kate’s senses. The grounds
of Badham Abbey were no exception. She cast her gaze over the wide swards, now busy with gardeners repairing the evidence of Herbert’s neglect. She sat at a table near the balustrade she’d climbed months before during her escape from her uncle, listening to the current owner of the Abbey.

  Randolph Gillender, a stout fellow of perhaps fifty years, spoke as a servant poured afternoon tea. “I remember your mother, my sister, quite well. Fine lass she was.”

  “I remember her also. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss Mamma.” She wished she knew how to fill the hollow in her heart.

  “Of course.” Leaning over the table, her uncle pressed her hand. “You are not much like her. You seem to have the look of the Scovilles.” She stirred her tea, bending her head in shame.

  “How you must hate us.”

  “No, never! I could never hate Margaret’s child.”

  “But my grandfather forbade all contact between our families.” She lifted her head to look again at her jolly, kind uncle. “Can you imagine? I never knew you existed until this day.”

  “That was part of the marriage contract.” Uncle Randolph settled his bulk deeper into his chair.

  “Bennett and Margaret were wild for each other, but your grandfather, the old Earl, wouldn’t allow the marriage unless we Gillenders had no contact with the Scovilles. Called us Cits, he did.”

  “He wasn’t too proud to take your money.” She couldn’t help the bitterness in her voice and soul.

  She’d admired and loved her grandfather, believing that the old Earl had cared for her. But he’d deprived her of the one thing most important to Kate: family.

  “Ah, the old Earl was rich as Midas, but he always wanted more. He would have disowned Bennett otherwise. Margaret couldn’t bear for Bennett to lose his title. She knew it meant everything to him.

  And, she wanted to be his Countess, and to make certain you could marry well.” Randolph sighed. “It was hard, very hard, giving her up. She was the youngest, you see, the golden girl of our family. Mum and Dad fair doted on her.”