by Edith Layton
A slight pause followed, and then he heard a soft, well-bred voice say, in a hesitant tone, “I am sorry to disturb you at this hour. But indeed, I did come earlier, but you were not yet arrived home. I…I do not know you, Your Grace, and neither do I understand why I was told to seek you out…but my late uncle, George Berryman, told me shortly before his death that if I should ever need…advice, you would stand as my…advisor.”
At the word “uncle,” St. John turned around quickly, with a frown, to finally see who this visitor was. She stood partially in the shadows, but what he could see took his breath away for the second time that night. He gestured to her impatiently. “Come close to the fire,” he commanded. She moved forward slowly.
It was strange, he thought, that he should recognize her almost at once, although he had only seen her the once, and so fleetingly. Although she was no longer dressed with the elegant care that she had been that night at the Opera, indeed, she seemed almost somber in the dark cape she clutched to herself, her worn traveling case standing by her side, there was no mistaking the high cheekbones, the small tilted nose, the dazzlingly white skin, and most of all, the luminous dazzling green eyes.
He rose and quickly ushered her to a chair near the fire. Her hand, he noted, was cold as a dead woman’s. He poured her a glass of brandy and told her to drink it quickly, standing over her as she did so.
“George Berryman, your uncle?” he breathed, watching her closely as she coughed against the unusual taste of the drink. “Drink it, drink it,” he commanded. “You’re chill as stone.”
“I would not have had you wait outside on such a night if I had but known, but my staff has explicit instructions, and you refused to give your name.”
“I understand,” she said quietly, still sitting upright. “You need not concern yourself. My actions were…unusual. But if I might explain, you will see that I had no other course open to me.”
He drew a chair up beside her, and watched her, fascinated by those expressive green eyes, and well caught by the implicit drama of the situation. George Berryman’s niece? He could hardly credit it. She was a magnificently lovely creature, with the airs and manner of a lady of Society. He felt a familiar racing of his pulses. “Take your time,” he said in a comforting tone, “and tell me what the matter is about.”
She hesitated once again, and then looked into the gray eyes opposite her. He was a formidable looking man, she thought, and faintly familiar looking as well, with his high Indian cheekbones, those changeable, heavily lashed gray eyes, and the perfectly sculptured, almost classical mouth. But when the mouth tightened, and the eyes turned to a cold steel hue, she felt he might be very intimidating. Still, there was a naggingly familiar cast to his features…although, she felt, she surely would have remembered such a fine looking man if she had seen him before. But she had expected him to be older, at least her uncle’s age. She was chilled through her entire body. How many hours had she waited in the dark and wind-filled alley, shifting from foot to foot to keep her blood moving? But she had not known where else she could have gone. After she had stumbled away from the Duke, she had wandered the streets for a time, until the frightening moments when a group of young fashionably dressed men had accosted her, demanding her price, her rate schedule. She had fled them, and finding herself alone, had been forced to decide upon a course of action, any course of action.
She did not doubt that the Duke was serious at whatever strange game he had begun. He frightened her with his implacable surety, his nightmare power, and his mad conviction that this was a fair “game.” She had no home to return to, no funds to see her through to Canterbury, not even enough funds or knowledge to secure a respectable lodging for the night. She was, as the Duke had said, singularly weaponless in this great city. But then, she had remembered what her uncle had said, she had remembered the name of the Marquis of Bessacar, and as much as she had hated to force herself upon the goodwill of a stranger, still she had reasoned, her uncle would not have directed her so without a good reason.
Taking all her courage, she had inquired as to his whereabouts from street vendors she had seen, and while some had chased her away with lewd comments about her state, for she had quickly realized that without an escort she was as much as advertising herself upon the streets at this hour, finally a flower vendor had taken pity upon her and given her the direction of his house. After she had delivered her message to his man, she had no choice but to hastily scribble her uncle’s name upon the paper and wait for his return.
Now, with the unfamiliar liquor warming her veins and giving her false courage, and the fire comfortably thawing her, she drew in a breath and began to explain the situation to the handsome, concerned gentleman who sat quietly, giving her his undivided attention.
He interrupted her story only the once, when she first mentioned the Duke. “Torquay!” he breathed, and then, when she paused, he said quickly, “Go on, go on.” When she had finished the tale, which was, she realized herself, almost fantastical in its brief telling, she sat back at last and closed her eyes wearily. Would he believe her? Indeed, she scarcely believed it herself. Somehow, the lateness of the hour, her own weariness, and the otherworldly quality of her situation made her for the first time feel volitionless, without concern, at last, for her own fate.
He sat silently for a few moments. Then he looked at the exhausted but still lovely face before him.
“Does anyone know of your whereabouts now?” he asked.
“No one,” she answered quietly, “for I never heard your name at all except from my uncle’s lips.”
“Mrs. Teas never mentioned me?” he persisted.
“Never,” she said softly. “And my aunt dismissed her soon after my uncle’s death.”
“This game of the Duke’s,” he asked slowly, “do I understand that he expects you to find a suitable place for yourself, alone and unaided, or he will claim you?”
“I can scarcely blame you,” she said, opening her brilliant eyes, “for doubting that part of my tale, for I myself cannot credit it…it seems so melodramatic, so much of a….” She fumbled for words, but he leaned forward and clasped her chill hand in his two warm ones.
“No, no,” he smiled. “Though it may surprise you, I assure you, it does not seem at all fanciful to me. You see, I know Torquay…. No,” he said comfortingly, as she gave a sudden start, “not precisely as a friend. I do not approve of his activities, although, I know them well. He is a man without scruple, a man who lives only for his own pleasures, a man…whose name is byword for license. And a man with an eye for beauty—and my dear, it is only natural that he should have been drawn to your loveliness.”
She withdrew her hands from his and sat up straight. “I go too fast,” he mused to himself, and standing, went on, “Have you no other living relatives, then?”
“None that I know. None that I can apply to. Father and I lived a quiet life. The life of a schoolmaster’s family…but no, you are not to think that I require…you to settle my future for me…no. You see, I still do not understand why Uncle gave me your name, and why he felt I should apply to you. But I only do so as a temporary measure. I need…a place to retreat to…only for a few days. For, you see, as I explained, my governess has a school that she now runs, and I feel sure that she will welcome me, but I cannot see how I may reach her. If I could but…borrow, only borrow, some funds from you. Only the fare to Canterbury. Once there, I could secure a position at the school, and repay you. I seek no charity. Only a loan,” she insisted, color flooding her face in embarrassment.
“Let us have no talk of obligation,” he said in a warm voice. “You did right to seek me out. Your uncle…was in the position to do me a great favor many years ago, when I was only a boy. I did tell him that I would be glad to reciprocate at any time. Any favor that I do for you, I consider in payment to that debt I owe to your uncle, Miss…Berryman?”
“It is Regina Analise Berryman, Your Grace,” she said. “Only I do not wish to presume upon
you for more than…a loan.”
“Nonsense,” he said heartily, in the most avuncular fashion he was capable of. “I owe your late uncle a deal more than that.” He turned and was lost in thought for a moment. And then he turned back to her.
“And I would very much like to thwart the plans of my good friend Torquay, for my own reasons. See here, Miss Berryman…. Ah, that is so stiffly formal, may I call you Regina, as I am sure your uncle would have given me leave to?”
“Of course,” she said.
“Very well then, Regina. Now I have a very good idea. London is not a good place for you at present. Torquay is right, he does have eyes and ears everywhere. And for you to bound off to the wilds of Canterbury with only a hope of finding your governess well established and able to help you, is folly. I am sure that is one of the first places Torquay will seek you if he cannot find you in London. And if you haven’t secured a position for yourself.…” He let the sentence hang. “But, if you follow my directions, we can establish you well enough to confound Torquay and ensure your own happiness in future.”
She looked at him with hope.
“Come with me, Regina, now,” he said. “We will ride to one of my estates, Fairleigh. You will have, I’m afraid, to travel with me in a closed carriage, but simply by being here this night I’m afraid we have already overstepped the proprieties. No matter, no one but you and I will know of it. And Hilliard, but I have his discretion. Once at my home, you can compose yourself. You can send a message to your governess and wait, in security, for her reply. If she cannot accommodate you, I have, I assure you, sufficient influence to procure you another position.”
“But no,” she quickly said, sitting up suddenly. “Indeed, I cannot…. just cast myself upon your goodwill. It is not even a question of proprieties, My Lord. I did not come here for your absolute protection. I cannot expect you to accept full responsibility for my present position. No, no, I am sure that is not what my uncle desired, and neither is it what I expected.”
“Regina,” smiled the Marquis, taking one of her cold hands, “allow me, please, to determine the extent of my debt to your uncle. And also, you must allow me to pursue the course to which my own sense of honor surely leads me, or would you also redefine my own code?”
She looked at the handsome, gently smiling face so near to her own, and felt the lateness of the hour and the effects of her long wait in the cold. In all conscience, she was wary of allowing a stranger to take the matter of her future out of her own hands, and yet, what other course was open to her? And as he said, it was not as if he were a complete stranger, and he had his own private score to settle with the author of her difficulties. Still, she felt she should at least offer up some further demurrers to this elegant benefactor.
“But,” she added, “surely if the Duke discovers that I have gone with you, he will account it as a failure on my part. He was specific, in that I was to establish myself…without resorting to…‘Feminine wiles.’” She lowered her eyes.
“I assure you, Regina,” St. John smiled, “that I do not put myself out so for any other female, no matter how distraught or lovely. No, I do this for your uncle. It is a debt of honor. Now, rest awhile, while I prepare for the journey. It would be well for us to leave before full light so that we will be unmarked.”
She smiled in assent, and when he left the room, rested her head back against the chair, feeling oddly content, and secure, as she had not for a long time.
*
The Marquis of Bessacarr confounded his household by rousing them at an ungodly hour before dawn and ordering his traveling carriage prepared.
And before the first weak struggles of the sun to pierce the leaden morning skies had begun, he, accompanied by a caped and hooded figure, entered the vehicle which had, uncharacteristically, been drawn up to the back entrance. No one was there to see the strange departure except for Hilliard, who oversaw the procedure with customary aplomb, no one, that is, except for Hilliard and the barely discernible figure of a small street boy, who stood seemingly engrossed in his task of sorting through the curbside litter. And who left, at a dead run, as soon as the carriage had turned the corner.
*
It was high afternoon when the dusty coach finally turned into the long drive at Fairleigh. A few snowflakes were filtering down from the now solidly leaden skies. St. John sat back and smiled as he gazed at his companion. At his insistence, she now slept quietly in the other corner of the carriage, a warm blanket tightly secured around her. Lovely, he thought, even with those remarkable eyes now shuttered. The thick rich chestnut hair had spilled out a little from its tight confines and traced an alluring shadow about her cheek. Yes, he thought, all would go well.
She had surprised him on this journey. She was not of his class, or of the Quality, that he knew just from a quick precis on her antecedents. She arose from a family of merchants, from an admixture of the stolid bourgeois. She had even hinted of having had great-grandparents who were such exotics as Armenians—or was it Arabians?—and one branch of heritage that was certainly of the Jewish merchant class. But, he thought, she was like a swan arising from a barnyard nest. For her face and figure clearly bore the evidence of the fine-boned grace so desirable in his own class. She had, before he had advised her to sleep, attempted to entertain him as they rode the long, tedious miles. Despite her fatigue she had been in turn amusing, informed, and gracious as she had sketched her history with candor and charm. And her conversation was filled with wit, and intelligence and thought, which, he chuckled, was certainly not expected, particularly in young females of his own class. She was an original. She seemed to think, he mused, that it was proper, even desirable, for a female to have the ease of conversation and scope of knowledge that a man might wish to possess. She had evidently been reared in a most peculiar fashion, by that bluestocking of a governess whose protection she so relied upon. But her beauty banished all thought of straight-lacedness from his mind.
But, he warned himself, any attempt at physical closeness or gallantry on his part seemed to put her off, and caused her to withdraw. Ah well, he sighed, surely that was a barrier he could overcome. In those first moments, in his study, he had thought wildly of his options. Nothing could have been more fortuitous than her arriving on his doorstep. It presented a perfect opportunity of settling the score with Torquay. What better revenge than to steal her right out from under his nose?
But, he had cursed under his breath, there was Maria Dunstable, newly ensconced in Annabelle’s old quarters. And there was not sufficient time to give her her congé and vacate the premises. Neither was there time to secure new apartments for his latest find. No, not safely, not with Torquay sniffing about. Then the thought had come to him that Fairleigh would do well for all his purposes. All the fashionable of his acquaintance would be in town for the height of the season. The countryside would be deserted. The old mansion would be empty save for a skeleton staff of servants. There he could board Miss Berryman. There he could woo her. There he could win her away from the mad idea of incarcerating herself amid a pack of brats in the countryside. There he could win her heart. There, eventually, he knew, he could bed her. And then, he could return with her, in triumph, to town, to flaunt his prize beneath Torquay’s envious and defeated eyes. And she would, he thought, watching the quiet rise and fall of her breast, probably last longer with him than any of the other mistresses he had supported. He actually liked her. She was innocent, as well, that he would swear to. It added an extra fillip to the game. Yes, he smiled, Torquay, it is an excellent game.
It was only when the carriage drew up to the front entrance of the imposing brick manor that he gently touched her hand, to rouse her. She woke instantly and stared about her, as if she did not recall her surroundings. But once her eyes alit upon his face, she smiled. “Are we arrived?” she asked, in a voice thick with sleep. He restrained himself from bestowing the kiss upon her flushed face that he felt himself yearning toward.
“Yes,” he smiled
. “We are here, you are safe.”
But a moment later his eyes widened in shock as he saw the door swing open, and recognized Amelia Burden’s tall form in the doorway, a pleased and quizzical expression upon her face. “Damn,” he groaned to himself, for he had forgotten her plans to rusticate here at Fairleigh with his breeding sister. Forgotten, that is, that they would actually carry out the unusual plan at the very height of the social season. He hesitated; it was too late to whip up the horses and make for another destination. Too late to turn away without an explanation. He turned to Regina.
“My dear,” he said, forcing his voice to remain calm, “leave everything to me. If I say a few things that…stray a bit from the truth, remember that I wish to keep your presence here a secret from Torquay. Servants do gossip. So bear with me, and only concur with me, and all will be well.”
She nodded fearfully, and springing down lightly from the carriage, he offered her his hand. “I shall carry it off,” he vowed. “And it might even add to the piquance of the situation to carry it off this way.”
“Ah, Amelia.” He bowed as he came abreast of her. “Allow me to present the daughter of a dear friend, who must, for the moment, remain a trifle ‘incognito,’ so I must call her ‘Lady Berry.’ All will be made clear to you in time, I promise. Unfortunately, her abigail took ill upon the road, so I must prevail upon you to procure her another. Lady Berry, may I present an old and dear friend, Lady Burden? I am sure you two will find much in common.”
“Lady Berry,” acknowledged Amelia, giving St. John a curious look. “Pray come in, it is freezing outside. You have arrived at a fortunate hour, we were just about to sit down to luncheon.”
