A Shocking Delight

by Beverley, Jo

  He stripped off the black overclothes and stashed them beneath a scrubby bush, weighed down by a stone. He took an oilcloth bag out of his pocket and used the wet cloth it contained to clean his face. He took off his gloves, which were stained with Saul’s blood, and put them with the clothes. His knuckles were sore and bruised, but they’d show no damage to a casual eye. Gloves kept his hands and nails in a suitable state for an earl.

  A reluctant earl, and a reluctant Captain Drake.

  Once, he’d been a free and happy man.

  Not much more than a year ago.

  He set off to walk back to the Crag. No real danger in that. An earl could go for a walk on a misty night if he wanted to. If he needed an explanation for eccentric behavior, the blood of the mad earls of Wyvern ran in his veins.

  In theory at least.

  He returned to the Crag undetected, and found Nicholas waiting in the lair.

  “All safe?”

  “No thanks to those idiots. As Aaron said, though, some were driven by need. Smuggling’s gone on here for generations, but the decades of war saw it flourish, so other work’s been neglected. The Mad Earl did nothing to build up agriculture, fishing, and trades, and in my time as estate manager I could achieve little when he was draining every penny possible for his mad schemes. I’m working on improving things now, but I need money in the meantime. Let’s hope Papa Potter approves my businesslike approach.”

  “What of Miss Potter? Doesn’t she get her say?”

  “Favoring the rights of women again? Judging by my experiences, she’ll trip over her feet in the rush to agree. My necessary visits to London have been hair-raising. I appreciate how a fox must feel during a hunt.”

  “She’s a City woman, however, not a tonnish one.”

  “According to Polyphant, they’re even worse, all dreaming of becoming my lady. He found ways to observe the most promising highly dowered candidates and Miss Potter showed no interest in worthy occupations. She was seen shopping, and strolling about with friends, doubtless flirting with men. She was seen in a bookshop with said friends, but they only perused the shelves of gothic novels.”

  “Perhaps she’ll find Crag Wyvern romantic.”

  “Then I hope it distracts her so she won’t wonder why her husband is often absent on moonless nights.”

  “You hope to marry a fool?”

  “With all my heart.”

  Chapter 3

  Lucy allowed herself only a week to prepare for her adventure, and a week seemed too long. Mrs. Johnson was already invading daily and even asking Lucy’s opinion on the changes to be made. Perhaps she thought that a kindness, but it was torture.

  The wedding was set for one month hence and Mrs. Johnson also tried to involve Lucy in those plans. All Lucy could do was be busy elsewhere as much as possible, and preparing for her fashionable adventure provided an excuse.

  The day after her father’s devastating news she traveled to the west end of London to talk to her aunt about the plan. On the journey she studied the women strolling down fashionable streets and saw that the styles of their dresses were different, even from the newest ones in the City.

  She owned plenty of fine gowns, but all dated from before her mother’s death and some were older than that. She wasn’t so foolish as to discard favorites before their time, but she realized they would make her dowdy here. That would never do.

  Hems were heavily ornamented, often with feet of flounces, lace, or fringing. She thought it inelegant, but it was clearly the fashion. Bonnets were tall, but often the extra height was achieved with flowers or feathers, so some of hers would need only retrimming. She had the money for new bonnets, but not the time. For that reason she hoped some of her gowns could also be made to suit the style.

  When she arrived at her aunt’s residence, she was relieved to find that Aunt Mary seemed pleased at the prospect of her visit, even though she expressed it with an endless stream of advice. Cousin Clara was fervently delighted and chattered in counterpoint. Lucy remembered the old saying “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.” Not true in so many ways, but she assured herself that she could tolerate chatter when she had to.

  Aunt Mary was taller and thinner than Lucy’s mother had been. Her hair was concealed by a stiff cap with lappets, but in some gesture to fashion she had corkscrew curls around her face that had to be the work of a curling iron. Clara had her father’s sturdy build and thick brown hair, so her corkscrew curls were a thicket.

  No curling irons for herself, Lucy resolved. Fashion be damned.

  “You must be here by the twenty-third, dear,” Aunt Mary said, consulting some sort of record book. “That is the night of the Countess of Charrington’s ball. Her first, for they haven’t been much in Town since marrying, which was nearly two years ago now, so an excellent debut for you. She is the Angel Bride, you know.”

  Lucy didn’t and looked for clarification.

  “You must know My Angel Bride!” Clara exclaimed. “Sebastian Rossiter!”

  “No, I’m sorry. He’s the earl?”

  Both the others laughed. “The earl is a Knollis,” Aunt Mary said, as if everyone should know that. She wandered off into the Knollis genealogy, but Clara dragged her back.

  “Mama, Lucinda wants to know about Sebastian Rossiter.”

  Her aunt and cousin were using her full name and Lucy decided to let them. Lucy Potter had no place in this world. Perhaps Lucinda Potter would fit better.

  “He was Lady Charrington’s first husband,” Clara explained. “A poet—you truly haven’t heard of him? How odd!—and much of his poetry was written about her and their children. Such beautiful sentiments! My Angel Bride was his most famous work. Everyone knows of it.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t read it.”

  “You must,” Aunt Mary stated. “We will read some of the poems together when you’re here.”

  “We have all his work,” Clara added, “and in the finest, leather-bound editions. It will be so exciting to meet her! The Angel Bride, I mean.”

  “I tell Clara she might be disappointed,” Aunt Mary said. “I hear she is quite an ordinary woman. But then, that is the poetic genius, to see wonders where we mere mortals see only clay.”

  Lucy felt sorry for the poor widow, destined to disappoint everywhere she went.

  “You mustn’t come on the twenty-third,” her aunt said, frowning at her book. “You will need time to settle, and must attend some smaller events first. Perhaps Tuesday or Wednesday? Of course Wednesday is Almack’s. . . .”

  Lucy understood that hesitation. “I don’t expect to gain admittance there, Aunt.”

  Her aunt bridled. “You are my sister’s daughter. I’m sure I can achieve it once you are seen to be a perfect lady.”

  Was that a statement or a pious hope?

  “I intend to be a perfect lady, Aunt.”

  “Of course you do, dear. But you are perhaps a little direct in your manner.”

  “Direct?” Lucy was genuinely confused. Clara was hardly a shrinking violet.

  “A suggestion of cleverness, dear, and perhaps even decisiveness. All perfectly natural, I’m sure, given your upbringing, and not completely out of place in a wife. In some circumstances. But in a young lady, one not already known . . .”

  One being scrutinized and judged, in other words.

  “I understand, Aunt. I’ll attempt to be as brainless as a bird and as decisive as a pudding.”

  Clara giggled, but Aunt Mary didn’t seem to see the joke. “Do your best, dear. Do your best. You could come sooner than Tuesday, but you will have preparations to make.”

  Was that a hint about her outfit? She was wearing a sea green gown and matching spencer trimmed with braid, all new not long before her mother’s death. It had two frills around the hem, but clearly that was not nearly enough, and it completely lacked pointed Vandyke lace. That seemed to be the very latest thing. Clara had some around her neckline and Aunt Mary dripped with it.
r />   “Tuesday, then,” Lucy said, rising. “You’re most kind, Aunt, and I very much look forward to my visit here.”

  On the way back, traveling down busy Piccadilly, she saw a bookshop and halted the carriage. She went into Hatchard’s and asked for ladies’ periodicals. An eager minion took her to a selection.

  She flipped through The Ladies’ Repository, La Belle Assemblée, and The Lady’s Magazine. The Lady’s Magazine made her think wryly of The Gentlemen’s Magazine, especially when she read the full title. A Companion for the Fair Sex, Appropriated Solely to Their Use and Amusement. She doubted that included anything about politics, international affairs, or business.

  She purchased it, however, and all the ones with illustrations and descriptions of the latest modes. Thus armed, she returned home and summoned Betty. Together they went over the fashions.

  “So much trimming,” Betty said. “I wonder if fine ladies actually wear such styles.”

  “They do. I’ve seen it. The fringing on Clara’s hem must have been a foot, and that was for a day gown. I confess, I did like the way the fringe moved. It must be particularly pretty in a dance. Plenty of tonnish ladies are in more moderate dress, of course, but I intend to be the epitome of style.”

  “Of course you do,” Betty said with a grin, “and you’ll certainly have the finest materials.”

  “Having access to the best warehouses, and discounts to boot.”

  “Which you share with me. For which I am extremely grateful.”

  “What else are friendships for?” Lucy said. “Sharing, and advice. Do you see how wide the shoulders are for evening? That gown looks likely to slide right off at any moment.”

  “Which doubtless attracts all the men’s attention.”

  Lucy wondered if she wanted that, but she had no intention of being dowdy.

  “Then I must have the style.”

  “Altering shoulders will be difficult,” Betty said.

  “I’m sure it can be done.”

  “What about the corset straps?”

  “They must be making them without.”

  “Which has to mean stiffer boning, but perhaps you’ll have to suffer to be à la mode.”

  “So it would seem, but there are aspects to the mode that I like. Look at those bright green half boots, and here’s a pair in red and white.”

  “Perhaps a little much?”

  “But fun, and I can have shoes and boots made to fit, so no torture.” Lucy picked up the magazines. “To market, to market, to buy a fine ensemble.”

  Betty chuckled. “You’re no poet.”

  “Thank heavens. Have you heard of one called Rossiter?”

  Betty wrinkled her brow. “Perhaps. Yes. A few years ago everyone was talking about him. I remember his verses as rather syrupy. Not a patch on Byron. Why?”

  “My aunt mentioned him. Apparently his widow is now the Countess of Charrington and I’m to make my grand debut at her ball.”

  “My, my! And only think—she can’t have been very grand. I never had the impression Rossiter was rich or titled.”

  “I’ll look that up. Come on, we have work to do.”

  Betty followed, but saying, “How are you going to get so much alteration done in a week?”

  “Money,” Lucy said, and so it was.

  Money secured the complete attention of three local seamstresses, her corset maker, bonnet maker, and shoemaker. A few items would have to follow, but she would be ready to face the ton in record time.

  Chapter 4

  The George and Dragon tavern hunched beneath the Crag Wyvern headland, in the fishing village of Dragon’s Cove. A hanging sign would fare ill in a storm, so the name was painted on a board nailed to the stone wall with a crude painting of a fire-breathing dragon alongside.

  Travelers who ventured that far liked the primitive look of the place and the simple taproom furnished with wooden tables and benches and a few casks of ale and cider. A true smugglers’ haunt, they’d think to themselves and buy rounds of drink in order to listen to local tales.

  They would have been astonished if they’d been allowed to venture into the back regions where the innkeeper lived, for Mel Clyst had fitted it up for his Lady Belle with carpets, paintings, and gentry furniture.

  The new tavern keeper, Rachel Clyst, lived there now, using all the rooms except for the Captain’s Parlor. Though small, this paneled room could almost be a gentleman’s study. It contained a sofa and two upholstered chairs near the fireplace, but a gleaming table took up half the room. It was occasionally used for dining, but mostly for gatherings of the Dragon’s Horde council. Captain Drake would sit in the large chair at the head, his six lieutenants in the chairs on either side.

  The most recent meeting was over. David remained seated as the men filed out, each bearing a share of the proceeds from the Bradhole Cave contraband to distribute to those under their command. Because the sea was watched so closely, they’d hauled the goods up the cliff and carried them away westward when Lloyd had been patrolling to the east. It had still been risky, but the Horde had been restless and some of the local people were truly feeling the lack of income.

  Even with money to share out, it hadn’t been an easy meeting. Some were in sympathy with Saul Applin and resented the cautious way David was running affairs. But Saul had served as a lesson. David had physically defeated him and also thrown him off the council. That would keep them in line for a while.

  Rachel Clyst, round as a ball but brisk with it, came in to clear away the tankards. “All right, love?”

  She was another Clyst cousin. David could have been a Clyst himself if his mother and Mel had married. Everyone had always wondered why they hadn’t. Of course it had been because of that secret marriage to the Mad Earl. Even Mel and Lady Belle had balked at bigamy.

  “They don’t like change,” he said.

  “Few do.”

  “Fair enough. I wish I were still the earl’s estate steward.”

  “You were always up to more than that, Davy. You and your sister, both.”

  “Susan’s happy to be Viscountess Amleigh, but I’d rather not be Earl of Wyvern, and that’s the flat truth. I’d rather not be Captain Drake, either.”

  David heard his own tone and despised it. He’d accepted both roles of his own free will. He’d been compelled by necessity and the needs of others, but he’d accepted them. No whining allowed.

  “Let me know if there’s trouble brewing.”

  “Play spy for the earl?” she asked. It was a tease, but she added, “They’re right to worry, lad. It’s a tangle for the mind the way things are. The earl’s supposed to be on the side of the law, and the captain’s supposed to run rings around it.”

  “I’ll find a way to untangle it, but for now they can’t be let off the leash.” He gathered up papers. “Mel wrote to me.” He’d never told anyone but his sister, but he’d be interested in Rachel’s reaction. “Before going aboard for Australia. He told me to look after the Horde.”

  “There was no one else who could, lad, and he’d no notion then of you becoming the earl.”

  “He knows by now and he’s sent no other orders.”

  “Likely he can’t think what to do, either. You’ll do what’s right, lad, as you always have. And we pray for you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Course we do. You hold us all in the palm of your hand.”

  She bustled away, leaving David staring. Her words echoed in his mind, all too like a description of God.

  “Hell and damnation,” he muttered and left by the back door that opened into a lane, turning left toward the path up to Crag Wyvern. It was steep enough to deter invaders, but he made easy work of it. At the top, where sheep cropped the grass that surrounded the stark stone walls of the keep, he paused to savor the crisp sea air and the view he loved.

  Chalk cliffs ran eastward to his left and south for a while on his right, down to a headland that curved around into Irish Cove, Bradhole Cove, and on toward Sidmouth
, Exmouth, and finally toward Cornwall.

  This was the smuggling coast, slowly being closed down by the army on land and navy by sea. He saw no navy ship today, but they cruised by frequently, gun ports open, cannons poking out, threatening British people. . . .

  “Consider me the mountain, coming to Mahomet. Or hill, perhaps.”

  David turned to his secretary, Fred Chumley, who was a head shorter than he. “Something urgent?”

  Fred had letters in his hand.

  “Probably not, but I appreciate a bit of fresh air as much as you.”

  Fred was a stocky young man with strong features and dark hair that was already thinning at twenty-four. David was grateful that his own was still thick at the same age. Fred sighed for the days of wigs. David was deeply grateful those days had passed.

  Fred was the son of a local farm laborer, but he’d shown early promise and been sent to school by David’s uncle, Sir Nathaniel Kerslake. He’d done so well there, he’d been sent to Oxford. He’d finished his studies just as David had taken on the earldom.

  He’d been the answer to a prayer. As earl David needed a secretary, but he hadn’t wanted to bring a stranger into this mess. Fred understood perfectly why the Earl of Wyvern was never around when a smuggling run was taking place, and also why the earldom’s horses were tired the day after. He didn’t question activity in the Crag’s cavernous under chambers and had occasionally lent a hand at tricky moments. He acted as accountant as well, neatly blending illegal income with legal so that it would take a detailed investigation to sort them out.

  Fred was also content with doing things the way David wanted. A nobleman’s secretary should open all correspondence and take to his employer only the papers needing his particular attention. David preferred to open letters himself, just as he preferred dressing himself—simply. The valet he’d hired on becoming earl had left in disgust, so now he was happily making do with William, his only footman, who wasn’t a particularly good footman or valet, but was good enough.

  David took the pile of sealed letters and flipped through them. “Ah,” he said, passing the rest back and breaking a seal. “At last. Polyphant. Wish me well.” He scanned the neat script. “Damnation.”