A Shocking Delight

by Beverley, Jo

  “It does seem a shame,” Susan said. “She could dupe a Preventive officer with ease. I think you should learn more about her before giving up hope.”

  David didn’t attempt to express his deep sense of vulnerability where Lucinda Potter was concerned. “I can’t afford to waste time on her. I need to settle this quickly, so I’ll look more closely at Miss Tapler and Miss Rackman.”

  “There have to be any number of well-dowered ladies whirling around the ton. Not thirty thousand or even twenty, but well enough. Cast your net wider.”

  “Turning your nose up at merchants’ daughters? What then of Miss Potter?”

  “Don’t be irritating. In her case I want you to take more time. Thirty thousand, David. I know you could use every penny.”

  “I don’t know why Con hasn’t strangled you by now.”

  She chuckled. “Because I’m always right!”

  David looked at Con, but the besotted man showed no offense.

  That should turn him scathing about the follies of love, but he knew it for the gift it was and envied those allowed it.

  “Please, David,” Susan said, manipulating now. “Give it a week at least. A week in which you pay serious court to Miss Potter. You might find that all will be well.”

  He knew her insistence came from caring, but also from guilt. If he led an unhappy life because he’d accepted the earldom, she’d feel the burden of it. When he agreed, it was because he wanted to try to make Susan happy.

  But also from a weak hope that Miss Potter would prove honest and true, and safe for him to wed.

  Chapter 11

  Everyone retired early on Sunday night, but that meant that on Monday Lucy was awake early. She normally woke feeling freshly ready for the day, but today she felt sluggish. The tedious Sunday spent mostly sitting meant she hadn’t fallen asleep easily, and she’d woken in the dead hours of the night remembering a dream of a church abuzz as a hive with scandal. Scandal about her mother and herself.

  Buzz, buzz. Wicked folly.

  Sting! She’ll be like her mother.

  Sting! She’d run off with a rascal. . . .

  She’d lain awake in the dark fighting to dispel the nonsense, knowing it grew in some way from the wretched earl. She’d met Lord Wyvern twice. Three times if the two occasions at Lady Charrington’s ball were counted separately. No one could tumble into perilous insanity in such a brief time.

  That’s what her mother had done, though. Sting!

  Marriage, any marriage, would shatter her hopes. But it was what her father wanted for her. Marry her off. Get her out of his new home. His and Charlotte’s home.

  Buzz, buzz. Sting! Sting!

  The house on Nailer Street would be more of a home to Charlotte’s two daughters than to her. It would be entirely the home of Charlotte’s future children, especially the eldest boy.

  Who would in time inherit it.

  And there was nothing she could do to stop that.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Now, in the morning light, the tormenting thoughts were only memories. That didn’t mean they weren’t true, however.

  Monday. It had to be better than Sunday.

  Surely they would flit about Town all day and dance until dawn and she wouldn’t have to think about anything. Especially if she had the good fortune not to meet Wyvern.

  Exasperated, she climbed out of bed and went to look out through a gap in the curtains. The window gave only a view of other houses, but the sky said it was a beautiful morning. That was what she needed. Fresh air and sunshine to drive away the dismals.

  A glance at the clock told her it was only just ten. That would have been late at home, but here Clara could sleep on for hours. At home, she would go out into the garden to enjoy such a morning, but this house had only a yard at the back that ended with a high wall that separated it from a lane, then the backyards of a similar row of houses on the next street. The people who lived in these fashionable terraces seemed to feel no need for a garden. She supposed they had ample greenery on their country estates, and if they pined here, they visited one of the nearby parks.

  The parks.

  Lucy rang the bell, but she waited at the door to tell Hannah to be quiet about bringing the washing water so as not to wake Clara.

  “I’ll wear the mouse-brown traveling dress,” she whispered as she washed as quietly as she could. “It’s easy to get into. And the small bonnet.”

  “A bonnet, Miss Lucy?”

  “We’re going for a walk.”

  Once the corset was laced, she said, “I’ll finish dressing. You get your things and meet me in the hall.”

  The maid went and Lucinda put on the gown, which fastened at the front. She added a short spencer and the simple bonnet that went with it. She’d brought the traveling outfit because she’d brought nearly everything, but she’d not expected to wear it.

  She left the room and went downstairs, enjoying the quiet of the house.

  In the hall she eyed the door to the library. She opened it and looked in. Deserted. And as she’d hoped, three newspapers were spread on the table. Aunt Mary certainly Would Not Approve, but she went over to read the Times, turning past the advertisements on the front page, hungry for news.

  She scanned a summary of last week’s parliamentary business. The first part was on international affairs. She normally tried to keep abreast of that, but she sped on to national matters. An item on climbing boys was interesting. The practice of using young boys to clean chimneys certainly should be banned. There were other ways.

  She saw a small article about an exhibition of new inventions for the home. It didn’t seem likely to appeal to her aunt and cousin, but she’d like to go. Inventions were always intriguing, often useful, and sometimes excellent investments.

  Then came a slightly longer account of a parliamentary debate on the detrimental effects of smuggling on industry. One speaker from Sussex complained that the Freetrade in his area meant there was none of the trading enterprise that was making the midlands and north so prosperous. It was Parliament’s duty, he said, to crush the iniquitous trade lest Britain’s ancient parts crumble whilst northern upstarts rise in glory.

  “Miss Lucy?”

  Lucy started, but it was only Hannah. She reluctantly closed and smoothed the newspaper, then pulled on her gloves and left the house, wondering which side Wyvern would be on. Was his land in the north, midlands, or south? His mother’s lover had been a smuggler, so surely on the south coast somewhere. He was interested in agriculture, however, for he’d purchased that book. As smuggling damaged agriculture, he must be opposed to the vile trade.

  His views would be interesting. But she had no desire to discuss the matter with him. Really, she didn’t.

  The street was abustle with servants on errands, street vendors pushing carts and calling their wares, and cows and goats being led along to dispense milk on demand. There were no fine carriages and no sauntering dandies to trouble her, for the ton slept.

  The air felt fresher, however, and Lucy resolved to come out in the morning more often.

  She was soon in Hyde Park, and found the nearer part the domain of children and nursemaids. She watched a young girl running along, trying to get a kite to fly. It reminded Lucy of the times her father would help her to fly a kite or sail a boat on a pond. He’d always been busy, but he’d found time to spend with her, even when she was too young for business matters. Her mother had sometimes complained that he encouraged her in boyish games, but he’d always laughed and said it would do no harm.

  She recognized that he’d longed for a son. If Charlotte Johnson gave him a son, he would find even more time to play boyish games with him. Then later, he’d introduce him fully into the manly world, and the manly world would accept him warmly.

  She sniffed back tears as she turned away from the kite.

  There, only yards away, stood the Earl of Wyvern, watching her.

  He walked forward.
“Tears, Miss Potter?”

  Hannah stepped forward as if to protect her, but Lucy waved her back. “Hay fever,” she said.

  “I see no hay.”

  Lucy pulled her handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her eyes and blow her nose, making good work of it to support her excuse. “As I’m sure you know, my lord, it can be caused by new-mown grass. You will allow there to be plenty of grass?”

  He smiled. “And newly mown.”

  That smile shouldn’t be allowed, nor should he be allowed to wear the country clothes in which she’d first seen him.

  “Pretending to be a simple country gentleman again, my lord?”

  “There’s no pretense.”

  “The Peasant Earl in truth?”

  She walked on, but he kept pace with her. “What does that mean?”

  Hannah had dropped back discreetly. Lucy knew she should avoid a private discussion with Lord Wyvern, but what could be the harm here in a park?

  “Your latest designation from the gossips. From a novel about a hidden heir raised in a hovel. In the end, you marry a shepherdess called Iphigenia.”

  “A most unlikely shepherdess.”

  “She’s revealed to be the daughter of the king.”

  He laughed. Such a laugh shouldn’t be allowed, but Lucy couldn’t help but smile.

  “So you truly are addicted to novels,” he said. “How goes Love and Horror?”

  “Flourishingly, all around Town. And more horror than love.”

  “As bad as that?”

  “If that duel had actually happened, yes.”

  “Miss Potter, on that occasion, I fear I spoke to you discourteously. I apologize.”

  Lucy glanced at him and saw sincerity. That must mean he was after her fortune after all, but she couldn’t be cold in return. Not here, and not with him being the Winsom’s man.

  “I was a little intemperate myself, my lord. Do you come often to the park?”

  “Especially in the morning, though it can’t compare to the Devon coast.”

  As she’d thought.

  “So far away,” she said, reminding herself that distance was another bulwark against insanity. Devon wasn’t as far from London as Scotland, but it was too many miles for her. “You must be interested in the parliamentary debate on the Freetrade, my lord.”

  “Not at all.”

  She stared at him. “How can that be?”

  “Nothing will stop smuggling except lowering excise. The government won’t do that because it needs every penny of tax to pay the debts from the long wars.”

  “You can’t condone illegality.”

  “I can’t stop it, either.”

  “You’re an earl!”

  “Earls don’t have armies anymore, Miss Potter. Even an army would be hard-pressed to guard the whole coastline of Britain on a moonless night.”

  “You could forbid your tenants to take part.”

  “As Canute forbade the sea to roll in? There’s a law that says that anyone loitering within five miles of the coast is liable to arrest. Like too many laws, it’s nonsense. Much of my land lies within five miles of the coast, including farms, villages, and a fishing fleet. Some of the men and women are fond of idleness, but are they loitering if the area is their home? Are their friends and family, when visiting?”

  “It can’t be hopeless. Smugglers are breaking the law.”

  “Did you check where your tea comes from?”

  Lucy marched on, irritated by his question but warm with the enjoyment of rational conversation.

  He continued to walk with her. “That means you didn’t because you know.”

  “That means I didn’t because I didn’t have time. Will you speak in Parliament on the issue?”

  “Are you going to berate me for that, too?”

  His question made her realize she was being alarmingly impertinent. She looked at him to apologize, but saw that twinkle in his eye. “I would.”

  “Speak in Parliament? About what?”

  “About legitimate trade. I agree with you on tax reform. We’re overburdened with taxes that are strangling enterprise.”

  “You truly are a City woman, aren’t you?”

  “Born and bred.”

  “And I’m a country gentleman. You see everything in terms of trade. I see things in terms of land and sea. You long for grass-free streets, and I for the wild openness of the grassy coast. But we’re kindred spirits all the same.”

  She felt that, but also all the impossibilities he’d expressed, and he didn’t know the whole of it. “Hardly,” she said, as coolly as she could.

  “Everyone outside a fairy circle has more in common than they have in difference.”

  “You have an odd way of putting things, my lord. Fairy circle?”

  “Didn’t Lady Charrington’s ball feel that way to you? Magical but unreal?”

  “It seemed all too real.”

  “You mean those fools? They won’t repeat that.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It was only that I wanted to enjoy the ball and they spoiled it.”

  Especially by causing you to be so harsh to me.

  His expression became unreadable, perhaps even frozen. He bowed. “I wish you happier events in future, Miss Potter. Fare thee well.”

  Lucy watched him go, feeling as if something had been snatched away.

  Fare thee well? An odd, archaic phrase, but one that translated to farewell, which was a rather absolute goodbye. True, they had established how different their lives were, but discussing that had created something. At least for her.

  He mustn’t have been paying full attention to his surroundings, for the girl with the kite careened backward into him. He steadied her and grabbed her string spool before the kite carried it away. But the kite was failing, fluttering down, until he ran backward with it, his hat tumbling off disregarded, until it soared. Once it was high and flying well, he gave the spool back to the child, who beamed up at him before looking up in wonder at her high-flying kite.

  He smiled at the girl for a moment, a surprisingly tender smile, then picked up his hat and hurried on his way.

  Lucy avoided Hannah’s speculative eyes and returned to Lanchester Street in a daze of disturbing thoughts. She found Clara up and breakfasting in Aunt Mary’s bedroom, so she could take out her journal and try to record the morning. All that came out was disjointed phrases.

  The Peasant Earl.

  I know the darkly masterful man is real.

  And dangerous.

  Especially if he’s skillfully after my fortune.

  Yet the country gentleman seemed real, too.

  Like a lad with a kite,

  Hat flying as he made it soar.

  Tender smile to make my heart soar

  If I were so foolish

  As to loose its string.

  She stared at the last lines, wishing she could obliterate them, but it wouldn’t obliterate the truth.

  With a sigh she added,

  Happy Iphigenia.

  Chapter 12

  That night David attended the Duchess of St. Raven’s ball, aware that Susan expected him to court Miss Potter. Susan didn’t know about the park. That interlude had been disastrous. They’d fallen into such easy conversation. Too easy by far for virtual strangers. They’d also touched on their differences.

  It wasn’t only a matter of trust anymore. Miss Potter loved London and he disliked it. He loved the countryside, and especially the Devon coast, and she wept at new-mown grass! The daughters of the aristocracy were at ease in the countryside, but she’d been born and raised in the City. How could he transplant her to the Devon countryside and hope that she could thrive?

  He couldn’t do that. Perhaps he’d take Susan’s other suggestion and look around for a country-bred heiress who was either stupid or trustworthy.

  “Miss Potter looks particularly charming,” Nicholas said, coming to his side, his wife on his arm.

  “She does,” David agreed. Stupid to say anything else. />
  She’d just arrived, and was wearing white tonight—some filmy, floaty material embroidered with sprigs of flowers. There were more flowers in her golden hair. What goddess was that? He should know, but gazing upon her, he found his mind was empty of anything but her.

  “Those pearls don’t tempt you? She’s wearing a small fortune around her neck.” When David didn’t respond, Nicholas said, “I never suspected this martyrish tendency,” and strolled off.

  “You mustn’t glare at him.”

  David turned to Nicholas’s wife. “You seem far too rational to be linked to him.”

  “Oh, it was force majeure,” Eleanor said, “but we rub along.”

  As they were clearly devoted he sensed a hidden joke, which annoyed him even more.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We are irritating to those unaccustomed to us. But Nicholas believes, and I agree, that love truly does conquer all, as long as it’s true love. Not lust, nor the desire to possess, but love that respects, cherishes, nurtures, and above all compromises.”

  “A remarkable testament, but can there be compromise when it comes to matters of law?”

  To his surprise she chuckled. “We’d be beyond hope if not! At another time, remind me to tell you about housebreaking, and perhaps, if I think you can stand it, more serious matters. Will you dance the first set with me?”

  “You’re an unconventional woman.”

  “A prerequisite for a Rogue. I am, you know. Not just a Rogue’s wife. I might explain that to you one day as well, if it suits me.”

  Bemused, he led her onto the dance floor, but caught sight of Nicholas walking toward Miss Potter and her coterie.

  “What the devil is he doing?”

  Eleanor glanced over. “Inviting her to dance, I suspect.”

  “He’ll never get through.”

  She just smiled.

  * * *

  Lucy was already weary of her suitors and she’d been in the house for only a quarter of an hour. She was very tempted to state that she wasn’t dancing, but if she did that, she’d have to hold to it all night, and she enjoyed dancing.

  She’d glimpsed Wyvern at the far side of the room and thought that perhaps, after their time in the park, he might ask her to dance. But he’d made no move to approach, which made her want to growl. Clearly he was a gentleman who felt a lady of firm opinions was to be avoided. She was going to have to choose a partner for the first set, so she sought one least likely to become a pest.