by M C Beaton
“I don’t know how you can be so cruel,” said Fiona, feeling too tired and debilitated to cope with anything.
But the ladies were quickly cheered by her news; Letitia was delighted at the prospect of a ball, and said she was sure her parents would forget their prejudices against Fiona if the marquess called on them. Euphemia was relieved that Fiona was still set to go ahead with the arrangement for her elopement. Fiona only hoped she could get Euphemia safely away on her road north without her husband finding out about it. But Euphemia assured her that no one knew of her love for Captain Gaunt.
While Fiona entertained her friends, her husband was talking to Mr. Harry Gore in Parliament Square. Mr. Gore had waylaid his friend outside the House of Lords to see if the marquess would care to step along to White’s for a game of hazard.
“No,” said the marquess. “Having Sir Edward Grant as a father-in-law is enough to frighten one off gambling forever. But I shall walk along with you and we shall broach a bottle of port. Must you play?”
“I am low in funds and hope to repair my losses.”
“My very dear Harry. There are other solutions—like sending me your bills.”
“Never!”
“I am a safer bet than gambling or moneylenders. Still, there is perhaps another solution. Would you like to be married?”
“I suppose I shall marry eventually. There is no rush. I am not so long in the tooth as you.”
“You are nearly thirty, my friend. Have you never seen a lady who would suit?”
Mr. Gore heaved a sigh. “They are all too knowing for me. Even a chit out of the schoolroom makes me feel like a callow youth. I shall never marry for money. If I can’t afford to get married, then I won’t.”
“You want to look out for an heiress,” said the marquess. “Someone very young and rather plain and a bit shy.”
“If I find such a paragon, I shall let you know,” said Mr. Gore. “But do not prose on about marriage. It makes my head ache.”
As the time for Euphemia’s elopement rushed upon her Fiona found she would have to ask her husband for money so that she might rent a traveling carriage from a livery stable. Then she would need to find a way to make sure he was out of the house on that all-important afternoon.
She asked the marquess if she could have some pin money. The marquess took her down to his bank and made arrangements for her to draw as much money as she wanted whenever she wished.
It was then that Fiona decided she must tell him about the wager—as soon as ever she became shot of Euphemia. He trusted her with money; he trusted her not to gamble it away. Such trust must be returned and she must be prepared to take the consequences.
The question of money having been taken care of, Fiona then turned her mind to the problem of getting him away on the all-important afternoon. It would be something that would have to take him away for several hours so that by the time Osborne reported she had driven off with an army captain, she would have fulfilled her obligations to Euphemia and would be returned home. “Tell him about the wager now,” screamed a voice in her head, “and then you will not have to aid Euphemia in this silly elopement.”
But in her heart of hearts she was deeply sorry for Euphemia. To be forced into marriage with an old man was a dreadful fate.
At last Fiona realized she would have to lie and she would have to involve Mr. Harry Gore in that lie.
The day before the elopement, Mr. Gore came to call. The marquess was not at home but expected back very soon, Fiona told him, and then pressed him to wait.
Steeling herself, she said, “Mr. Gore, I would like to buy my husband a present as a surprise. It is a very special present and it involves me going out of Town a little way tomorrow afternoon. Could you please try to get my husband to go away somewhere with you for several hours? If he finds me gone from home, he will worry. Do please say yes.”
“It is very hard to make Cleveden go anywhere if he does not want to leave home—and he certainly does not want to stay away from home for very long since your return from the north.”
“Oh, please,” begged Fiona.
Mr. Gore thought it was all very romantic.
“I shall do my best, Lady Cleveden,” he promised.
THIRTEEN
The plan seemed to be working well. Next day, the marquess said to Fiona, “I must leave you this afternoon. Harry Gore is in a state about some lady and is anxious I should meet her. She lives in Richmond. I cannot understand why we cannot all go, but I do not wish to press too hard for I have never known Harry show an interest in any female before.”
“Oh, really.” Fiona stretched and yawned and failed to see the sharp look of suspicion her husband cast on her.
“Harry spent some time alone with you yesterday,” said the marquess. “Did he say nothing to you?”
“No,” said Fiona. “But then he has not known me very long.”
He swung his long legs out of bed. “Go along to your room, my love,” he said, “so that Gustave may shave me.”
Her senses dulled by another long night of lovemaking, Fiona did as she was bid and did not realize her husband was becoming more suspicious about the reason for the journey to Richmond by the minute. Her reaction to his news about Harry had been just too casual.
But once she was fully awake and dressed, all Fiona’s anxieties and worries returned.
At half past two when Mr. Gore arrived and the marquess left with him a few moments afterward, Fiona could have wept with relief.
“What is the name of your fair lady?” asked the marquess, tooling his carriage through the traffic.
“Eh!” Mr. Gore started. “Helen! That’s it. Mrs. Helen Peters.”
“A widow?”
“Yes.”
“And who was her husband?”
“A squire. Look, I am so nervous, I do not wish to talk about it anymore until you have seen her.”
“My dear Harry, when we spoke of marriage only the other day, you gave me the impression that you had no one in mind.”
“I’ve been working up to it,” said Mr. Gore desperately. “Hit me all of a heap. Must get married. Why are you stopping?” For the marquess had reined in his team by the Bunch of Grapes in the Brampton Road.
“I think we should have a glass of wine to fortify ourselves for the coming visit.”
“No time,” said Mr. Gore. “Mrs. Baxter is expecting us.”
“I thought her name was Mrs. Peters.”
“Hyphenated. Baxter-Peters.”
“Step down, Harry,” said the marquess. “You have some explaining to do.”
At three o’clock, Lizzie Grant was walking along Curzon Street with her maid. She often walked down Curzon Street, drawn always to the house where Fiona lived.
Lizzie’s hatred of Fiona had started at an early age.
As a little girl, Fiona had been brought on a visit to Lord Charles Grant’s home. Lizzie, a little girl herself, was already expected to help about the house, not make a noise, and not do anything to bring herself to the attention of her betters.
Lizzie could not help contrasting her own state with that of this legitimate daughter of the Grant family. The first thing that burned most into Lizzie’s soul was that Fiona was wearing new shoes, shiny shoes with silver buckles, while she, Lizzie, went barefoot. So although there were other members of the Grant family she could have turned her hatred on—her father, for instance—all the loathing for her bastard state was turned on Fiona. Although she never saw her again until the day at the dressmaker’s, Lizzie’s hatred was as fresh as ever. She had found out, by picking the lock on her father’s desk and reading his correspondence, the identity of her mother. Had the duchess not called at South Molton Street and then arranged to take her under her wing, Lizzie would have called on her and threatened her with exposure if she had not accepted her. As it was, with the duchess fondly doing everything for her, Lizzie had her full trust and had been able to disassociate the duchess’s affections from her other two daughters
. The success of this manipulation had gone to her head. She was still sure there was something to do to harm Fiona. She even prayed nightly to be given such a chance, confident that her hatred was right and just.
And so the sight that met her eyes outside the marquess’s town house seemed like an answer to her prayers.
For there was Fiona, climbing into a rented traveling carriage with an army captain. They looked furtive and secretive. There were no grooms or outriders, no maid. None of the trappings of a marchioness setting out on a journey.
There was only a sour-looking coachman in shabby livery on the box.
As soon as the carriage had driven out of sight, Lizzie crossed the road and banged on the knocker.
When Osborne answered the door, she asked for the Marquess of Cleveden.
“His lordship is gone from home,” said Osborne stiffly.
“I shall await his return,” said Lizzie brightly. “That will not be necessary,” declared Osborne. “But the Duchess of Gordonstoun is anxious to see his lordship and will be joining me.”
Osborne hesitated. He had been told not to admit Lizzie unless she was accompanied by the duchess. But if the duchess was coming…
He stood aside to let Lizzie past. With quite the air of the lady of the house, Lizzie ordered tea. She could sense the restless air of the house and hear the servants gossiping feverishly to each other.
When a footman came in with the tea tray, Lizzie said, “How odd of dear Lady Cleveden to dash off in only a hired carriage.”
“Yes, miss,” said the footman stonily. “Will there be anything else?”
Lizzie took two guineas from her reticule and held them up so that they winked in the light. “I am deeply concerned for the welfare of Lady Cleveden and fear she has done something dangerous. Would you know where that carriage was bound?”
The footman was young and only the fourth footman. He thought what he could do with those two guineas.
He held out his hand. “Mr. Osborne felt it his duty to find out from the coachman where the carriage was bound,” he whispered.
Lizzie held the guineas out toward him. “And where was that?”
“Gretna.”
Lizzie sighed with pure pleasure and handed over the money.
The servants would undoubtedly tell their master where his wife had gone. But Lizzie wanted to be the first to tell him, to see the fury on his face, and then pray he caught up with Fiona on the road.
“Now, Harry,” said the marquess as his team trotted briskly homeward, “you should have told me the truth in the first place. My wife is up to something. She could easily have bought me a present when she was out shopping, and I do not believe this fairy story of her having to go out of Town to get it.”
“I never could keep a secret,” said Mr. Gore miserably.
“Well, you might have kept it if you had thought up a more intelligent excuse,” said the marquess heartlessly.
He shouted to his tiger to hold the horses and strode into his home, followed by Mr. Gore.
Lizzie Grant rushed into the hall to meet him.
“What are you doing here?” snapped the marquess.
“Miss Grant said she was waiting for the Duchess of Gordonstoun to join her,” said Osborne hurriedly.
“But listen!” cried Lizzie. “The most terrible news, my lord. Fiona has run off to Gretna with a captain.”
“Osborne!” demanded the marquess. “Is this true?”
“For some reason my lady has gone off in a hired traveling carriage which the rented coachman said was bound for Gretna.”
“The name of this captain?”
“Captain Peter Gaunt.”
“And you let her go?”
“It is not my place to stop my lady, my lord,” said Osborne.
“You made a great mistake in marrying her, Cleveden!” cried Lizzie. “I tried to warn you before—”
“Silence, woman,” roared the marquess, and Lizzie fell back in fright and clutched her maid for support. “I love Fiona and do not believe she has run off with anyone. I think she is up to some mad escapade. Come, Harry. Miss Grant, you may tell the Duchess of Gordonstoun to expect me on my return. There are certain facets of your fascinating little personality of which I feel sure she should be made aware.”
“Is this all the thanks I get for trying to help you, my lord?” said Lizzie, beginning to cry.
“You hate my wife. You blame her for your bastard status. You are quite mad, in my opinion. If your illegitimate birth galls you so much, then I suggest you turn your hatred on your mother. Get out!”
Lizzie scurried off. The marquess said to Mr. Gore, “I had better set off in pursuit. Goodness knows what mess she is in.”
And then in came Miss Letitia Helmsdale followed by her faithful maid.
“What do you want?” barked the marquess.
“I came to see if Lady Cleveden has returned,” said poor Letitia, whose strong point had never been geography, either global or local, and was under the impression that Barnet was somewhere over in the City.
“Returned from where?” said the marquess, looking at her with sharp suspicion.
Letitia started in alarm. If she said Fiona was only helping Euphemia to elope, then this awe-inspiring husband of hers might dash off to Euphemia’s parents and all poor Fiona’s work would go for naught. Perhaps he might even learn how they had coerced his wife into helping them, and then she would never have that ball. She decided to remain silent.
“I had better go,” she said, edging toward the door.
“Stay right where you are,” ordered the marquess. Letitia began to cry. Never a pretty girl, Letitia looked at her worst as she stood there, sobbing helplessly. Mr. Gore’s kind heart was touched.
“I say,” he said awkwardly. “We are wasting time. Nothing to do with Miss Helmsdale. Let’s go.”
“If I find you have had anything to do with this, Letitia Helmsdale,” raged the marquess, “I shall wring your neck.”
Mr. Gore placed himself between the marquess and Letitia. “You shall not speak to her thus!” he cried.
“I do not care what you say, Harry,” said the marquess. “I feel sure she has something to do with this and she is coming with us.”
He urged them toward the door. “No, Harry,” said the marquess firmly as Mr. Gore tried to drag Letitia back. “If I am wrong in taking Miss Helmsdale, then you may call me out when we return. Come along. Miss Helmsdale, there is no room for your maid. Leave her!”
Mr. Gore decided it would be better for Miss Helmsdale if he gave in. He had never seen his friend, the marquess, in such a savage temper and his soft heart was touched by Letitia’s distress.
Sobbing into a handkerchief, Letitia was made to sit bodkin between the marquess and Mr. Gore.
She was to remember that journey as the most frightening of her life. The marquess drove like a man possessed. Buildings flew past on either side; they overtook other carriages on the road with barely an inch to spare. Letitia thought they were all about to be killed and buried her face in Mr. Gore’s chest while he put a protective arm around her. She thought if they were not killed, and the guilty parties were not at Barnet, then the marquess might speed on all the way to the Scottish borders without stopping.
At Barnet, Fiona kissed Euphemia good-bye. She looked so radiant as she ran into her captain’s arms that Fiona’s conscience was eased. Two people so much in love deserved to be together.
She waved the happy couple good-bye and then returned to the hired postchaise that Euphemia had used to convey her to Barnet.
“Someone do be in a tearing hurry,” remarked the driver of the postchaise laconically.
Fiona stood with one foot on the step of the postchaise and, with a sinking heart, watched the arrival of her husband with Mr. Gore and Letitia.
“Wait,” she said to the driver. She walked forward to meet them.
“Charles,” she said pleadingly. “I can explain everything.”
“I n
ever told him anything,” said Letitia bravely, although she clutched onto Mr. Gore for support.
“I am not going to have explanations out in the street,” said the marquess. He called to an ostler who was standing outside the White Falcon posting house to see to the horses. Then while Mr. Gore tenderly lifted Letitia down, he told the driver of the postchaise to make himself comfortable until he was needed and tossed him a crown.
