‘I am honoured by your invitation and I accept,’ said Jane. They both rose and he kissed her hands and bowed his way out.
Harriet entered almost as soon as he had gone. ‘Did you accept him or tell him to wait?’ she asked.
‘I told him to wait,’ said Jane. ‘I also told him my true identity.’
‘Oh, my dear, was that wise?’
‘I warned him that I might not be able to marry him until I was twenty-one and that Papa might not give me a dowry and he said it did not matter. I am going to take tea with his mother tomorrow. I am . . . I am pleased with him, Harriet.’
Harriet looked at her shrewdly. ‘But not in love with him?’
‘I do not know what love is,’ said Jane. ‘But I trust him and respect him and that is surely a better basis for marriage than any easy, fleeting feelings.’ And I cannot forget the comte’s lips against mine in the Park, she thought with silent anguish, or how easily he accepted the fact that he should not see me while his life was in danger.
Frances was announced. Her eyes were sparkling and Harriet, guessing she had secrets to tell Jane, tactfully left the room.
‘Mr Ferguson did not go to Lady Dunwilde yesterday,’ said Frances breathlessly. ‘He came here with me instead and he is to see me at the opera tonight. I am so happy I could cry.’
‘I am happy for you.’
‘And I have already received two proposals of marriage. Mama is in alt. I did not accept either, but it is very flattering to be in demand.’
‘I, too, received a proposal of marriage today,’ said Jane. ‘Mr Farley.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘Frances, you are incorrigible. He is all that is kind and good.’
‘So you accepted him,’ said Frances dismally.
‘I told him to wait, that we should get to know each other better. And something else.’ Jane told Frances of her real identity and Frances listened with avid interest to Jane’s flight from home. To Frances it all seemed like some glorious Gothic romance. ‘And you told Mr Farley all this? And he did not mind?’
‘No, not in the slightest.’
‘Well, to be sure, that was very noble of him. I must readjust my mind, for I had quite decided that it was to be the brave comte after all.’
‘The Comte de Mornay has no interest in me.’
‘He always watches you, even when he is putting up an appearance of ignoring you. I noticed that,’ said Frances. ‘I think he has been playing a game, playing a game of being cool towards you to animate your interest and not frighten you away.’
‘I think he is a hardened flirt,’ retorted Jane sharply.
‘He has that reputation. Has he flirted with you?’
The desire to confide was too much for Jane. ‘When the horses bolted with us after someone tried to shoot him, after they had quietened, he lifted me down and he kissed me . . . on the mouth.’
Frances heaved a sigh. ‘Oh, that my Mr Ferguson would be so bold! Did you faint or slap his face?’
‘Neither. I was too overcome. The shock, you see. But it meant nothing to him, for when Harriet told him that he should not see me so long as he was a target for an assassin, he accepted without a murmur.’
Frances looked at her doubtfully. ‘A gentleman could hardly say anything else. And do you remember what Sir Philip said yesterday . . . about Mr Farley’s temper?’
‘Sir Philip is always inclined to be waspish. I would guess that he would have encouraged me to go in any direction other than towards the comte.’
‘I shall pray for you,’ said Frances simply. ‘I can see you are about to warn me not to tell anyone your secret and I shall not.’
The comte was reading a letter from his valet, Gerrard.
The Earl of Durbyshire employs a cook rather than a chef, and so I was able to ingratiate myself into her good graces, although she is like her kind, fat and bad-tempered and given to gin. I showed her the sketch and she cried out that it was a picture of Lady Jane Fremney, the earl’s daughter. This Lady Jane is believed to be residing with her old nurse after having refused to marry one of the earl’s elderly friends. Having learned what you wished, I changed the subject, claiming I was a London artist and that the sketch had been given to me by a fellow artist who must have taken the likeness when he was last in Durbyshire. The servants in general seem to hold this Lady Jane in great contempt for some reason, and I gather that her former governess, now elevated to companion, a Miss Stamp, is encouraged to treat her harshly.
The rest of the letter concerned the date of the valet’s return to London.
So that explained the sadness at the back of her eyes, thought the comte, and then, with French pragmatism, he came to the conclusion that it was as well he was a wealthy man, for he doubted whether he could expect any dowry. The fact that he was determined to marry Lady Jane came first to him as a surprise, followed by tingling anticipation and then relief. Damn this assassin. He must find out who was at the back of the attempts on his life, or he would not only have to fight this earl for Jane’s hand in marriage, but Harriet, Duchess of Rowcester, as well.
Frances called the next day just before Jane set out to the Farleys’. ‘Such intrigue,’ she cried. ‘I met the comte with my beloved at the opera last night and could not but tell him of Mr Farley’s proposal to you. He adopted an air of indifference, but I told him how you had said that you both must get to know each other better and that you were going to take tea with Lady Farley at four o’clock today. He stifled a yawn and drawled, “I hope she will be happy.”’
‘What else did you expect?’ snapped Jane. ‘That philanderer has no interest in me.’
‘But I observed him when he thought I was not looking and his face was quite grim and set. I had not seen him look like that before. And he did not attend the ball but said goodnight and left at the second interval. Mr Ferguson, who knows him very well, said he looked very angry.’
‘Pooh, it all means nothing to me,’ said Jane, drawing on her gloves. ‘I must go.’
Frances surveyed her anxiously. ‘Do not be coerced into saying anything definite.’
‘It is only tea, a brief visit.’
They walked down the stairs together. ‘I mean,’ persisted Frances, bobbing her head so that she could peer up under the brim of Jane’s hat, ‘do not let fear of your father drive you into an unsuitable marriage.’
‘What my father planned for me was more unsuitable than you could possibly imagine, Frances. Do not worry about me. And I have something to tell you. I wager my best fan that Mr Ferguson will have asked for your hand in marriage by the end of the week.’
‘If only that were true.’ Frances looked rueful. ‘He is so kind and friendly, but nothing of the lover there.’
‘I am sure your efficient mama will have found a way to tell him of your two proposals of marriage. Harriet tells me that nothing spurs a man on like competition.’
‘If that is true, your comte will be having quite a frightful time imagining you in the arms of Mr Farley.’
‘What? Over the tea-tray?’ Jane laughed and climbed into the carriage, which was waiting outside. ‘Call on me tomorrow and I will tell you all about it.’ She was driven off.
Frances climbed into her own open carriage. ‘Home, miss?’ asked the coachman.
‘Yes, no, perhaps . . . Let me think.’ Frances sat scowling horribly, until she realized that she was being surveyed by the comte and Mr Ferguson from the pavement.
‘Oh!’ said Frances, blushing. ‘I was just thinking of you.’
‘Which one?’ asked Jamie.
‘You,’ said Frances, pointing at the comte with her parasol.
‘Pleasant thoughts, I hope?’
‘No, not at all. I think you are being very stupid,’ said Frances, looking intently into the comte’s blue eyes. ‘Jane has gone to take tea with Lady Farley and her son. She has not yet accepted his proposal, but I fear he may press her. You kissed her and then ignored her, Monsieur le Comte, and no lady will e
ver forgive anything like that.’
The comte’s face became a well-bred blank. ‘Yes, I know I am being impertinent,’ said Frances, ‘and you may stare down your nose at me as much as you like. But you should go to the Farleys’ yourself and tell her you want her for your wife before she does anything stupid.’
To Jamie’s amazement, the comte swept a low bow, said, ‘Certainly,’ and strode off down the street.
‘I do believe he is going to do what you told him to do,’ said Jamie.
Frances smiled at him shyly. ‘May I take you up? Are you going anywhere in particular?’
He felt light-hearted. Sun was drying the morning’s rain from the pavements. He sprang into the carriage. ‘Let us just drive around.’
A little smile of triumph curving her lips, Frances gave the orders to the coachman and settled back happily beside him.
Jane looked around the saloon of Lady Farley’s home and said, ‘Where is your mother, Mr Farley?’
‘My mother had to rush off to see a sick friend. She sends her deepest apologies, but hopes to return in time to see you before you leave.’
Jane sat down on the very edge of a sofa, feeling nervous. Clarence had only spoken the truth. He had been annoyed at his mother’s sudden departure, for all romantic feelings towards Jane had fled. The door of the saloon was wide open and servants came and went. Jane’s maid was seated in the hall below. Despite his mother’s absence, it was all very respectable.
The tea-tray was brought in with all the implements. Jane offered to make the tea, as it was the fashion for society ladies to make the precious brew rather than entrust the job to a servant. Clarence said he would prefer Indian tea, and so she opened up the lacquered teapoy and selected the correct canister. While she worked away, Clarence experienced a certain pang of disappointment that she was dowry-less. He had sent an express the day before to the earl, so Jane would soon be removed from London and that would spite the comte. His eyes previously sharpened by jealousy, Clarence was well aware that the comte was fascinated by Jane. Now watching all that beauty bent over the tea-urn, he wondered whether it might not have been better perhaps to secure such a prize for himself, dowry or not. Although he had no longer any tender feelings for her, all men would admire and envy him. He knew that, in a day of dashing bucks and beaux, he was considered stodgy and dull.
The butler came in to say that there was a gentleman in the hall waiting to see him. Clarence studied the card, which had been proffered to him on a silver tray, and gave an exclamation of annoyance.
‘Pray excuse me, Miss North,’ he said. ‘I shall only be a few minutes.’
Jane found that as soon as he had left the room, the very air seem to lighten. There was something threatening about Clarence Farley, almost oppressive.
She rose and walked to a low console table which held a few books: two bound volumes of the Gentleman’s Magazine, one volume of the latest novel, no doubt Lady Farley’s, and Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. With a wry smile she picked up the Book of Martyrs. Miss Stamp delighted in reading aloud long passages of torture and death. Jane flicked back the cover and stared in surprise. The book was hollow. Inside was nothing but a small leather-bound notebook. Normally she would not have dreamt of looking through anyone else’s private belongings, but the strangeness of the hiding-place caused her to open the notebook. There was a short list of names, with payments made to each in a neat column. She turned the pages. Always the same names, with regular payments. On the last page, one name had been scored through with a thin line, but she could still read that name – Gerald Freemantle. Gerald . . . Jerry, the young man who had hanged himself!
She heard Clarence returning and slipped the notebook into her reticule and shut the fake Book of Martyrs but had not time to replace it exactly at the bottom of the pile of books, so she left it on the top and hoped he would not notice.
‘A trifling matter of business,’ he said. Jane sat down and began to dispense tea, proud in an odd way that her hands did not shake, for the import of those names was hitting her more and more. It could be innocent. They could be gambling debts and Jerry Freemantle’s name was simply scored out because, being dead, he no longer needed to be paid. And yet she had taken that notebook and hidden it in her reticule and did not have the courage to question him about it. Her frightened thoughts turned to the comte. He would know what to do.
Her inner fear gave her an air of fragility which heightened her beauty. Clarence felt his senses quicken again. ‘Have you considered my proposal?’ he asked.
Jane forced herself to smile. ‘It was only yesterday, Mr Farley. We are just starting to get to know each other.’
Mr Farley smiled back. ‘Well, we shall see . . .’ he began and then his wandering eyes came to rest on the console table, sharpened and remained fixed on it.
Then he turned his eyes back to Jane and studied her face and to her own horror she felt a guilty blush rising to her cheeks.
The butler entered. ‘The Comte de Mornay,’ he announced.
‘We are not at home,’ said Clarence, rising and going to the table. He picked up the Book of Martyrs.
‘I would like to see the comte,’ said Jane. She suddenly shouted, ‘Monsieur le Comte. Here!’
There was the sound of a short altercation and then quick footsteps on the stairs and the comte entered just as Mr Farley opened the fake Book of Martyrs and saw that it was now empty.
‘Shut the door, my lord,’ he said. He crossed to a desk against the wall, opened it and took out a pistol. He swung round and pointed it at Jane. ‘You have an item which belongs to me. I assume it is in your reticule. No, do not move, Monsieur le Comte, or I will shoot her dead. Throw the notebook on the floor, Lady Jane.’
‘So you know who she is,’ said the comte.
‘And now her father will know where she is because I sent him an express yesterday,’ said Clarence.
The comte was leaning against the wall, inside the door, looking cool and amused.
Jane took out the notebook and tossed it down in front of him.
‘What was in it, my sweeting?’ asked the comte lazily.
‘A list of names and payments,’ whispered Jane, ‘and one of them was Gerald Freemantle. His name had been scored out.’
‘So you are a traitor, mon brave,’ said the comte. ‘But you have not been out of the country recently. But no doubt the gentleman who was plotting my death in an inn outside Milan has his name in your book. Why? Why work for a monster like Napoleon Bonaparte?’
‘Because,’ Clarence spat out, ‘if he is restored he will not fail next time to invade England and then the scum of society with their drinking and whoring will be hanging from the lamps in the street.’
‘Dear me, all the young bloods who dub you Dreary Clarence? And to get revenge on them you would betray your country! Just what do you plan to do now? You can hardly shoot us both dead in a houseful of servants in the middle of fashionable London.’
The pistol levelled at Jane’s heart never wavered. ‘I will take her with me. So long as she keeps quiet, her life will be safe.’
‘Tut, tut,’ said the comte reprovingly. ‘What makes you think that I would assist you in betraying my adopted country for the life of one poor wench?’
‘Because you are in love with her,’ sneered Clarence.
‘Alas, you have the right of it.’
And I love you, too, thought Jane miserably. I have loved you all along, and now it is too late. This monster will never let me live.
‘Move towards the door, Lady Jane,’ said Farley, ‘and do not make any sudden moves. Stand aside, Comte.’
Jane was moving slowly towards the door when it suddenly opened and Lady Farley swept into the room and walked directly between Jane and her son. She stared at the wicked-looking pistol in her son’s hand. ‘What are you doing, Clarence?’ she screamed. In that moment, the comte moved forward, Jane darted behind him, and the comte clipped Lady Farley round the waist. ‘Now what are you going
to do, Farley?’ he asked. ‘Shoot your own mother?’
Lady Farley screamed hysterically and struggled in the comte’s arms. Servants came running into the room. Clarence looked solemnly at all of them, put the pistol in his mouth and blew his brains out. The comte released Lady Farley, turned round and grabbed Jane and pressed her face into his breast, saying, ‘Don’t look, my love, my dear. It is all over.’
Harriet, fretting because Jane had not returned, decided to call on Mrs Haggard. Jane perhaps had gone straight from the Farleys’ to call on Frances instead of coming home and getting ready to go out to the opera.
When she mounted the stairs to Mrs Haggard’s drawing room it was to see Mr and Mrs Haggard outside the closed door with their ears pressed to the panels.
‘What is the matter? Is Jane here?’ asked Harriet.
‘Shhh!’ admonished Mrs Haggard. ‘Mr Ferguson is proposing to Frances.’
‘So you have not seen Miss North?’
‘No! Shhh!’
Harriet, puzzled, turned away.
Inside the drawing room, Frances was being ruthlessly kissed by Jamie and feeling she would faint from sheer ecstasy. ‘And do you really want to marry me?’ she asked when she finally could.
‘Of course, you silly little thing.’ And Frances gave a sigh of sheer relief and leaned her frizzy head against his chest.
Harriet, returning home, blinked at the scene in her own hall. Jane was crying quietly and being held closely by the comte while her little maid had hysterics in a corner, and then her bemused eyes focused on her husband and she hurled herself into his arms.
‘What have I come home to?’ he said, gathering her in his arms. ‘Here is the Comte de Mornay with tales of murder, treachery and mayhem, and Miss North, who says she is not Miss North but Lady Jane Fremney and that her father has found out her whereabouts.’
Still holding Jane close, the comte said over her head, ‘Lady Jane will tell you everything, Duke, but I have some business with the authorities which is pressing. Take care of her for me.’ He bent his head and kissed Jane on the cheek.
Back in Society (The Poor Relation series) Page 13
