Brighton Road

by Susan Carroll

  "Dashed amusing, 'pon my soul," one of them drawled. "Depicting that rascal Bonaparte as a pygmy. What will Gilray think of next?"

  The dandy's voice sounded oddly familiar to Gwenda. She angled a glance from the corner of her eye and was horrified to recognize the Honorable Frederic Skeffington, the man who had accosted her in the inn yard of the Dorset Arms. Mindful of Ravenel's admonishment that Skeffington was a "loose screw," Gwenda ducked behind one of the bookshelves before Skeffington spotted her yet again without any female chaperone.

  While waiting for the three gentlemen to move on, she feigned to examine Volume Four of the latest edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, never intending to eavesdrop on the conversation But when she overheard one of them mention Ravenel's name, her heart skipped a beat and she could not help listening more intently.

  "Yaa-ss, Sobersides Ravenel has been behaving in a damned odd manner of late." There was a pause, then a loud sniff. Gwenda realized that the speaker had stopped to take a pinch of snuff and waited in an agony of impatience for him to continue.

  "Met him along the Steine the other day when me and Froggy Blaine were comparing times of our last run to Brighton. Did it in four hours, fifty-two minutes, I said. Then I asked Ravenel most civilly how long it had taken him. 'Three days,' said he, and broke into hysterical laughter."

  Gwenda bit back a rueful smile of her own, but she heard Skeffington and the other man exclaiming in shock.

  "Sobersides? Laughing?"

  "'Pon my word, who would have thought it?"

  "And there is worse," the first man said. "I chanced to make some little jest about that old fool Stanhope Vickers and Ravenel glowered at me like a mad dog. Said if I had half as much wit as Lord Vickers, I might know when to keep my mouth shut."

  Gwenda, as astounded as the others to hear this, dropped the encyclopedia volume on her toe. Stifling an outcry of pain, she bent to retrieve it. It might well have been Skeffington's other friend who had been struck, however, for the man gave a low moan.

  "That tears it, then. I was one of the few who wagered Belinda Carruthers would have Sobersides in the end. But if Ravenel is going to start acting as queer as Dick's hat band, he'll never win the fair Belinda."

  "Your chances have been quite scotched in any case, old boy." Skeffington spoke up. "I happened upon Ravenel myself while traveling to Brighton last week. He was in the company of some pretty little thing making the journey with her aunt. When I uttered a few pleasantries to the lady, he behaved very much like a jealous lover. Nearly gave me a leveler."

  Skeffington's companions gasped.

  "Dear me!"

  "Extraordinary!"

  Gwenda thought so herself, and the book nearly slipped from her grasp a second time. Ravenel, a jealous lover? She had never considered his actions in that light. But she immediately quashed the tiny flicker of hope, telling herself Freddie Skeffington was a great dolt.

  She leaned up against the bookshelf, waiting anxiously to hear what else might be said. The three men had fallen so quiet, she began to wonder if they had moved on. She peeked cautiously around the side, then choked back a small outcry as she saw the reason for the dandies' sudden silence.

  The object of their conversation himself had just walked through the library door, Belinda Carruthers draped upon his arm. Gwenda's pulses gave a leap, part joy, part dismay, as her hungry gaze drank in the sight of Ravenel. Every detail of him, from the broad outline of his shoulders to that overstarched collar, from the brilliant dark eyes to the stubborn line of his jaw, seemed so inexpressibly familiar and dear to her heart.

  She looked for some sign of the change in him that the dandies had been discussing, but she could detect nothing odd in Ravenel's manner. He stood as stiffly, as formally erect as ever. If anything, his reserve appeared more pronounced, his movements more perfunctory, as though he was not capable of taking pleasure in anything.

  It hurt Gwenda to see that as much as it did to watch Belinda cling to Ravenel in that proprietary way. Gwenda swallowed the lump rising to her throat and shrank back behind the shelves.

  The baron did not notice her skirts whisking from sight as he nodded his head in curt greeting to Freddy Skeffington and his two companions. They barely acknowledged it, smiling nervously and skittering by him as though he had the plague. Ravenel gave a slight shrug. Skeffington and his lot had always been a parcel of fools.

  With great effort, Ravenel kept his gaze from sweeping about the rest of the library. He could not help telling himself that if there were any chance of encountering Gwenda in Brighton, it would most likely be here at the circulating library. But even if he chanced to see her again, what would that do but make him feel more empty and lonely than he already did?

  "My lord?"

  He felt Belinda tug at his sleeve and glanced down at her with some impatience.

  "I would far rather have gone to the card assembly at the Old Ship. But since you insisted upon coming here, are you not going to at least select a book?"

  There was a certain waspishness in Belinda's usually dulcet tones. As though she realized it herself; she was quick to flutter her eyelashes and add, "I know what a busy man you are. Indeed I was surprised and so flattered that you were able to spare the afternoon to escort me at all.'

  It would have been difficult to do anything else, Ravenel thought. He had been deluged with missives from Belinda ever since her arrival in Brighton, assuring him that he was quite free to call upon her any time he wished.

  As she flitted away from him to effuse greetings over some portly dowager and her freckle-faced daughters, Ravenel noted the high bloom in Belinda's cheeks. He thought sardonically how remarkable the sea air in Brighton must be for mending broken hearts. Belinda had never looked better and had not mentioned anything more about being in mourning. Perhaps the cure came less from the sea than from the tidings being bruited about that the Earl of Smardon had become engaged to his second cousin.

  Ravenel checked his cynical thoughts. In truth, he didn’t give a damn about any of it. While waiting for Belinda, he ran his fingers listlessly over some volumes arranged on a shelf, barely registering the titles until he came to one neatly tooled in red leather.

  The Castle of Montesadoria by G. M. Vickers. Ravenel eased the book almost reverently off the shelf, then thumbed through the pages, one particular line catching his notice. He couldn’t help smiling as he read, "The count was a gentleman of most noble mien with handsome dark eyes."

  What a flood of memories those words unleashed, memories that were dispelled by the sound of Belinda's voice close by.

  "Ravenel!"

  The petite blonde peered past his shoulder. and cooed, "What have you found that has you so absorbed?" When she saw the book, she broke into tinkling laughter. "My dear Ravenel, you surely don't read that sort of book?"

  He glared at her. "What, pray, is wrong with this sort of book?"

  "Why, It is the most arrant sort of rubbish about ghosts and—"

  "Until you are clever enough to write one, you should not feel so free to criticize."

  Belinda's violet eyes widened. She looked momentarily taken aback by his rudeness, but she made a quick recovery. "Naturally I would never do anything so vulgar as to write for money." She added with a self-deprecating smile," Of course, I do dabble a little with poetry."

  "I detest poetry." Ravenel closed the book with a snap and replaced it on the shelf. What was wrong with him? It was as though he were deliberately trying to provoke a quarrel with Miss Carruthers.

  Not that there appeared any likelihood of that. If Belinda was offended, she quickly concealed it behind a coaxing smile. She tucked her hand through his arm, gushing, "Much more pleasurable than any sort of literature is music. I do so dote on music. Let us see what new songs there are."

  She swept over to the pianoforte, quickly sifting through the sheet music, asking for Ravenel's opinion of which she should try. She could have played "Rule Britannia" for all he cared. He scooped
up one sheet and handed it to her, having no idea what he had selected as she arranged her skirts on the bench.

  Belinda played well, or so most of society would judge, Ravenel mused. But he found her performance wanting in any spark of genuine feeling for the notes she thumped out with such precision. She knows nothing of enthusiasm and dreams, Ravenel thought, recalling Gwenda's words. Miss Carruthers appeared far more concerned with how well she looked seated at the instrument, tossing her golden curls, her dainty fingers rippling down the keys.

  In that instant Ravenel knew he would never marry Miss Carruthers or any other society miss like her. His duty be hanged! He had cousins enough to make up for his own lack of heirs. He would spend the rest of his days alone. On a cold winter's eve by the solitude of his hearth, he would take out the memory of three glorious days in his life spent in the company of a green-eyed sprite who both vexed and amazed and made every moment one of wondering surprise. The baron doubted that he would ever experience anything unexpected again.

  This dismal thought had no sooner occurred to Ravenel when the door swung open, nearly slamming Freddy Skeffington against the wall. An officer in a cavalry uniform swaggered through the door.

  "So sorry, old chap," he said, doffing his cap to the outraged dandy.

  Freddy, prepared to sputter and take umbrage, stopped in midsentence, gaping at the soldier. Ravenel could not blame Skeffington. The colonel was a most extraordinary-looking individual. His hair appeared darkened with some strange substance that plastered it to his skull. A mustache of the same startling shade of black appeared shoved beneath his nose. His shoulders, which Ravenel could tell had been padded with buckram wadding, shifted, becoming uneven.

  With a final nod to Freddy, the officer set some young ladies by the watercolor books to giggling when he paused to shoot them a smoldering glance. Ravenel had an odd feeling he had seen this person somewhere before. But surely he would have remembered anyone who looked that peculiar.

  The soldier halted in midstep as he spied Miss Carruthers at the piano. He clasped one hand to his heart and strode over. "Belinda, my darling. It is you!"

  Belinda's playing stumbled to an abrupt end. She stared up at the officer bending over her and said in affronted accents, "Sir! I do not believe that I have the honor of—"

  "Belinda, it is I. Percy!"

  "P-Percy?" Miss Carruthers said faintly.

  "Aye. Your lost love, Colonel Percival Adams, whom you believed killed in the wars."

  Belinda shrank back, turning as white as her muslin gown. Ravenel, equally astonished, stared at this apparition supposedly returned from the dead. So this was Belinda's Colonel Adams, he thought with a shake of his head. He had never thought Miss Carruthers a brilliant woman, but he had given her credit for having some discernment.

  "There—there must be some mistake," Miss Carruthers babbled.

  "The only mistake, my dearest, was my taking so long to rush back to your side," the colonel declared. He seized Belinda's hands and planted a fervent kiss upon each of them, which had the effect of knocking his mustache slightly askew.

  Peering closer to look beneath the soldier's downswept lashes, Ravenel glimpsed mischievous green-gold eyes. As the jolt of recognition flashed through him, his lordship straightened, groping frantically for his handkerchief. He doubled over, apparently seized by a fit of choking.

  By this time most of the other occupants of the library realized that something strange was occurring. Some listened with their heads discreetly averted, while Skeffington and his cronies gawked shamelessly.

  Yet huddled behind the encyclopedias, Gwenda wondered in despair if she would ever be able to escape without the pain and embarrassment of encountering Ravenel and Miss Carruthers. At the last glance she had stolen, they had seemed rooted by the pianoforte for the remainder of the afternoon.

  But it gradually became borne in upon her that the music had stopped, that the hum of conversation in the library had grown strangely quiet.

  "No!" Miss Carruthers's shrill outcry split the air. "You stay away from me."

  "Forgive my impulsiveness, Belinda, my darling," a man's upraised voice said, "but we have been separated for so long."

  A most familiar man's voice, Gwenda thought, freezing. With a feeling of dread, she inched out from behind the books and stared toward the pianoforte.

  It would have taken more than boot blacking in the hair and a false mustache for Gwenda not to have known her own brother. A soft groan escaped her as she watched Jack pursuing the frantic Miss Carruthers around the pianoforte where she sought to take refuge behind Ravenel.

  "I've been a prisoner of the French. With amnesia," Jack declared. "But as soon as I got my memory back, I escaped and returned so that we could be married."'

  "I am not engaged to you! I have never been engaged to anyone," Belinda shrilled. "I don't even know any Colonel Percival Adams." She appealed desperately to Ravenel. "My lord, save me from this madman."

  But Ravenel seemed strangely quiet, muffling his face behind his handkerchief.

  Gwenda had no difficulty guessing what her brother was attempting to do. Her face heating scarlet with misery and humiliation, she rushed forward to stop him.

  "Jack!" she said, jerking roughly at his arm.

  Her brother paused in his pursuit of Miss Carruthers to glance down at her. He pulled a fierce face,

  "You are mistaken, miss. I am Colonel Percival—"

  "Stop it!" Gwenda reached up and wrenched off the false mustache.

  "Ow!" Jack cried, clapping a hand to his upper lip. He eyed her reproachfully. "This would be the one day you'd decide to come out of your room—just in time to be here and ruin everything."

  Gwenda turned brusquely away from him. She could not raise her eyes to face either Ravenel or Belinda. "Miss Carruthers. I am so sorry for what my brother---"

  But she got no further, for Belinda expelled her breath in an angry hiss. "Then this has all been some sort of horrid prank at my expense." She whipped about, clutching at Ravenel. "My lord, I have been insulted. I demand you call this rogue out at once."

  Up until this time, Ravenel had been trying most heroically to contain himself. But Belinda's final dramatic appeal put the finishing touch on this farce. The laughter erupted from him until his eyes watered. His mirth spread quickly among many of the other library patrons who had been staring until the entire room seemed to ripple with laughter.

  Belinda's face stained scarlet. She slapped Ravenel hard across the cheek with the full force of her palm. "You! You are as vulgar as that scoundrel."

  Her venomous glare shifted toward Gwenda and her brother. "And—and as for the pair of you, you should both be flogged and never permitted near decent society again!"

  She whirled on her heel and stormed from the library, nearly oversetting Frederic Skeffington, who had the misfortune to be lingering in the doorway.

  Ravenel could not seem to stop laughing, even while rubbing his stinging flesh, until he focused on Gwenda's face. One sight of the tears streaking down her cheeks put an abrupt end to his merriment.

  "How—how could you, Jack!" she choked.

  Jack Vickers crossed his arms over his chest, looking somewhat abashed but defiant. "What did you expect me to do? I couldn't let my only sister die of a broken heart. I thought if I could only get rid of that Carruthers wench, all would be well." Jack glanced earnestly at Ravenel. "My lord, surely you can see that you oughtn't to marry a lady who has already begun to tell you lies. I know my sister can be a bit of a nuisance at times, but at least she is honest and she loves you."

  "Be quiet, Jack! I shall never confide in you again as long as I live." Gwenda's tear-dampened lashes swept up and for one moment Ravenel stared deep into her eyes so full of despair, so full of yearning.

  "Gwenda," he breathed.

  But she was already fleeing from him, rushing toward the door of the library. This time Skeffington had the wit to dive for safety as Gwenda plunged past him.


  Ravenel took several steps after her, then stopped, judging it best to let her go for the moment His mind was reeling, wondering if what he had thought he had seen shimmering in her eyes could possibly be true. He turned back to confront her brother.

  Jack nervously straightened the hem of his scarlet coat. "I think I'd just better be getting along myself." He gave Ravenel a brief salute and tried to get past him.

  But Ravenel caught him by the sleeve. "Not just yet, my dear Colonel Adams. You and I needs must have a little talk."

  A heavy fog was rolling in from the sea, seeming to bring the summer's day to an early close. As Gwenda took Bertie for his evening walk along the beach, she wished she could simply be swallowed by the mist forever.

  Still reliving in her mind the whole disastrous humiliating episode at Donaldson's that afternoon, she could think of no better fate than to be buried in the sands and have the tides wash over her head.

  Jack had knelt outside her bedchamber door begging for forgiveness through the keyhole until Mama had finally made him go away and leave Gwenda alone. Gwenda tried to remind herself that Jack had acted out of deep affection for her, but if only he would stop to think before plunging into one of these outrageous schemes.

  His bungling had only made her life ten times more miserable. Not only had he involved Lord Ravenel in the sort of public scene that she knew so well he detested, but with half of the ton looking on, Jack had blurted out to Ravenel that Gwenda was in love with him. Although she would pen his lordship a note of apology, she would never, never be able to face the man again.

  Gwenda sniffed, then quickly wiped her eyes on her sleeve. One would think she'd be cried out after the amount of weeping she had done that afternoon. She took a deep breath and tried to derive some pleasure from the walk with Bertie. But, at the moment, even the sea looked cold and gray.

  Bertie barked and leaped at her skirts as though attempting to cheer her. She picked up a piece of driftwood and flung it far down the beach for him to chase. He quickly plunged after it and scooped it into his mouth. But while Bertie might have learned to do that much, he could never quite grasp the fact that he was supposed to bring the stick back.