by M C Beaton
They watched the performance to the end, standing at the back of the benches, and then a bell rang in the distance, and there was a great rush of people in the direction of its sound. “The fireworks!” cried a man.
“Fireworks,” breathed Annabelle, and almost dragging Miss Davenant after her, she followed the crowd.
The fireworks had been made by that magician, D’Ernst. Annabelle gazed up open-mouthed at the concentric circles of gold and silver and blue and red. Snakes of red fire twisted across the sky, rockets rushed up toward the moon and cascaded down in golden tears, silver stars, and amber balls.
Annabelle, dazed and happy, clutched hold of Miss Davenant and laughed with delight. During the last portion of the fireworks display, which featured a gorgon’s head with snaky red tresses and flaming eyeballs, a child of some nine years could be seen, walking through the fire and glitter on a tightrope.
To Annabelle, who had never really had much fun in her life, it was the most stupendous thing she had ever seen.
They walked away when the display was over, still too intrigued about the delights of Vauxhall to trouble about finding a supper box. There was so much still to see. At the end of one of the walks was a Gothic arch with an illuminated transparency behind it of broken pillars and a large stone cross. In the darker walks, statuary gleamed whitely among the trees, and always there was the sound of music and the excitement in the air engendered by hundreds of Londoners making the most of the best spectacle the city had to offer.
At last, they began to feel tired and hungry. There were supper boxes lining some of the main walks, but they were all full. They went to the pavilion and stood in the entrance blinking in the light from hundreds of lamps reflected in the mirrored walls.
Annabelle saw the master of ceremonies and with a social courage she did not know she possessed, she approached this grand individual and explained that they were hungry but had not reserved a supper box. He smiled and said one had just been vacated and ushered them into it, a sulky look crossing his face as he realized that Annabelle had not noticed his outstretched palm and had no intention of tipping him.
They ordered ham, rack punch, and salad, talking all the time about the delights they had seen while the stalwart James stood behind their chairs.
In a box on the other side of the room was the earl, paying court to Rosamund Clairmont, accompanied by her parents. Lady Clairmont studied the earl’s handsome face and wondered when he was going to propose marriage to her daughter.
The earl, like every other gentleman of the Regency, had been brought up to believe that women were for passion and ladies for marriage. But somehow Rosamund never seemed to excite his senses. What worried him was why he should expect her to. She would make a suitable wife. He was man of the world enough to know now that her sliding glances, which promised a world of sin, were only part of an act. Underneath it all he suspected she was rather cold. She was child enough to enjoy the gaudy pleasures of Vauxhall, a place he had visited too often in his youth to remain enchanted. The chattering noise of conversation rising from the supper boxes around the mirrored room was immense.
“My dear, everything you say intrigues me,” he said automatically to the questioning glance cast up at him and the confiding little dimpled hand on his arm. He had not been listening to a word, but knew from experience that Rosamund’s conversation was undemanding to say the least, and he only needed to interject some flirtatious remark to keep her happy while he went on with his own thoughts.
After all, he was being hard on the chit. His jaded eye traveled around the room. The ladies in the other boxes looked remarkably the same, depending on age-group. The young girls were in white muslin with pomaded hair and small painted mouths. Any female cursed with a largish mouth painted a little rosebud mouth in the middle of it. In all, they had a uniform appearance. The mothers were more rouged and harder of eye, but affected the same jeune fille fashions as their daughters, high-waisted gowns with little puff sleeves, gloves to the elbow, long, draped scarves.
And then he saw Annabelle. For a moment he did not recognize her. His gaze was arrested because she was laughing in a happy, carefree way. She was in half mourning, a beautifully cut gown of lilac silk edged with gray. Her thick brown curls shone in the candlelight, and her large eyes sparkled.
Beside her sat his aunt. Miss Davenant was no longer festooned in bits and pieces but attired in a gown of plum-colored corded silk of a Parisian cut. On her woolly white curls was a modish turban. Her happy sheep’s face gazed around the room with childlike pleasure. And then she saw the earl. She raised her hand in greeting and said something to Annabelle. Annabelle looked at the earl, and all her joy and delight in the evening were wiped from her face.
“And so,” went on Rosamund with a ripple of laughter, “Lady Baxter said, ‘Not on my best rug, my dear,’ and Lord Baxter replied…”
Her voice trailed off. Lady Clairmont looked at the earl sharply. He was sitting, transfixed.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I have just seen my aunt. Must pay my respects.”
Lady Clairmont raised her quizzing glass and watched as the earl crossed the room. “Pooh!” said her daughter. “’Tis that pretty Mrs. Carruthers. Thank goodness she is married.”
“You have forgot,” said Lady Clairmont dryly, “the fire at the Manor. Guy Carruthers died.”
“So he did,” said Rosamund. “So she’s a widow. Mama, what has gone wrong? You yourself said that Darkwood would propose before the end of the Season, but nothing happened, and now the Little Season will soon be upon us bringing more debutantes to London.”
“Peace, my child. We are of the aristocracy, and Mrs. Carruthers is only of the gentry. Darkwood knows what he owes to his name. Whenever did an aristocrat marry for love!”
Rosamund pouted. It was very lowering to think that a man might marry one for one’s rank, although infinitely preferring the charms of someone else.
The earl bent over Annabelle’s hand. “You must excuse my neglect, Mrs. Carruthers,” he said. “I have been very busy.”
“Yes, we can see that,” said his aunt gaily. “Such a pretty young lady. Who is she?”
“Miss Rosamund Clairmont,” he replied.
“Very suitable,” said Miss Davenant with satisfaction. “A good name and a good dowry.”
“Are you happy?” the earl asked Annabelle abruptly.
The truthful answer to that was, Yes, very, up until the moment I saw you.
But Annabelle confined herself to a “Yes, I thank you, my lord.”
“We have been having such fun,” burbled Miss Davenant. “Do you not think I am become modish, Darkwood? Mrs. Carruthers plies a magic needle.”
“Vastly fetching,” said the earl. He saw the shadows of worry and shame fleeting across Annabelle’s eyes and realized she still considered herself his mistress. He must disabuse her, but Vauxhall was not the place.
“I shall call on you tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “We have a certain… er… business matter to discuss.”
“Will three o’clock be suitable?” asked Annabelle.
“Very suitable.”
He bowed and left.
“He will find all the accounts in order,” said Miss Davenant with satisfaction. “And although he has been very generous, he will find we have not taken advantage of his generosity.”
Annabelle sat with her eyes lowered, trying to disguise the feeling of shock mixed with shame that coursed through her body. She had been living for the minute, almost forgetting her disgraceful arrangement with the earl. She wanted to leave, but there was a further shock to come.
“Look at that elegant couple,” cried Miss Davenant.
Annabelle raised her eyes and then sat rigid. Matilda and her husband, the duke, were promenading along the front of the boxes, stopping here and there to speak to friends. Matilda was wearing a gown of apple green silk embroidered with gold corn sheaves. There was a heavy tiara of diamonds on her golden hair and a collar of ma
gnificent diamonds about her neck. The duke cut a fine figure in black evening dress with white cravat and white silk stockings embroidered with gold clocks. There was a large diamond in his cravat and diamond buckles on his shoes. Only his wife and his valet knew that the breadth of his shoulders and chest and apparent strength of his calves were due to clever buckram wadding rather than muscle.
Matilda saw Annabelle and exclaimed, “Why there is Annabelle, Mrs. Carruthers!”
A man in one of the supper boxes near her started in surprise and then raised his quizzing glass.
“Walk on,” commanded the duke icily. “You know I do not approve of such a friendship.”
Matilda turned pink with anger, but she smiled at Annabelle as they passed and rolled up her eyes in comical dismay toward her stony-faced husband.
“What odd behavior,” said Miss Davenant.
“That was Matilda, Duchess of Hadshire and her husband,” said Annabelle. “We were once friends, but her husband does not approve of the friendship.”
“Then he must be a very odd man,” said Miss Davenant, taking a hearty swig of rack punch. “You are all that is respectable, my dear Mrs. Carruthers. He must have rats in his attic.”
Despite her distress, Annabelle giggled. “No, he is not mad. Do not drink any more. I fear you are a trifle foxed.”
“Not I,” said Miss Davenant. “A little to go, that is all.”
Annabelle did not want to spoil her companion’s evening and so continued to drink punch, which tasted of licorice, and eat ham, which now tasted like cardboard.
With relief, she saw that Miss Davenant was finally becoming sleepy and was able to urge her to leave.
Two hours before the earl was due to arrive the next day, Matilda appeared and threw herself into Annabelle’s arms. “I had the deuce of a time finding where you lived,” said Matilda. “Why did you not tell me? How long have you been here?”
Annabelle turned to Miss Davenant and said, “Please leave us for a little, if you do not mind. We have something private to discuss.”
Miss Davenant obediently put her knitting back in her workbag. But once outside the door, she hesitated, and then leaned an ear against the panels to listen. Mrs. Carruthers had been looking frightened and worried, but would not say what was troubling her. Perhaps she would tell the duchess. Miss Davenant felt it her duty to listen. How could she help poor Mrs. Carruthers if she did not know what ailed her?
“Sit down, Matilda,” she heard Annabelle say quietly. “You should not be here.”
“Hadshire does not know,” said Matilda airily. “I told him I was making calls. The carriage servants do not know who lives here, so they cannot tell him. But what has been happening to you? I heard about the fire and about Guy’s death. Thank goodness he has obviously left you enough to live comfortably.”
“He left me nothing,” said Annabelle. “I do not know why you are here, Matilda. I called on you after I had been thrown out of our town house and had nowhere to go. I was desperate. But your butler told me you wanted to have nothing to do with me.”
“Annabelle, Annabelle, all the servants are the duke’s creatures. The butler would go straight to him, not to me. He must have enjoyed sending that message on my behalf. But tell me all. How do you come to be living with Darkwood’s aunt? Yes, I know who she is, for I asked everyone until I found out.”
Annabelle told her first about Guy’s death being murder, about how he had gambled the Manor away, and about how he had been working for traitors who had killed him.
“Quite like a Gothic novel,” exclaimed Matilda in horror. “How frightened and miserable you must have been. But how come you here?”
Miss Davenant pressed her ear harder against the door.
“I am Darkwood’s mistress.”
Behind the door, Miss Davenant blinked.
“Never!” cried Matilda. “You cannot be. My dear innocent, one does not foist one’s mistress off on one’s aunt!”
“It is all very odd,” sighed Annabelle. “I had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. He had been kind after the death of Guy, had given me his card. I could not take charity, I had to offer something in return. And I only had myself to offer.”
“But could you not have found some sort of employ?” demanded Matilda. “A governess, or something? Surely anything would have been better than to volunteer to join the ranks of the ladies of cracked reputation.”
“It is easy to be wise now,” said Annabelle. “You must realize I was desperate.”
“And when did your amorous relations with the wicked earl begin?”
“They haven’t. I mean, it is most strange. He placed me here with Miss Davenant as chaperon, but he has not come near me since. I saw him at Vauxhall before I saw you. He is coming to call this afternoon.”
“And his aunt who looks all that is respectable countenances this relationship?”
“She does not know.”
“She…” Matilda opened her mouth to lecture Annabelle further and then suddenly closed it again. There was something very odd here. Not a whisper had she heard of Darkwood having Annabelle as mistress, and Matilda heard all the whispers.
“Begin at the beginning again,” said Matilda quietly, “and tell me all.”
A hand to her cushionlike bosom, Miss Davenant listened outside the door as intently as Matilda did in the drawing room inside.
“And you really must go, Matilda,” said Annabelle finally. “It is not proper for you to be visiting such as I.”
“Pooh! Surely our friendship can survive an illicit affair?” said Matilda in her forthright way. “You shall hear from me further. Do you know Emma will be back in London soon?”
“Do not tell her,” said Annabelle in a low voice. “She is not as strong-minded as you and would be deeply distressed.”
“But she will want to see you! Never mind. It is all very odd.”
Miss Davenant waddled quickly up the narrow stairs to her bedchamber and sat down, her legs shaking.
Why on earth was Darkwood about to behave in such a manner? To put his own aunt in charge of his doxy?
But Mrs. Carruthers was not a doxy. She was a gentle, caring lady. The liaison with the earl had not yet begun.
Miss Davenant saw her duty clearly and felt a sense of relief. This affair should never begin, and she herself would see to it. The earl had made her an allowance for life. Well, she and Annabelle could live together quietly on that. She had not very great courage, but the first time the earl showed signs of staying the night, then that was the time that Miss Davenant would confront him. She was used to her rich relatives treating her with contempt. Darkwood obviously thought she would do anything for money. In the meantime she meant to enjoy her new financial freedom as much as possible and, having put all thoughts of action off to some misty future, Miss Davenant made her way downstairs again to join Annabelle.
Meanwhile, outside, Matilda dismissed her carriage and servants, saying she wanted to walk for a little and took a hack straight to the earl’s town house where she demanded an audience with him. As a married woman and a duchess, she knew she could risk doing so without fear of disgrace, except in the eyes of her husband.
Bursting with curiosity, Barnstable announced her, not noticing in his interest in this beautiful duchess’s unconventional call that his master’s eyes were glittering feverishly.
The earl glared at the dainty duchess. His head felt hot and heavy. That damned fever was returning.
“State your business, Your Grace,” he said sharply.
“I am come to demand to know your intentions regarding Mrs. Carruthers.”
“None of your business.”
“Fustian. A friend of mine, a gently bred lady coolly informs me that she has arranged to become your mistress. You not only accepted her, but put your poor aunt in residence as chaperon. It will be the talk of London. Not only will Annabelle’s reputation be ruined, but that of your aunt. Have you no shame?”
The earl was not
the first man to be startled by the rather deep and commanding voice issuing from such a pretty and dainty face.
He felt the fever tightening its grip. Angry as he was, all he wanted to do was to get rid of her.
“My dear duchess,” he said icily, “if you are a friend of hers, then you should have helped her in her hour of need. As it stands, she came to me with her silly offer. I have no intention of making Annabelle Carruthers my mistress. I shall call on her shortly and tell her so. She may remain my pensioner until she marries again.”
“Oh,” said Matilda, nonplussed. “Why did you not tell her before?”
“I had other things to concern me and had almost forgot the woman.” And yet that was not quite true, he thought foggily. He had never forgotten that kiss. He was stubbornly determined to make a good marriage and without ever admitting it to himself, he felt deep down that Annabelle would sway him from his purpose.
Matilda looked at him crossly. She decided he was drunk. “I shall tell her myself,” she said firmly.
When she had left, the earl summoned Barnstable. “This damned fever again,” he said thickly. “Get me to bed, and tell anyone who asks that I am gone to my estates. I do not want to broadcast my continued weakness around the ton.”
Matilda returned home to find the duke waiting for her with his shadow, the brutal Rougement, in attendance.
“You have some explaining to do,” said the duke. Matilda could see that he was in an icy rage, and her heart sank. “My servants followed you. After leaving a house in Clarence Square, you took a hack to the Earl of Darkwood’s town house and entered without either maid or footman to accompany you. Are you cuckolding me?”
“No, never,” said Matilda. “Annabelle Carruthers is being cared for by the earl’s aunt. She… she was unwell, the aunt, I mean, and Annabelle asked me to convey a message to Darkwood about his aunt’s indisposition.”
