by M C Beaton
Annabelle thanked him warmly and went indoors to amaze and enthrall Miss Davenant with the tale of her latest adventures.
Cressida sat reading to Lady Kitson, a duty she enjoyed because her aunt adored all the latest gothic novels. Mr. Knight had left for the country and turned Cressida over to the care of his sister.
Lady Kitson was a fat, lazy, good-natured woman. Her eyesight was not strong, and she was delighted to find that Cressida was happy to read books aloud for hours at a time. So the days passed gently in making a few calls on useful hostesses and going out to balls and parties, concerts, and operas in the evenings.
Cressida finished the last page, and Lady Kitson sighed with pleasure.
“I am so glad novels are not like real life,” she said. She rang the bell and summoned her maid and asked for her jewel box.
When the jewel box was placed on a table next to her, Lady Kitson searched in it and found a thin string of very fine small sapphires. “Here you are, my chuck,” she said holding the necklace out to Cressida. “They’ll look excellent with that pretty gown that friend of yours made for you.”
“You are too good,” said Cressida.
Lady Kitson dismissed maid and jewel box. “Least I can do,” she said. “Never enjoyed so many books in my life. Relieves the tedium of the everyday world.”
“Things do happen in the real world that are as fantastic as the happenings in books,” said Cressida.
“Pooh! What can you know of gothic adventures, my country mouse?”
Cressida gazed worshipfully at the beautiful gems. She wanted to repay Lady Kitson. “I shall tell you,” she said, “if you promise not to breathe a word to a soul.”
Lady Kitson looked amused. “I? Of course I would not dream of betraying a confidence.”
Cressida went to the door, opened it, and peered around it before returning to her seat. “I had to make sure no one was listening,” she said.
Lady Kitson gave an indulgent laugh. “Come along then,” she said placing her small fat feet in beaded slippers comfortably on the fender, “tell your tale.”
At first it was all intriguing and enjoyable to listen to as far as Lady Kitson was concerned. She heard about the ball and the fire and how the Earl of Darkwood had carried Mrs. Carruthers away from the blaze in his arms.
“Go on,” she prompted, “this is better than the play.”
A wind had risen outside, the fire was crackling cheerfully on the hearth, and the lamps had not yet been lit. It was a setting made for the telling of secrets.
So Cressida went on, describing how poor Annabelle found that the Manor had been lost in a card game and then how the moneylender had taken her town house away from her. She proceeded to relate how Annabelle had gone to the Earl of Darkwood’s town house, unaware that now, as she talked, Lady Kitson’s normally good-natured face was becoming hard.
When Cressida had finally finished her tale, Lady Kitson said in stern, measured tones, “You are a country innocent and have been gulled, my child. Annabelle Carruthers has ruined her reputation. No lady would be seen dead in an unmarried gentleman’s town house. He has set her up with his aunt to provide a thin veneer of respectability over a disgraceful affair. Miss Davenant is a silly woman and would turn a blind eye if asked. You must never go near Annabelle Carruthers again.”
“But, Aunt,” wailed Cressida, appalled. “You do not know her. She is all that is good and kind.”
“I repeat, go near that woman again and I will send you home in disgrace!”
“I have betrayed her,” said Cressida, beginning to cry.
Lady Kitson was very fond of her niece. Better to let the girl think the matter had blown over. “There, now, do not cry,” she said. “We will say no more about it. I will not breathe a word just so long as you do not visit Clarence Square again.”
The earl called on Annabelle at ten o’clock that evening. He looked tired and strained. He sat down wearily by the fire. “Westbourne’s real name was Barry, son of an English cobbler and a French mother. Father died, mother returned to France and became the mistress of one of the tribunal judges during the Terror. The boy was trained from an early age to speak English properly and to act the part of an English gentleman. He was the ringleader of a small group of traitors. They have all been taken. A sentry at Chelsea barracks has disappeared, and we can find no trace of him. It is believed he is the one who conveyed the poisoned brandy to Temple. We want no public fuss about this, we want their masters in France to think they are still working in London. That way, we can watch Barry’s apartment and the lodgings of the others and see if anyone sneaks over from France to see how they are doing. They are lucky, for they will not hang. They will be transported to Botany Bay. We are very sure there is no one left to threaten you. You may be comfortable again.”
“Thank you,” said Annabelle. “Oh, thank you for everything.”
He stood up and smiled down at her. “I think I prefer you when you are putting me in my place. Now you must excuse me. I am already late.” Something prompted him to say, “I am due to escort Miss Clairmont and her parents to the opera.”
It was as if a light had been switched out behind Annabelle’s eyes.
He found as he left that he was not looking forward to the evening at all, but stubbornly put down his dismal feelings to fatigue.
Chapter Nine
Lady Kitson was taking tea the next afternoon with several society matrons. They were all in the green saloon of Lady Clairmont’s home. Balls and gowns were discussed and then the marital hopes of their various daughters and young relatives.
“I think my Cressida will take very well,” said Lady Kitson. “She has not much in the way of looks, but she is a sweet and obliging girl.”
“Such an expense and worry, this business of puffing them off,” sighed Mrs. Camden-Brown, a thin nervous woman who knew her husband would lay the failure at her door if a husband were not found for their equally thin and nervous daughter soon. “Mr. Camden-Brown says that if she is not engaged by Christmas, then he will send us to India, hoping that some young army officer far from home will prove susceptible. But, oh, the long journey, then the heat and the flies.”
“I hope it does not happen,” replied Lady Kitson. “Things can go so wrong in India. Felicity Hardacre, Lord Hardacre’s eldest, was sent there, and what must she do but fall in love with some Indian prince. Of course it would not answer.”
“The Hardacres would not countenance her marrying a native?” asked Mrs. Camden-Brown.
“Not in the least. It was the prince’s family who did not approve. They considered the girl to be much too inferior.”
“My worries will soon be at an end, I think,” said Lady Clairmont. “Dear Rosamund could have been wed I do not know how many times over, but she needs must wait for Darkwood to come up to the mark. But he will, my dears, he will.”
“I feel sorry for Rosamund should that take place,” said Lady Kitson. “One can always turn a blind eye to an opera dancer, say, but to a dashing widow like Mrs. Carruthers, well, that is another matter.”
A sudden hush fell on the group, and all eyes turned on Lady Kitson. “What can you mean?” demanded Lady Clairmont icily.
“Lord Darkwood had Mrs. Carruthers in residence in his town house and only shortly after Mr. Carruthers died. Not only that, but he later coerced his own aunt into acting as chaperon to the female.”
“Miss Davenant! Never,” exclaimed Mrs. Camden-Brown. “I cannot believe it.”
“No need to believe me,” said Lady Kitson. “I suggest, Lady Clairmont, you tax Darkwood with it yourself. My silly niece, Cressida, found out the whole. I have forbidden her to go near the Carruthers creature. If Mrs. Carruthers cares to ruin herself, that is another matter, but she shall not drag my niece down.”
“Impossible,” said Lady Clairmont. “Now I suggest we talk of something more interesting.”
No one could guess how upset she was as she talked of balls and parties and operas an
d poured tea. When her last guest had gone, she rang the bell and asked for a footman to seek out Lord Darkwood and to tell him his presence was urgently required. Rosamund was at the dressmaker’s with her maid. Lady Clairmont gave the butler orders that Miss Clairmont was to be told to go to her room and stay there as soon as she arrived back, and if Lord Darkwood was in the house by that time, she was not to be told of it.
After only half an hour, Lord Darkwood arrived and was shown into Lady Clairmont’s presence. She looked him over from the top of his shining black hair to the gloss on his Hessian boots and gave a little sigh.
“Sit down, my lord,” she said. “I have heard a most curious report.
“There is a niece of Lady Kitson, a certain Cressida Knight.”
“Yes, our vicar’s daughter.”
“Quite. This Cressida is, or was, a friend of a certain Mrs. Carruthers. From Mrs. Carruthers, she gleaned that that lady had been resident in your town house and had nursed you through your fever, that you subsequently set up Mrs. Carruthers in a house in Clarence Square and put your aunt there as well.”
“Yes, that is so.”
Lady Clairmont took a deep breath. “You have been paying Rosamund a certain amount of attention. I must now tell you that you are no longer welcome in this house and that you are to leave our daughter strictly alone. Do I make myself clear?”
The earl’s face darkened. “Is it any use my pointing out that any relations I have with Mrs. Carruthers are perfectly respectable?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Then I give you good day,” said the earl stonily.
He went straight to Clarence Square, his fury mounting. Annabelle and Miss Davenant were in the drawing room, hemming handkerchiefs.
“Leave us,” the earl commanded his aunt. He held open the door for her. “And go straight to your room,” he ordered.
Miss Davenant left, feeling frightened and worried. No, she would not go to her room. She would listen. Annabelle might need her help.
“So, madam,” said the earl, glaring at Annabelle, “you aimed to marry me all along.”
“Marry you? Of course not. Are you foxed?”
“I am cold sober, madam. A very pretty ploy. I try, out of the goodness of my heart, mark you, to save you from scandal, and you—you think by prattling away to Cressida Knight that you can coerce me into marriage. And damn you to hell, you have succeeded.”
He sank down into a chair and folded his arms and stared at her moodily.
Annabelle gazed at him in horror. “I told Cressida—I should not—but I told her I had been at your town house. But she swore to me she would not breathe a word to a soul.”
“With a secret like that! A young green girl? She talked with the result I have been summoned to Lady Clairmont and ordered to keep clear of her daughter. My aunt’s good name is ruined. There is only one thing to do. I shall get a special license, and we will be married as soon as possible.”
“Never!” said Annabelle, leaping to her feet. “There is no need.”
“Think of my aunt,” he said grimly.
Outside the door, Miss Davenant stood, her heart beating hard. She should rush into that room and say she did not care about her name or reputation. But the earl was in love with Annabelle. Of that she was all at once sure. She would gamble. She would simply go to her room as she had been ordered to do and say her prayers and let things take their natural course.
“I am thinking of your aunt,” said Annabelle. “I shall tell everyone of her innocence.”
He rose as well and walked over to face her. “And who would believe you? A doxy like you!”
Annabelle raised her hand to strike him, but he caught it and held it in a firm grip and smiled down at her in a way that made her tremble. “Make the most of it,” he said. “You wanted to be my mistress, in any case, so there is no need to shrink from my embrace.”
He jerked her into his arms and began to kiss her furiously while she beat at his shoulders helplessly. But gradually she could feel her treacherous body beginning to respond to his embraces, a softening inside, a sweet stab of pain, a yearning, and slowly her hands fell to her side. He bent her back and back until she fell down on the sofa and then he lay on top of her, sinking his mouth further into hers, feeling her body throbbing and pulsating under his own. He forgot he was supposed to be humiliating her and punishing her. He found he could not get enough of her, enough of kisses and caresses. He rolled a little to one side to easier caress her breasts and fell on the floor.
“A pox on these modern sofas,” he said. “They were not made for lovemaking.”
He stood up and leaned down and drew her to her feet. He kissed her again, warmly and passionately, and then raised his head and flicked one of her tumbled curls with his finger.
“So we are to be married,” he said. “Tell my aunt the good news. I will see you again after I have obtained a special license.”
He strode downstairs and out of the house. It had been raining earlier, but now the streets were flooded with pale gold sunlight, and the air was fresh and keen. He felt tremendously happy and well.
He thought of Rosamund with her prattling conversation, the seductive exterior, which covered the cold and frosty interior and the cloying scent she wore. “By George!” he said aloud. “I am not going to marry Rosamund Clairmont.” And for the first time since he had been a schoolboy, he began to whistle.
Miss Davenant crept into the drawing room. Annabelle was kneeling by the fire, her hair tumbled about her shoulders. She was weeping miserably. “What have I done, Miss Davenant? I have ruined you as well as myself. I told Cressida Knight about staying at Darkwood’s town house when he had the fever and what must the silly girl do but spread the story all over town. Now he says he has to m-marry me, and I can’t bear it.”
Annabelle now meant that she could not bear a loveless marriage to the earl. But as she straightened up and put her tumbled hair back from her face with one shaking hand, Miss Davenant saw a large bruise on her neck. The earl had bitten Annabelle’s neck at the height of his passion, but Miss Davenant, innocent herself of any lovemaking experience whatsoever, assumed he had tried to strangle her, and all her dreams of a happy marriage between the earl and Annabelle crumbled into dust. She had been mistaken. No man in love would treat a lady so.
She knelt down beside Annabelle and gathered her into her arms. “There, my child,” she said. “Of what use is my old reputation. Men are beasts! Animals! I shall protect you.”
“There is nothing you can do,” said Annabelle quietly. “I must marry him and save your reputation.”
Miss Davenant felt her faith in God waver. Had she not prayed long and hard for guidance? And then, as she held Annabelle, a great idea came into her head.
“Listen,” she said urgently, “I think I might be able to hit on a way that would save my reputation and yours and Darkwood’s. Now if that comes to pass, would you be happy to be free of him?”
“Oh, yes,” sobbed Annabelle. “For that man is a devil. He will take away my soul.”
“Then dry your eyes and leave it to me,” said Miss Davenant.
Annabelle smiled weakly, but she really did not see what Miss Davenant could do with the town buzzing with such scandalous gossip.
Miss Davenant, despite her newfound comfort, had never forgotten her impoverished friends, a clique of poor relations with whom she often took tea. They pooled their resources, each bringing such little treats to the communal tea table which they could afford. A visit of one of them to a grand relation meant extra food, for each would return from some stately home with a bag full of filched goodies; although no one had the same enterprise and courage as the ancient Miss Primms, second cousin to the Duchess of Berkshire, who returned from one visit to the ducal home with a supply of the best beeswax candles, which she had proceeded to distribute among her friends.
To a startled audience, Miss Davenant outlined the plight of Annabelle Carruthers. “And such a sweet child
and so caring,” she finished. “We must do what we can to help her.”
“How?” demanded Miss Primms.
“Like this,” said Miss Davenant. “Now, we are supposed to wait until our grand relatives remember our existence and summon us, are we not? But one little visit by each of us to some tea gathering tomorrow would do the trick. I think they will forgive us one visit. I cannot visit Darkwood, but I can visit my cousin, Lady Fremley. Wait until the subject of Annabelle Carruthers comes up or make sure yourself it comes up and say airily you do not know what all the fuss is about for Miss Davenant was resident in the earl’s town house while Mrs. Carruthers nursed him. And if you all do your job well, then I shall present each of you out of my allowance with free coals and tea during the winter.”
There was a vigorous nodding of gray and white heads. Coals! And tea! The two dearest comforts of a poor old age.
Matilda, Duchess of Hadshire, sat miserably in a corner of Lady Trompington’s drawing room. She loathed Lady Trompington, but the duke often chose whom she should visit. Her loathing was made more acute by the relish with which Lady Trompington savored Annabelle Carruthers’s downfall.
“Cannot we talk about something else?” demanded Matilda, while mentally damning that treacherous little gossip, Cressida Knight.
But then the poor relation in the corner spoke up. She was a Miss George, an ancient relative of the Trompingtons. Lady Trompington was annoyed that the old quiz should have chosen to invade one of her afternoons. Miss George was usually only taken out and dusted around Christmas. “Such a silly bunch of lies,” said Miss George, “and so damaging to poor Miss Davenant’s reputation. Lady Kitson should take the birch to that niece of hers and so I shall tell her.”
“She told her aunt which was most proper of her so to do,” said Lady Trompington, looking down her nose. She wished she had stayed in the country and had only come to town in the hope of seeing that divine Mr. Temple again, but there had been no sign of him.
