by M C Beaton
She walked through the streets of the West End, not noticing the goods displayed in the shop windows, immersed in sad thoughts of how she had been tricked into marriage, how she had at least found a friend in Sir Charles, and how life had become extremely complicated now that he was so obviously infatuated with Miss Woodward. If only she could meet that dashing black-haired man in the portrait, the man she had thought was Sir Charles. She became uncomfortably aware of the fact that well-dressed, pretty young ladies should not go walking alone in London, even in the West End, when one Bond Street lounger deliberately caught his spurs in her skirts and tore them, “cracking the muslin,” as it was called. He cackled with laughter and she scurried off, her face flaming, and bumped into a tall, dark man.
She looked up at him, one swift, fleeting glance, and then stood stock still. Here was the man of the portrait. Above her, looking down at her quizzically, was the dark, ruthless, handsome face.
“Your servant, ma’am,” said Lord Bohun.
“I am sorry I bumped into you,” said Fanny, looking every bit as flustered as she felt. “But some cad tore my skirts quite deliberately with his spurs and—and … I suppose it is all my own fault for walking out alone.”
“Permit me to escort you,” said Lord Bohun. This charmer, he thought, might take his mind off Sir Charles Deveney. For he had just learned that morning that not only had Sir Charles come into a fortune but his cousin, a Miss Fanny Page, was a rich heiress and residing with him. He had hoped to escape from his own gnawing jealousy of Sir Charles by selling out of the army. But here was Sir Charles in London and the talk of society.
In an abstracted voice, he asked, “What is your direction, Miss … er …?”
“Miss Page, Miss Fanny Page.”
“Bohun, at your service.”
He talked lightly of this and that as they walked along, while all the time his mind was racing. This then was Deveney’s cousin. A beautiful little heiress. And from the admiration in those eyes—glancing up into his face from under the shadow of a pretty bonnet—his for the taking, if he put his mind to it. But if Deveney got wind of anything, he would soon put a stop to it. There had been that trouble with that Spanish woman. Only a Spaniard. No need for Deveney to cry rape, and all the while he chatted easily about plays and opera, while Fanny felt as if she were floating somewhere above the ground.
When they reached Miss Grimes’s house, she looked up at him shyly. “I am indebted to you. Is it Lord Bohun?”
He nodded. “Lord Bohun. I shall never go walking on my own again.”
She summoned up courage. “Would you care to step inside … for—for a glass of wine or a dish of tea?”
“Alas, I know your cousin, and I would rather you did not mention meeting me at all.” Fanny looked at him in distress. “But why not?”
“Various reasons I would rather not explain. I would not stoop to criticize the relative of so beautiful a lady. But we shall meet again.” His eyes seemed to glow as they held her own.
“I—I do hope so,” said Fanny breathlessly. “I will not say a word to Charles, as you obviously do not wish it.”
“Do you go to the Marsdens’ breakfast?” “Yes, I believe so. Tomorrow, is it not?” “I shall see you there.”
He raised her hand to his lips, deposited a burning kiss on the back of her glove, and strode off down the street. Fanny let out a little sigh of pure rapture and tripped indoors.
So that when Sir Charles returned, instead of finding a downcast Fanny, he found an elated young girl.
“You are looking very fine, Fanny,” he said, dropping a careless kiss on her cheek.
“I am feeling very well,” said Fanny. “I think the air of London suits me. Are we going to the Marsdens’ breakfast, Charles?”
“Aunt Martha has accepted for us. But to tell the truth, my aunt has been out of the world for too long. The Marsdens are a most rackety couple and perhaps we should not go.”
Fanny’s soft lips set in a stubborn line. “I have never been to a breakfast before,” she said.
“There was our wedding breakfast.”
“That doesn’t count,” said Fanny, sounding almost pettish.
“Fanny, these breakfast affairs, as you know, begin at three in the afternoon and can go on until dawn. Mostly they are served in the gardens, and if it should rain, everybody is bundled into the house in a sort of makeshift way.”
“It sounds like fun. Isn’t Miss Woodward going to be there?”
“I do not know. I did say something about us going.
“Then she will be there.”
“Why are you so sure, kitten? Is she enamored of my charms?”
“Of your fictitious moneybags, no doubt.”
“What a petty thing to say!”
“I am sorry,” said Fanny contritely. “I do so want you to be happy—and will do nothing to stand in the way of that happiness. I mean, you would not stop me from enjoying the company of the man of my choice.”
“Of course not.”
“Swear. Swear on your heart.”
“How ferocious you are! There, I swear it, Fanny. Whatever cavalier meets your fancy will receive a welcome from me.”
“Good,” said Fanny. “I’ll keep you to that promise.”
Lord Bohun made his way to the Chelsea home of the Marsdens. Mr. Marsden was out, but his wife, Dolly Marsden, was pleased to receive him. They had had a brief affair on Lord Bohun’s last leave. She was a plump little woman with china blue eyes and sandy hair. Sunlight struck through the window of her drawing room … showing her appreciative guest that under her transparent muslin she wore nothing but stockings and garters. His senses quickened, but then he remembered Fanny.
“I want you to do something for me, Dolly.”
“Anything, my heart.”
“Have you heard of the latest heiress on the London scene? Fanny Page?”
“Of course. That is why I invited that old fright, Martha Grimes, to my breakfast. And what needs she do but demand an invitation for some army captain.”
“Name?”
“Tommy Hawkes.”
Lord Bohun’s face darkened. “Look, Dolly, I have an interest in this Miss Page.”
Dolly pouted. “So you are bent on marriage after all?”
“Perhaps. But revenge interests me more. This Miss Page has a cousin, one Sir Charles Deveney.”
“Yes, he is the reason that Miss Grimes and her dreary captain are invited as well. He stays with her. A delightful man I have heard. And very rich.”
“He is everything I despise, puritanical, strait-laced, always around to stop any fun and games. I would like to see him sweat a little.”
Dolly’s face lightened. “A game,” she cried, clapping her plump hands. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to befriend Miss Page, to tell her that I am no end of a fine fellow, but subject to jealous spite from other army officers such as Deveney and Hawkes. You know me to be a brave man, desired by every lady in London, that sort of thing. Gradually introduce her to some of your ways and to that little gambling club you run.”
“You want me to corrupt her,” said Dolly.
He laughed. “Did I say so? There’s money in it if you play your part well. But nothing too obvious, mind. Place her next to me at your breakfast and put Deveney as far away as possible.”
“I heard a report that Deveney is much taken with Miss Woodward and her grasping mama is anxious to encourage him,” said Dolly. “Mrs. Woodward turned down my invitation but must have found out that Deveney was to be present, for she sent a note saying she had changed her mind, along with a giant box of sweetmeats. So I shall put La Woodward next to Deveney. Dear me, I never thought to be helping you in your love life, Bohun.” She glanced at him slyly. “Here we are, all alone …”
He laughed and reached for her. “One more time, hey, Dolly? No harm in one more time.”
Chapter Four
MARTHA GRIMES CAREFULLY donned a new silk gown, o
ne she had never worn before. It was pale lilac with a tucked and embroidered bodice, long sleeves, and several flounces at the hem. But the neckline was surely a trifle low for a lady of her advanced years. She tugged at it fretfully. But—she glanced out of the window—the day was very fine and warm, quite un-English weather. It would be hot in the Marsdens’ garden, and therefore it was sensible not to be too covered up, and perhaps the captain might notice that she still had a fine neck …
She had to confess that her thoughts were now filled almost every minute of the day with thoughts of the captain. Yet she felt uneasily that time was flitting past and she had a serious situation on her hands. She had lectured Sir Charles about his interest in Miss Woodward, saying he should put all thoughts of his own happiness aside until Fanny was settled, but Sir Charles had listened to her gravely and had replied quietly that he was convinced that he could take care of his own future and that of Fanny’s at the same time. Miss Woodward was all that was kind and beautiful. Once he had her confidence, he would tell her the truth and she would be a valuable friend for Fanny to have. Tommy had walked into the room at that moment and Miss Grimes had immediately, if temporarily, forgotten all about the troubles of this oddest of young married couples.
But she did reflect before they set out that Fanny had never looked prettier—or more enchanting—in a chip straw bonnet ornamented on the crown with marguerites and a filmy white muslin gown with a wide yellow silk sash. Her huge eyes sparkled and her perfectly shaped little mouth was pink and soft. Miss Grimes felt a slight qualm of uneasiness as she looked at that mouth. It looked ready for kisses. It was as if something had awoken Fanny to the world of men.
They made a merry, almost family party, on the journey to Chelsea. Sir Charles teased Fanny and said she was so beautiful his time would be taken up in fighting men off. Tommy told several very long jokes that he said had been told to him by a vicar, imitating the vicar’s slow, lugubrious voice. The jokes were not very funny, but Tommy’s delivery was. Miss Grimes laughed until the tears streamed down her face.
But Miss Grimes became serious when their open carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Marsdens’ home. She turned to Sir Charles. “The Marsdens know some very fast people and Fanny is not used to such, so instead of romancing Miss Woodward and becoming spoony to the point of oblivion, you must watch over Fanny and see she does not get into bad company.”
Sir Charles smiled indulgently. He was very proud of Fanny. She had a freshness, daintiness, and charm unusual in the more jaded and painted beauties of London. But on arrival, they were asked to take their seats at the long tables in the garden and Sir Charles promptly forgot about Fanny, and everything else, in the delight at finding he was sitting next to Miss Woodward.
Captain Tommy was relieved to discover he was next to Miss Grimes. He was always conscious of the shabbiness of his clothes and his gaucherie in society. With Miss Grimes, he felt at ease and at home. He settled down to enjoy himself, making such an effort to keep her entertained that he succeeded for quite half the meal, until he saw Miss Grimes stiffen and her face grow set. “What is the matter?” he asked quickly.
“Fanny,” said Miss Grimes. “Who is that handsome man who is making her blush and simper?”
Tommy followed her gaze and his face darkened. “That is Bohun,” he said. “He was in our regiment and sold out just recently. An unsavory type.”
“And see how Captain Hawkes stares at me,” Lord Bohun was saying. “And no doubt your cousin will be outraged when he discovers I am enchanted by you. Neither of them likes me.”
“Why?” asked Fanny.
Lord Bohun racked his brain for one of the least scandalous events in his life that had drawn the wrath of Sir Charles down on his head. “It was in Spain,” he said. “The time was boring, waiting for the French, and I was playing cards with two fellow officers and a Spaniard. I was winning, and the Spaniard suddenly upped and said I had been cheating. Deveney was called and examined the cards—and said in that cold way of his that the cards had been marked. Well, who do you think marked ‘em? The Spaniard of course. But would Deveney listen? I was nearly court-martialed. He said there would be a hearing in the morning, but the Spaniard left during the night and left a note confessing that he had marked the cards.”
“So all was well?” ventured Fanny.
“Not a bit of it. Deveney needs must make a fuss and say that it was deuced odd that a chap who had marked the cards himself should start shouting about cheating. He said that the note was in good English. He accused me of either threatening the Spaniard or paying him to go away … and forging the note myself.”
“That does not sound at all like Charles,” said Fanny uneasily.
“Oh, that’s very like Charles Deveney,” said Lord Bohun. “He persecuted me so much that I decided to sell out.”
“It must all be a mistake,” said Fanny wretchedly. “Let me speak to him.”
“No!” cried Lord Bohun. “He would simply tell you more stories to discredit me. I do not blame him. He has had a hard life. His parents are wastrels, I believe. He envied me and my wealth. Now he is rich himself, he should not, but jealousy dies hard.”
The gentleman on Fanny’s other side claimed her attention. She listened to him, apparently attentively, while all the while her mind was racing. She wanted to believe Lord Bohun, but how could she believe such things of Charles? The sun was beating down on the garden and she felt suffocated and had a desire to get away by herself, if only for a few moments. She deliberately spilled a little wine on her gown and let out an exclamation, then rose to her feet. “How clumsy I am,” she said.
She tripped off in the direction of the house. Lord Bohun caught Dolly Marsden’s eye and nodded briefly. She rose and followed Fanny into the house.
Dolly had been primed by Lord Bohun about what to say to spike Sir Charles Deveney’s guns.
“My dear!” said Dolly, catching up with Fanny. “Is anything the matter?”
“I spilled a little wine on my gown,” said Fanny.
“Hardly a mark,” said Dolly. “Fortunately it was white wine. Come to my boudoir and I will dab a little benzine on it for you.”
Fanny followed her plump hostess. Had Dolly been in one of her more outrageous gowns, then Fanny would have been wary of her. But Dolly was wearing a pretty sprigged muslin over a silk slip and looked like a motherly woman.
She fussed over Fanny and dabbed at the stain, finally saying, “There you are. Not a mark.”
“You are very kind, Mrs. Marsden.”
“Call me Dolly, and I shall call you Fanny.”
Fanny had no town bronze and assumed that ladies calling each other by their first names after a few minutes’ chat was a London fashion. “Don’t go back yet,” Dolly went on. “So hot in the garden, is it not? We shall stay here for a few moments and be cool. I am glad to see you are getting along famously with Bohun. Such a fine man! The catch of the Season. He seems enchanted with you, my dear.”
Fanny lowered her long eyelashes to hide her eyes and Dolly studied her shrewdly. “Of course, that cousin of yours will not be pleased.”
“No?” said Fanny in a small voice.
“Alas, his jealousy of Bohun is legendary. His only fault, my dear. Do not look so miserable. But relatives can be so cruel. You must not let your cousin’s jealousy stand in the way of your happiness.”
“I cannot believe this of Charles,” exclaimed Fanny. “I know him. He is the kindest man in the world!”
“I am sure he is, Fanny. I am sure he is! But all men have a weakness … and your cousin’s happens to be his jealousy of Lord Bohun. Now when Marsden was courting me, my brother tried everything to stop the marriage, and why? Because he thought no one good enough for me.”
“So what did you do?”
“I refused to discuss Marsden with him. I followed my heart and have never known a day’s unhappiness since.”
Fanny reflected naively that love must indeed be blind, for Mr. Mar
sden was an odd-looking fellow with a large head, and thick, wet lips, and a bulbous nose, but perhaps he had deteriorated rapidly in looks. Dolly saw her young guest was still not convinced and rose to her feet. “London is a sadly rackety place,” she said, “and full of oddish people. It is comforting to have a friend. If you ever want to call on me, I shall always be delighted to help and advise you.”
“Thank you,” said Fanny, extremely touched.
“Now, back we go, and do not listen to any nasty tales about Bohun … because I can assure you he is the best of men and I have known him this age.”
So Fanny went back. She had been in the grip of a growing obsession about Lord Bohun ever since she had seen his portrait and was too inexperienced to tell the difference between love and obsession. As she approached him, she saw the sun striking down on his glossy black hair, and saw the strong, almost cruel lines of his face. He was tall and commanding, with broad shoulders and chest, a slim waist and hips. His very size, and his aura of strength, made her feel small and delicate and cherished.
Lord Bohun stood up at her arrival and smiled down into her eyes in a way that made her feel weak. It cost him an effort to produce that smile because the day was hot and the buckram wadding, which gave the width to his chest and shoulders, and the tight corset, which slimmed his waist, were making him uncomfortable and itchy. He wanted to go home and take off all these appurtenances of fashion, lie down in a cool room, and have a good scratch. But as he took Fanny’s hand to assist her to her chair, he felt the way it trembled in his own and all his hunting instincts and desire for revenge of Sir Charles returned with such force that he forgot about his discomfort and settled down to charm the bewildered and dazed Fanny.
Miss Amanda Woodward fanned herself vigorously and with a little moue of irritation turned away from Sir Charles and began to talk to the man on her other side, an elderly gentleman who was quite startled to find himself the focus of the beauty’s attention. Miss Woodward had enjoyed the first part of the meal, when Sir Charles had gazed at her rapturously. She had begun to revise her first opinions of him. He had a slim acrobat’s body and very fine eyes. His thick, fair hair glinted in the sunlight. His hands were very fine, long and white, and well shaped. His voice was light and pleasing, with a slight husky note in it. And then his attention had suddenly become focused on his cousin and he had grown edgy and abstracted and had answered all her sallies mechanically.
