The Glitter and the Gold (Endearing Young Charms Book 7)

by M C Beaton

  “I say,” said Tommy, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe Bohun ain’t that bad. I mean, rape was never proved against him.”

  “Rape!” screamed Miss Grimes.

  “There was an incident with a Spanish woman,” Sir Charles said, sighing. “She claimed that Bohun had raped her. I had the whole matter investigated. With drunken British soldiers raping nuns in convents, my fellow officers felt I was going too far in chasing Bohun. But on the day the woman was to report to me with her evidence, she disappeared. Several evil-looking louts from the village we were billeted in testified with amazing alacrity to the fact that the woman was a whore. I did not know much Spanish then; but I knew enough to be sure that they were lying. Other people in the village who had not come forward subsequently told me she was a respectable widow. But without the woman herself, there was nothing I could do.”

  Miss Grimes was aghast. “Did you tell Fanny this?”

  “I could not, as nothing had been proved against Bohun. Therefore she has only my word against his, my unsubstantiated word. And would she believe me? Of course not. She dotes on the man. But she has not yet had time to get to know him. Let us pray she does, or I must seriously think about trying to stop this marriage.”

  The butler entered. “Mrs. Woodward and Miss Woodward,” he announced.

  “We are not at home,” said Sir Charles, without looking round.

  “But Charles,” protested Miss Grimes, “that is a most dreadful snub. Has anything happened?”

  He collected himself with an obvious effort. “This engagement of Fanny’s has upset me. Show them up, Hoskins.”

  Miss Grimes reflected sourly that Amanda Woodward was indeed a shiner. Her beauty lit up the room. Her manner and bearing were faultless. She smiled on Sir Charles with great sweetness. Miss Grimes noticed that although Charles smiled back and was very attentive to both Miss Woodward and her mother, he seemed to be acting a part. And all Mrs. Woodward’s hints that the day had turned fine and that Amanda was “pining” for a drive in the Park appeared to fall on deaf ears.

  She was relieved when the couple left. “You were a trifle chilly, Charles,” she commented.

  But Sir Charles was not going to betray that his infatuation for Amanda Woodward was at an end. He still felt ashamed that he had been so easily gulled.

  “My heart,” Lord Bohun was saying, “we should not inflict a long engagement on each other. So old-fashioned. I cannot believe you have come to love me.”

  And guileless Fanny smiled up at him with her heart in her eyes and said, “I loved you before I even met you.”

  He laughed. “How can that be?”

  “You will find this hard to believe. I saw your portrait.”

  “Which portrait. Where?”

  “Sir Charles’s parents have a portrait of you. I do not know how they came by it. You are on a charger on the battlefield. Most romantic.”

  “I commissioned that portrait in Spain,” he said sharply, “and shipped it home. But my agent informed me that it had been stolen by footpads.”

  Fanny groaned inwardly. She had forgotten for the moment that her perfidious in-laws had pretended that the portrait was of Sir Charles.

  “Actually,” she said quickly, “it was not a portrait of you at all, but of someone entirely different, but so very like you all the same. Oh, do look. What a quiz of a bonnet!”

  A less devious man would have pursued the subject, would have questioned her more closely about that painting, but he remembered in a flash all the peculiar stories he had heard about Deveney’s parents. If he could prove they themselves had stolen his portrait, then that, by association, would discredit Sir Charles in Fanny’s eyes. So he laughed and agreed the bonnet was quite dreadful and then talked of this and that.

  “So we are to attend the Hardys’ musicale tomorrow evening,” said Fanny at last. “Will you be there?”

  “Alas, I must live without you for a few days. I have business on my estates to attend to,” said Lord Bohun. “I shall think of you every moment I am away.”

  As soon as he had bidden a fond farewell to her, he returned to his town house and found the preliminary sketches for that portrait, including a letter of agreement from the Spanish artist, and then sent his man out to find out where Sir Charles Deveney’s home lay.

  By morning, while Fanny still lay asleep, Lord Bohun was already thundering out on the Great Western Road in the direction of Oxfordshire.

  He found that Sir Charles’s home had been let to an American couple, a Mr. Seaton and his wife, who were fortunately at home and pleased to receive him. He was glad he had not professed to be a friend of Squire Deveney’s, for Mr. Seaton began to complain almost immediately that he had been tricked, that the hall was neither as well appointed or grand as he had been led to believe in an exchange of letters, but that he and his wife had been billeted in an uncomfortable London hotel and too anxious for country air to look into the matter as thoroughly as they should. The place was threadbare and the furniture shoddy, said Mr. Seaton. It was furthermore ill-staffed and the tenants on the estates badly housed. It was all very well to say that as only a temporary occupant he should ignore such tiresome things as leaky roofs and high rents but he could not. He was an American and did not hold with people being treated like animals, raged Mr. Seaton, the fact that he employed slave labor on his plantation in Virginia seeming not to count.

  Having agreed with every word his host said—and having exercised his charm on the dumpy Mrs. Seaton—Lord Bohun shook his head sadly and said he had worse to tell them. It was his belief that Squire Deveney was nothing more than a common thief. While they exclaimed in horror, he produced the sketches and the artist’s letter, saying if they did not believe him, he would have the letter translated for them at his own expense, but that he believed Squire Deveney had come by a stolen portrait.

  “I don’t think I have seen anything like that here,” said Mr. Seaton.

  “Let me see.” His wife looked over his shoulder. “I know that painting,” she exclaimed. “It is in the attics.” She rang the bell, and, when a footman answered, said, “Go up to the attics, John, the one with the broken furniture. You will find a painting, quite large, wrapped up in a cloth just behind the door on the left-hand side.”

  “There you are!” said Mr. Seaton triumphantly. “Now you can prosecute that rogue, Deveney, for holding stolen goods.”

  “I am afraid I cannot,” said Lord Bohun. “I am engaged to Sir Charles Deveney’s cousin, Miss Page.”

  “Any relation to the Pages of Delfton Hall?”

  “Probably.”

  “Must be another daughter,” said Mrs. Seaton.

  The portrait was carried in and unveiled. Lord Bohun looked at it with satisfaction. “I am so pleased to have my property back. If you would be so good as to ask your man to put it in my carriage …”

  He rose and bowed. He was making his way out when he suddenly stopped and stood stock still. He swung round. “Why did you say about the Pages, it must be another daughter?”

  “I heard talk in the village that Sir Charles Deveney, the son, that is—who, by the way, is highly regarded—married a Miss Page. But mind you, it is not an uncommon name.”

  Lord Bohun smiled wolfishly. “No, I am sure we must be thinking of some other family. Good day to you. Oh, by the way, your Pages, where do they live?”

  “Over at Delfton Hall. You go to the crossroads and take the Banbury Road for three miles. You will see the gate posts topped with griffins.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed again.

  He directed his coachman to Delfton Hall and then sat back, his mind racing. What was going on? Could it possibly be that the puritanical Sir Charles was actually tricking London society and passing Fanny off as his cousin?

  He shook his head. Fanny was sweetness itself and would not be party to any deception. Still, it would do no harm to call at Delfton Hall.

  Another shabby residence, he thought as his carriage swung round in front
of the hall. The gardens, which consisted of shaggy lawns, had a neglected air.

  A trim maid took his card and asked him to wait. She returned and ushered him through to a long saloon on the ground floor.

  A gentleman rose at his entrance.

  Lord Bohun strode forward. “Mr. Page?”

  “The servant should have told you, my lord. I am Mr. Robinson. I rent this place from the Pages.”

  “Ah, but perhaps you can tell me about the family?”

  “I cannot help you much there. You should ask the vicar. I did not actually meet them. My man of business arranged the rental of this house. We were anxious to move south from Northumberland, for my son is at Oxford University and I am afraid my wife dotes on the boy and cannot bear to be too far from him. The house is neither as comfortable nor well staffed as my agent was led to believe, although there is an excellent cook. Of course, Mrs. Friendly, the cook, will know about the Pages. Would you like to speak to her?”

  “Thank you.”

  Lord Bohun conversed amiably while waiting for the cook. He was feeling more confident now. He, who was so used to tricking people, could not believe he had been tricked himself.

  Mrs. Friendly entered the room. “Ah, here you are,” said Mr. Robinson. “This is Lord Bohun, who has an interest in the Pages.”

  The cook eyed the tall lord and did not like what she saw. Her usually open and cheerful face took on a shuttered look. She was loyal to the feckless Pages and had been used to the wiles of duns, who often had tried to masquerade as visitors in the past, although none had been so impertinent as to impersonate a lord.

  “I have friends in London,” said Lord Bohun. “Sir Charles Deveney and his cousin, Miss Fanny Page.”

  Goodness, thought Mrs. Friendly, what are they up to? “The people who rent the Deveneys’ place inform me that Sir Charles married a Miss Page … but yet he is courting a certain Miss Woodward in London—and Miss Fanny Page is affianced to me, so I find it hard to believe.”

  What on earth are they doing? thought the anguished cook, but determined not to betray them. “Yes, I believe the Deveneys and the Pages are related,” she said, amazed that her voice, not practiced in lying, should sound so calm and steady.

  “So Sir Charles is not married?”

  “Not as far as I know, my lord.”

  He felt relieved—and at the same time disappointed—that the saintly Sir Charles was still on his pedestal.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Friendly. I was sure it was all a hum. You may congratulate me.”

  “Why, my lord?”

  “On my engagement to Miss Fanny.”

  “Oh, to be sure. I do, my lord.”

  “Splendid woman,” commented Mr. Robinson when Mrs. Friendly had left. “The one good thing about this damp and shoddy place.”

  Lord Bohun left, but when his carriage had reached the road he called on his coachman to stop. He sat there, biting his thumb. No! This was all wrong. There was definitely a bad smell about this! The rich Deveneys and the rich Pages? But what was it Mr. Robinson had said? Ask the vicar. He called to his coachman to turn about and drive into the village and stop at the church.

  The church door was open. He walked straight in, up to the altar, and turned left to the vestry. There on a stand stood the large parish register secured by a chain. He opened it and began to read carefully through the births, marriages, and deaths without coming across either the name Page or Deveney.

  Again that feeling of relief mixed with disappointment.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Lord Bohun swung round and found himself looking at the gentle and rather sheeplike features of the Reverend Thwyte-Simpson. “Miss Partington is taking tea with me,” said the vicar, “and my maid told us she had just seen a gentleman entering the church.”

  “I was looking through your register for a record of the marriage of friends of mine,” said Lord Bohun, now wishing he were on the way to London and feeling rather silly.

  “I should be able to help you. Their names?”

  “Sir Charles Deveney and Miss Fanny Page.”

  He was so sure he would hear a denial that he half turned away.

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr. Thwyte-Simpson. “Such a pretty wedding.”

  “Could you show me the entry in the register?” Lord Bohun kept his voice low and even.

  “Surely. Surely. Let me see. Yes, here is the christening of little Jimmy Wilkes, and before that… Well, bless my soul. Nothing here. And yet I stood by them when they both signed.”

  “Let me see.” Lord Bohun almost elbowed the vicar aside. He ran his hands over the pages and into the spine … and then he found it. He found a thin, sharp sliver of paper, all that was left after Sir Charles had cut the page out. But if he shouted that Deveney was a fraud, perhaps this vicar might even start to lie—as that cook had undoubtedly lied. Deveney, curse him, could command extraordinary loyalty.

  “Dear me, yes,” he realized the vicar was saying, “and Miss Partington was bridesmaid to Miss Fanny. A great day for her. Perhaps you would like to talk-?”

  “Certainly,” interrupted Lord Bohun grimly. “Lead me to her.”

  The vicar looked at him rather doubtfully but said mildly, “The vicarage is hard by the church.”

  In the vicarage parlor, Lord Bohun bent over Miss Partington’s hand. She blushed and simpered.

  “Lord Bohun is a friend of Sir Charles and Lady Deveney’s,” said the vicar. “I told him that you were Lady Deveney’s bridesmaid. Pray be seated, my lord, and I will ring for tea.”

  “Such a wonderful day,” said Miss Partington, sighing. “My gown was of white muslin. I thought I should freeze to death, but when I got to the church, I was so elated that I felt warm all over.”

  “And Miss Fanny, how did she look?” asked Lord Bohun, still hardly able to believe it was his Fanny.

  “Oh, like a fairy with that crop of glossy black curls and those big brown eyes. And Sir Charles just arrived from the wars. I was surprised to learn that the first time they set eyes on each other was on their wedding day—and even more surprised to be asked to be bridesmaid, for I had never been intimate with the Pages, Mrs. Page damning me as poor genteel—when of course everyone knows the Pages to be as poor as church mice when they are not living on credit … and that goes for the Deveneys, too.” Miss Partington giggled. “Aren’t I naughty to gossip so.”

  “But ‘tis said that Miss Fanny is an heiress, and Sir Charles, too, has come into a fortune.”

  “I know Miss Fanny is not an heiress, but did hear Sir Charles had come home with a great fortune in prize money.”

  But there was no prize money, thought Lord Bohun. He had to get away and think. He refused the offer of tea, which had just been brought in, rudely and abruptly, and strode straight out without saying good-bye.

  Once more he stopped his carriage on the road while he thought furiously. They were man and wife—but pretending not to be because they actually had no money. So they had hit on a plan. Fanny would marry the rich Lord Bohun and Deveney the rich Miss Woodward, and, provided they told no one about their marriage, they might get away with bigamy. Damn them!

  Then his eyes gleamed with a hellish light. He wanted Fanny. He had to admit to himself, he craved her. Now he had her where he wanted her. It was a pity Deveney had had her first. But no longer would he need to treat her like spun glass, and if she refused his advances, ah, then, all he had to do was threaten to betray her!

  And yet, when he set eyes on her again, he found it almost impossible to believe she was cheating him. She looked so virginal, so glowing and adoring. He felt a wave of admiration for her. Few women could have played the role of innocent virgin so well. And he had only held her hand!

  He was at a dance held on the lawns of Lord Anstey’s Kensington mansion. Huge marquees had been erected, one for dancing, one for refreshments, and another for cards. Little colored lanterns had been slung through the trees and a full moon was riding high above. The weather
had turned warm again, and the air was sweeter and fresher than that of London, perfumed as it was by the flowers and plants from the nearby nurseries that supplied produce to Covent Garden Market.

  Fanny was wearing a delicate pink gown of filmy silk and had her glossy curls bound by a gold fillet, on loan from Miss Grimes. Sir Charles, he noted grimly, was still paying court to Miss Woodward but not looking over-happy about it. Perhaps, thought Lord Bohun cynically, that conscience of his was bothering him at last.

  He entertained Fanny and Miss Grimes with several long and fictitious tales about the work he was doing on his estates, then courteously held out his arm and asked Fanny to promenade with him.

  “I still can’t like him,” said Miss Grimes to Tommy, who had just come up to join her.

  “Oh, forget Deveney and Fanny,” said Tommy crossly. “We spend too much time worrying about them and do not have enough time for ourselves. Let us go for a walk.”

  She smiled up at him, then rose and looped her skirt over her arm and went out of the marquee with him and into the moon-washed gardens.

  He held her arm in a comfortable grip. “Not much fun being a soldier’s wife,” said Tommy.

  “Ah,” said Miss Grimes. “You are thinking of Fanny.”

  Here it comes, thought Tommy desperately. I can’t go on like this. It’s now or never. Into battle, ‘cry God for Harry, England, and St. George.’ I have faced the French tiraillers with less fear than I feel at this moment.

  “No,” he said slowly and carefully. “I was thinking of you. I was thinking of us.”

  “But, Captain Tommy, you cannot mean … Oh. I did not hear you right.”

  “I am a poor soldier. I want to marry you. But I have nothing to offer you but my heart.”

  “Oh, Tommy, that is all I need.”

  He crushed her to him and kissed her slowly and tenderly on the lips.

  “Now,” he said softly when he finally freed his lips from hers, “will you marry me?” “Yes.”

  “Oh, dearest!”

  “And I will buy you out, as soon as possible, so you need never go back to that awful war again.”