by M C Beaton
At last Lord Bohun came in, resplendent in evening dress. He scowled at Fanny’s drab gown. Although he had said she would need no baggage, he had not expected her to come without even one change of clothes. He also felt that she might have tried to maintain the fiction of being his wife in front of the inn servants.
He walked to the table and pulled out a chair for her. She rose stiffly and sat down without looking at him. He felt himself becoming more and more uneasy. Her face was white and her eyes made even more enormous by the violet shadows under them.
He ate a good meal while Fanny sat there like a stone, not touching a bite. She drank two glasses of water but refused any wine.
Lord Bohun had believed that once Fanny had become reconciled to her fate, she would behave in a … well, more womanly manner. But the dignified little creature with the sad eyes, opposite him, had become peculiarly sexless.
When the covers had been cleared and the servants had retired, Lord Bohun grinned at Fanny, rose, and locked the door. Fanny slid the pistol out of her reticule, dropped the bag on the floor, and held the gun firmly on her lap.
“Now my beloved,” chided Lord Bohun, “this will not do at all. Accept your fate and be merry. Have some port. It will bring color to your cheeks.” He pushed the decanter toward her.
She raised the pistol, held it firmly in both hands, and pointed it directly at his heart.
He goggled at her.
“Put that thing away,” he shouted.
“No,” said Fanny, all deadly, frozen calm. “I shall kill you first and then myself.”
He felt himself relax. She could never pull the trigger.
He stood up and walked toward her. “Give me that,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Have it!” shouted Fanny, and pulled the trigger.
There was a miserable click and then silence. Then Fanny pulled the trigger again … and again … and again.
“It’s not loaded!” cried Lord Bohun, and began to laugh.
Fanny hurled the pistol away from her, covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.
“It is no use mawping and mowing,” he sneered. “I would you were in a more … er … loving mood, but I shall have you here and now.”
Fanny took her hands away from her face and looked desperately around for a weapon. She had been so sure that pistol was primed. She should have taken the carving knife earlier in the evening.
But she was in a public inn, she thought, and throwing back her head, she screamed, “Help!” for all she was worth.
“Scream away,” said Lord Bohun. “I told the servants my poor wife was given to manic outburts. No one will come.”
And then there was a deafening report of a gunshot. For one split second, he stared stupidly at Fanny, convinced that she had found another pistol, one that worked.
Then behind him, the door was thrust open and Sir Charles Deveney stood on the threshold, a smoking pistol in his hand. He had shot the lock.
Behind Sir Charles clustered a group of chattering and exclaiming servants.
“You cannot shoot me in front of these people,” snarled Lord Bohun.
“No, but I can thrash you,” said Sir Charles. “Out into the yard with you, Bohun.”
“Don’t,” whispered Fanny. “Take me away, Charles.”
“Later. Out, Bohun.”
“But he will murder you,” cried Fanny, her eyes ranging wildly from her husband’s slim, athletic figure to Lord Bohun’s tall and broad one.
“Let him try.”
Bohun marched out past Sir Charles.
“Stay here, Fanny,” ordered Sir Charles.
But Fanny could not bear to wait and wonder what was happening and followed him out and down the stairs. Cries of, “A mill! A mill!” were sounding all over the inn.
The rain was drumming down on the slippery cobbles of the inn yard as Sir Charles and Lord Bohun began to strip to the waist, each handing his clothes to an eager gentleman who had volunteered to be second.
Despite her distress, Fanny could only marvel at how little there was left of Lord Bohun minus his splendid coat. The inn yard was crowded with spectators, and servants hung out of every window. More people were streaming from the town as the news spread like wildfire.
Lord Bohun was nearly insane with rage. The landlord, who had appointed himself referee, dropped the handkerchief and Lord Bohun flew at Sir Charles, his fists swinging. Sir Charles twisted and ducked, and then, with almost mocking ease, landing a punch full on Lord Bohun’s aristocratic nose.
That was when Lord Bohun reeled back, and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out a dagger. Cries of “Shame” rent the air. Several of the onlookers moved forward, then shrank back as the waving blade glittered menacingly in the light.
Lord Bohun and Sir Charles edged round each other, Sir Charles’s eyes fixed on the dagger. His fair hair was plastered to his head like a helmet. The puckered scar on Sir Charles’s back gleamed lividly in the flickering lamps held by the spectators. Suddenly Sir Charles’s foot lashed out and caught Lord Bohun on the wrist; the dagger went spinning across the cobbles. But that kick made him lose his footing and he fell on his back. Lord Bohun kicked him viciously in the stomach—and as Sir Charles doubled up, kicked him in the face.
Sir Charles staggered to his feet. Five men shouting, “Foul!” held Lord Bohun at bay. Then as soon as Sir Charles had taken up his stance, Lord Bohun was released. Rage had given him new courage and energy. Sir Charles aimed his blows at Lord Bohun’s head and body, but Bohun concentrated on the head alone. And then suddenly Sir Charles darted under Lord Bohun’s guard and seized him round the waist with one hand, and, supporting himself with the other hand pressed on the cobbles, threw Lord Bohun clear across the inn yard with the force of a cross bullock. Lord Bohun’s head hit the cobbles with a resounding thwack.
He lay still.
Men murmured congratulations and clapped Sir Charles on the shoulder, but there were no cheers. As one man said loudly, Bohun had fought as dirty a fight as he had ever seen.
Fanny threw herself on her husband’s naked chest and he held her close. Rain and blood ran in rivulets down his face.
“Get me indoors, Fanny,” he said, with a shaky laugh, “I shall look the deuce in the morning.”
He looked over Fanny’s head and saw the landlord. “Get Bohun out of this inn. Bring round his carriage and send him on his way. My wife and I will take his room.”
“Your wife?” exclaimed the landlord.
“My wife,” echoed Sir Charles, “who was cruelly abducted by that bastard son of a whoremonger.”
Holding Fanny round the waist, he led her into the inn.
A surgeon attended to Sir Charles’s face and said that apart from a few minor cuts and bruises, he would do very well.
“Now we really are a disgraced couple,” said Sir Charles as they sat by the fire in the parlor after the surgeon had left, Sir Charles in nightgown and dressing gown lent by one of the guests, Fanny wrapped in one of the buxom landlady’s voluminous nightgowns. “The local newspaper will carry a report of the fight and it will be in the London papers the day after tomorrow. If we were still the rich Deveneys, all would be forgiven. But society is not going to forgive a poor couple.”
“I don’t care,” said Fanny. “We are safe and we are together, and that is all that matters. I still feel sick. I meant to kill, Bohun. I really did.”
“What a sad mess we have made of things,” he said. “If we had just accepted our marriage, none of this scandal would have happened. But it is no use crying over the mess. We will drink our wine and eat some of that cold meat the landlord has left for us and go to bed. Tomorrow we will return to London and face Aunt Martha. You left your five hundred pounds. I brought it with me, so we can hire a carriage. Do you mind? Were you saving it for gew-gaws?”
“Anything of mine is yours, Charles,” said Fanny fiercely.
They sat down at the table and ate but talked little. Fanny was st
ill feeling shocked and cold after the events of the evening and Sir Charles was suffering from an aching head.
At last, he stretched and yawned. “Bed, I think, Fanny. We will cuddle up and keep warm—and leave romancing to another day.”
At first it was comforting to lie together, wrapped in each others’ arms, but then Fanny began to feel hot and breathless and her treacherous body began to yearn for his. I am turning into a slut, she thought, alarmed. He must sleep. He must be exhausted. She disentangled herself and edged away from him.
His voice came to her ears in the darkness. “What? No good night kiss, Fanny?” She turned toward him and felt his mouth brush over her face, seeking her lips. And then a madness seized both of them as they kissed and kissed, and feverish hands removed nightclothes and sent them hurtling out of the bed.
When the first storm had passed and she lay, tired and drugged with lovemaking, he said softly, “If it weren’t for Aunt Martha, I would suggest we stay here in this bed for several days.”
Fanny gave a sleepy giggle. “We are shameless.”
He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her, her face glowing in the light from the fire.
“It’s love, Fanny,” said Sir Charles. “Only love.”
Chapter Nine
MISS GRIMES SELDOM DRANK strong spirits and hardly ever gin. But as the news of the marriage of Sir Charles Deveney spread ahead of the couple’s return to London, along with the scandal that they were not even rich, she felt she needed something to restore her nerves.
Ladies referred to gin as white wine; the dandies called it blue ruin; the laundress, Ould Tom; the fiddler tossed off a quartern of max; the costermonger referred to it as a flash of lightning; and the Cyprian called for draughts of jacky. The linkboys and mud larks called it stark naked, while the out-and-outers added bitters to their gin and dubbed it fuller’s earth. Gin was the comforter of both high and low, and on that sad day Miss Grimes refilled her glass from a squat bottle, too frightened to go out of doors and face the cold and contemptuous eyes of the ton. For she herself had been party to this deception. She and Captain Tommy were to be married the following week by special license. Miss Grimes had planned to invite a select few of the cream of society. Now she did not dare, for she knew all would refuse. Tommy had said staunchly that if they had never been embroiled in Sir Charles Deveney’s affairs, then they would have never met, but on this gray London day, Miss Grimes found more comfort in gin than in her fiancé’s nobility.
The news that Deveney had boxed Bohun to a standstill had reached London on the wings of gossip as well. Bohun was disgraced, but not as badly as he might have been. The man was surely only taking revenge on the Deveneys for having tricked him and trying to get his money. His disgrace came from the fact that he had drawn a knife on Sir Charles and spoiled what might have been a good fight. Tommy was out gossiping with army friends to see if he could repair the damage. But she knew what they would be saying. Everyone would now remember all the conniving, cheating tricks of the Deveney and Page parents, and the talk would be of bad breeding and hereditary criminal tendencies.
What Miss Grimes had assessed of Sir Charles’s character, however, did not tie in with that of a man who had seriously tricked Miss Woodward. It was all very well to point out that he was deeply in love with her and that the unmasking had been none of his own choosing, but still, now that the day of cold reason had dawned, there was no denying that on the face of it, he had played a sad deception on London’s most prominent beauty.
Hoskins entered and said in a sepulchral voice, “Mrs. Woodward and Miss Woodward.”
“We are not at home,” said Miss Grimes sharply. Then she sighed. They deserved an audience, and the least she could do for Charles was to take the edge off any recriminations he would undoubtedly have to face from the Woodwards on his return. She held up a hand. “No, Hoskins. I had better see them. Send them in.”
As she rose to meet them, Miss Grimes reflected that at least there were no signs that Amanda Woodward had been weeping. Her beautiful eyes were as hard as glass.
Without preamble, Mrs. Woodward burst out into speech. “I have a good mind to take the lot of you to court. It only surprises me that the duns are not on your doorstep.”
“No bills are owed by anyone in this house,” said Miss Grimes, edging the gin bottle further under her chair with her foot. “Pray be seated.”
“You must have been party to this deception,” said Miss Woodward in a thin voice.
Miss Grimes opened her mouth to explain that the Deveneys had been tricked into marriage, that Sir Charles’s intentions toward Miss Woodward had been honorable, that he had intended to get an annulment, but she quickly realized that such explanations would only add fuel to the fire.
“My heart has been shattered,” went on Miss Woodward, taking out a lace handkerchief and dabbing carefully, first at one dry eye and then at the other.
“Then you know at last how it feels,” said Miss Grimes tartly. “And it may stop you from playing fast and loose with the affections of other gentlemen.”
“How dare you?” exclaimed Mrs. Woodward. “My daughter’s tenderest affections have been blighted. Her heart is broken. Dr. Mackenzie fears she may go into a decline.”
Miss Woodward immediately struck an Attitude. She put one limp hand to her brow and stretched the other out in front of her, as if warding off further humiliations, and threw her head back and stared at the ceiling.
That was when Sir Charles Deveney and Fanny walked into the room. Miss Woodward screamed and fell to the floor in a faint, or rather in a well-manufactured faint. Her mother stooped over her, crying, “Fetch the constable! Fetch the watch! Fetch the militia! Have these murderers locked up!”
“Fiddlesticks,” said Sir Charles wearily. He escorted Fanny to a chair and then sat down himself—and studied the distressed tableau with indifferent eyes. Miss Woodward promptly sat up, the healthy pink in her cheeks giving the lie to her “faint.”
“What did you say?” she demanded menacingly.
Mrs. Woodward helped her daughter into a chair.
“I will repeat a conversation between you and your daughter,” said Sir Charles, “that I overheard when I was about to join you in your box at the opera. You, Mrs. Woodward said, ‘You must show more warmth toward Deveney, Amanda. Goodness knows, you have flirted with enough men to know how to do it.’ To which you, Miss Woodward, replied, ‘I wonder if he is worth the effort, Mama,’ Mrs. Woodward rejoined, ‘As you do not and have not shown any interest in any gentleman, you may as well settle for wealth.’ And the beautiful Miss Woodward replied, ‘But it is all such a bore.’ Do not question the accuracy of my report. The words were burned into my soul. Had it not been that your only interest in me was because of my supposed money, then I would feel shame. As it is, I think you have learned a good lesson.”
Miss Woodward rose to her feet, her face flaming. “Take me away from these persons, Mama.” She stamped her foot. “You should never have brought me here.”
Sir Charles, Fanny, and Miss Grimes sat in silence as they hurried out.
“So you see the damage you have done?” cried Miss Grimes. “Oh, she deserved her comeuppance, I grant you. But did I? I am shamed by being party to your behavior. I am marrying Captain Tommy next week by special license, and no one will come to the wedding because of the disgrace.”
“Oh, Miss Grimes,” said Fanny, tears starting to fill her eyes. “Charles and I are so happy now. We are glad we are married to each other.”
“What?” screeched the outraged Miss Grimes. “Oh, that’s very fine. So we all went through all this for nothing! If the pair of you had the brains you were born with, you would have realized a long time ago that you were made for each other.”
“We are leaving,” said Sir Charles. “You will not have to bear the burden of our company any longer.”
“But where will you go?”
“We shall return to barracks and married quarters
will be found for us. Come Fanny. I apologize to you, Aunt Martha, from the bottom of my heart. Fanny and I have been very silly, but you will be plagued with us no longer.”
They walked out together, and Miss Grimes scrabbled under her chair for the gin bottle.
“I will help you pack,” said Fanny.
Sir Charles shrugged. “The servants will do that.”
“I do not think so,” said Fanny gloomily. “We are in disgrace with the mistress, so that means we are in disgrace with the servants, particularly servants who will have learned we have no money to give them. Servants who know there are no vails coming to them can be very bitter. So no arguments, Charles.” She led the way into his room.
He sat down on the bed and pulled off his boots while Fanny threw open the lid of one of his trunks. “We have not tried this bed yet, Fanny,” he said.
She swung round, her eyes wide. “Charles! How can you think of … you know … at this time of the day—and when we are both in such disgrace?”
He smiled lazily and held out his hand. “T’would be very comforting, Fanny, to be disgraceful together. Besides, you need to get out of that gown anyway.”
She walked over to him. “It will look most odd.” He pulled her on top of him, caressed her breast, and said huskily, “Who will see us?”
Several ladies of the ton were at that moment calling on Lady Denham to lay the latest piece of gossip at the feet of London’s arch snob.
Lady Denham was gratifyingly appalled. To think she had actually entertained that precious pair in her home! It was no use, she said severely, everyone castigating poor Bohun for pulling a dagger on Deveney. The whole affair was enough to try the patience of a saint.
“I have heard,” said Mrs. Bidford, “that poor Amanda Woodward is quite heartbroken.
An unlovely light shone in Lady Denham’s pale eyes. “Well, that is no matter. She appeared to be nutty over my cousin, Raglin, last Season and led him on disgracefully—and then when he was about to drop the handkerchief, she started to flirt with Crumley, who is fifty if he’s a day.”
