Some Brief Folly

by Patricia Veryan

  “Then you would have wasted your shot.” She squeezed the hand she held. “Foolish one, did you think I would be so gauche as to elope? Or that Tristram would be so ungallant? He offered again, and I sent him away saddened, which worries me so.” Simon’s face darkened. He did not like her to dwell on the possibility of casualties, and therefore she went on brightly, “Admiral Wetherby and I have been going on famously, though he’s predictable as any volcano.”

  “So I’ve heard. Hawkhurst looks a trifle green about the gills. Have they come to blows already?”

  “I fear so, though I— Oh dear!”

  It was very plain that hostilities had broken out anew. Hawkhurst looked grim, Wetherby appeared about to explode, and Coleridge, very pale, all but trembled.

  “Sent down?” roared the Admiral. “Why, in God’s name? Or dare I hazard a guess? You were defending your cousin’s ‘reputation,’ eh?”

  Carlotta threw a shocked look at her son, and the boy reddened to the roots of his hair.

  “Is that true, Colley?” Hawkhurst snapped, his face rigid.

  Bryce floundered helplessly. “Well, I … er—”

  “Oh, no!” wailed Lady Carlotta. “Is it never going to end? How much more grief must we all suffer?”

  Those awful words seemed to hang on the air through the breathless pause that followed. Longing to scratch her, Euphemia instead slipped back to the piano bench and began softly to play the Spanish ditty she had sung earlier. The Admiral slanted a glance at her, the rageful glitter fading from his eyes. His gaze lowering, he stared, began to grin, then clapped a hand over his mouth. It was too late; all eyes had followed his. Dora went into a peal of mirth, Bryce chortled gleefully, and they were soon all convulsed.

  From beneath the rich brocade of Euphemia’s stylish gown, a sturdy riding boot was clearly visible upon the pedal. She had completely forgotten the fact, but it proved heaven-sent, and her wry explanation that she tended to be forgetful sent Wetherby into new whoops.

  Vowing he also was forgetful, of his manners, he demanded that Sir Simon be presented and next commanded cheerily that they all gather around the piano “and sing together, as we was used to do!” And thus, very soon the gracious room rang to the happy sounds of music and song, and a merry time they made of it.

  Hawkhurst’s aching head was not helped by the music, however, and gradually he eased back from the glow cast by candles and firelight and seated himself in a shadowed corner, watching the pleasant scene. Euphemia was hidden from his view by the singers gathered about the piano, and he told himself sternly that it was just as well. She had been a friend, indeed, and, save for her, this evening would have ended very differently. But to allow his interests to wander in that direction must be the very height of folly!

  * * *

  TO TRY to sleep was useless. Euphemia put on her dressing gown and curled up in the windowseat. It was very cold, and she wondered absently if it would snow tomorrow. After such an incredibly crowded day it was astonishing that she was not exhausted, but there was so much to think on. The fiasco with Sampson, Leith … dear Leith, Stephanie’s sweet face, the formidable, yet lovable Admiral Wetherby—and Simon’s preoccupation. The kind, patient boy was longing to be gone from here. She was torn between the desire to please him and the dread of leaving Dominer. Above all, to know that Hawk stood in danger was terrifying. If she lost him, so soon after finding him … She shivered.

  Perhaps she could speak with Maximilian Gains. The man had ample reason for seeking vengeance, but she found it impossible to picture him so mercilessly tormenting an enemy. Unhappily, there were other men who probably had reason to hate Hawkhurst: irate husbands, men who still cherished fond memories of the lovely Blanche, men who—

  She stiffened and peered incredulously at a closed chaise that loomed into view like some macabre ghost vehicle, with no clatter of hooves or grating of wheels to accompany its progress. A chill whispered down her spine, and then she saw that the chaise was not on the drive but was being driven across the lawns! She stared, petrified. There was something horribly sinister about the inexorable progress of that silent, slow-moving chaise, creeping upon Dominer in the wee hours of the morning. And, even as she watched, it vanished from the field of her vision.

  Staying for neither candle nor slippers, she ran to the door, wrenched it open, and sped wildly along the corridor. A lamp set on a teakwood chest lit her way, and she ran on to the next window. The draperies were closed. Grasping them with hands that trembled, she opened them a crack and peeped out.

  The ghost chaise had halted at the far end of the North Wing, and two figures—a tall man and a woman muffled to the ears in cloak and hood—had alighted and were struggling to drag something from inside the vehicle. That they could barely manage their large burden was apparent, and, having at last succeeded in removing it, they bore it with difficulty to the unoccupied section of the great mansion, where Hawk was wont to entertain his “personal friends.” Not once during their efforts did the conspirators appear to converse. Their movements were sly and furtive, and it was very apparent that they went in dread of making the slightest sound. At the last instant, as though he sensed that they were watched, the man darted a look up at the windows. The moonlight, pale though it was, struck his face. Euphemia’s heart sank. It was the very person she had suspected, yet so hoped it would not be. For the moonlight revealed the tense features of Lord Coleridge Bryce.

  * * *

  DOMINER was early astir the following morning, as preparations for the afternoon’s Musicale got under way. At nine o’clock, Hawkhurst stood before the window in his aunt’s bedchamber, a hand in his pocket, and one shoulder propped against the wall. He frowned into the gardens below him, then turned to meet Carlotta’s bland smile and say, “Go to her head? Why should it, ma’am? Stephie’s no different now than ever she was.”

  Carlotta settled back more comfortably against her pillows and, having sipped her chocolate daintily, agreed, “Why, of course she is not, love. And so I said to Dora. ‘Then why,’ says she in her clever way, ‘why do the beaux all cluster round her now? And why was she gone from the party for half the evening (though where I cannot guess) and come back looking downright moonstruck?’ Not that I would listen to such stuff, you know, Garret. Any more than my dear Colley would listen to those who said such dreadful things about … you.”

  He put up his brows at her mockingly and knew he should pay no heed to her prattling. But Stephie had seemed rather jumpy last evening, now that he came to think about it. And there was a difference about her of late—an inner light and yet a hint of sorrow, withal. By heaven! If some wet-behind-the-ears young Buck was daring to attempt to fix his interest with her …

  Carlotta, sorting through her morning pile of correspondence, fluttered a sly glance up at him and, seeing his eyes darken and his jaw set into that horrid hard look so often turned upon poor Colley, knew she had him and returned smugly to the letter in her hand.

  “Was that all you wished to say to me, Aunt?”

  “What, dear? Did I ask you to come, then? I do not seem to recall … Oh! How clever of you to remind me, for I had quite forgot. Guess! Only guess who I met at the rectory last night!” She paused breathlessly and, his eyes holding only that familiar look of polite boredom, did not wait for his response but divulged triumphantly, “Mrs. Hughes-Dering!”

  “What, old Greg Hughes’ sister? How very dull for you! The woman was ever a rabid social climber as I—”

  “Social … climber!” Carlotta fairly clutched for her vinaigrette and, having revived herself, gasped out, “She is a Leader of Society! A Power to be reckoned with in Town. Or in Bath! All evening I catered to and smiled at and fawned upon the odious old hag. And finally she agreed—yes, she actually agreed to come to my Musicale!”

  “Good God!” he uttered, aghast.

  “Yes,” she nodded, misinterpreting his reaction. “I do not doubt but that she knows your dear Grandpapa will be there, and the Buchana
ns also. Such a coup! Though I will admit I all but went down on my knees to her!”

  “You did?” he grinned. “A little too much wine, dear Aunt?”

  She gave a small shriek and denied that alcohol had ever touched her lips. “Which is more than could be said for my poor sister-in-law! One glass of ratafia, and Dora is positively tipsy.”

  Hawkhurst’s grin widened, for he was well aware of the fine Madeira that filled Dora’s pretty Chinese decanter. “You are the essence of virtue,” he acknowledged, sauntering towards the door. “And, if your saintliness will stretch so far as to endure Monica Hughes-Dering for above two minutes, you will have my admiration, ma’am, if not my company. I shall see you when the affair is over, and do trust all goes well.”

  “Hawkhurst!” Her scream brought his hand from the doorlatch as though it had been red hot, and he spun about, crouching slightly, eyes narrowed, and every inch of his lithe frame poised for combat. Nothing had changed in the luxurious bedchamber, however, and, straightening, he said an irked, “Gad, madam! What ails you? I fancied three assassins with drawn swords at my back!”

  “What did you mean?” Carlotta whimpered. “You do intend to come? You must! It is vital! For, if Mrs. Hughes-Dering receives you, perhaps others will.”

  “She is far more like to give me the cut direct. The old lady loathes me, and well you know it. I’ve no objection to your entertaining her, but I refuse to be set down in my own home!”

  Carlotta sat straighter, leaning forward as she launched into an impassioned plea that he oblige her in “this one teensy instance” and, seeing the steel unyielding in his eyes, pointed out that he owed it to his poor sister. “For years,” she moaned, “we have lived here as though stranded in a desert oasis. Oh, I know the local people have taken pity on Stephie, but—consider, Hawk! If my Musicale is well attended and a success, we might, we just might begin to be accepted again!”

  He moved back to the bed and stood frowning down at her. She looked so desperately anxious, her hands tightly gripped, her eyes fixed imploringly on him, and his expression softened. “If it is this important to you, my dear, I shall open the London house, and you can—”

  “Oh, can I not! A grand reception we would receive in Town, with every door closed to us! I would stand no more chance of getting Stephanie a voucher to Almack’s than of being invited to Carlton House!”

  “To the contrary.” The familiar cynicism slipped back into his eyes. “You would merely have to affect an abused manner, and the ton would fairly crush you to its bosom! More victims of my savage infamy! Lord! You’d be so smothered with solicitude, you’d likely become reigning Toasts.”

  It was a possibility, and she considered it carefully. But, “It will not serve,” she wailed. “Stephanie would die before she’d permit any criticism of you! Oh, Hawkhurst, this is our one chance—don’t you see?”

  “If you believe that, believe also that you will fare a great deal better sans my presence!”

  “But, no! If you do not attend, Mrs. Hughes-Dering is sure to put it about that you were ashamed to face her.”

  “Much I care for that. She may think what she chooses. Now, resign yourself, I beg, dear lady. I shall gladly stand the huff, but suffer through a combination of Monica Hughes-Dering and the Broadbent girl’s cacophonous spasms…?” He gave a snort of repugnance, “Be dashed if I will!” and again trod towards the door.

  My lady promptly burst into tears. Hawkhurst lengthened his stride and cravenly wrenched the door open. Her sobs were heartrending. He gritted his teeth and swore softly at the ceiling, but then turned back again. Even the sound of the closing door did not shut off the waterworks, as he’d fervently hoped. Scowling, he retraced his steps until he stood reluctantly beside her. Still she wept, her slender shoulders shaking.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” he growled. “Madam! Aunt…? Devil take it, you make me out the complete villain!” He sat on the bed, pulled her into his arms and, patting her shoulder, pleaded, “Do not, I beg of you! Do not. Oh, very well, blast it all! I’ll pay court to the preposterous woman!”

  Dabbing at her eyes and sniffing in most unladylike fashion, Carlotta blinked up at him and choked, “You—you … will? And … will be n-nice to her?”

  “If you insist.” His smile was rueful, but his eyes very kind. She thought suddenly that he really was a charming young man when he chose to be and, wrapping him in a hug, said joyously, “Oh, Garret, thank you! Thank you! We shall see our little girl achieve a brilliant match yet!”

  Wiping teardrops from his new jacket as he walked down the hall, Hawkhurst was undeceived. If Carlotta thought of Stephanie at all, it was the least of her concerns. Her main hope was to fight her own way back into the favour of the Society that had rejected them all. His steps slowed. Poor soul, he’d never guessed she missed that life so much. And with a pang he admitted at last that he missed it himself, that to walk into White’s and be looked upon without the total revulsion that had greeted his final appearance in that venerable club would be a heady triumph indeed—and, of course, utterly impossible. He sighed. Still, if Carlotta so hungered for it, and if it would make Stephanie happy, the Countess of Carden was loyal still and would help, he was sure. And certainly Tristram’s erratic but noble father, Lord Kingston Leith, could be of assistance.

  Walking on, his face became grim and hard. Carlotta was right. Stephanie deserved a brilliant match, and would have one. But if some slippery young Buck was courting her without daring to have begged his leave … may God help him!

  TWELVE

  “I’D BE very much obliged to you, Buck,” murmured Coleridge, his eyes upon Stephanie as she stood at the brink of the hill, looking down upon Lord Gains’ fine old home. “I shouldn’t be above twenty minutes at the outside, but I really must have a word with Chilton. He’s not quite up to the knocker since he came home, you know, and I’d … er, there’s something I’ve to discuss with him. Quite important.”

  “You do not really expect him to confess that his brother is seeking to murder your cousin, do you?” asked Buchanan mildly.

  Lord Coleridge swung to face him. “The deuce! You knew then?”

  “Manners showed me the gun they found. It’s a beautiful weapon. Do you think it belongs to Gains?”

  “Lord, no! Or I’d not go near them. But Chil is quite fond—that is to say … to be honest, he dotes on his brother. And Hawk, well, he’s got such a temper, but they’re both jolly good fellows, Simon. They simply must not go out! Too well matched, you see—suicidal!”

  “I understand. Go along with you. I’ll take care of Miss Hawkhurst.”

  With a relieved grin and a murmur of thanks, Coleridge swung into the saddle again. He was down the slope at a speed that made Buchanan gasp, taking the tricky jump over the ditch in neck-or-nothing fashion and galloping on towards the distant house.

  Buchanan heard Stephanie move to his side, and her hand slipped into his. “What a rare opportunity, dearest,” she said tenderly.

  He tightened his clasp on her fingers but without turning muttered, “He trusted me with you. What a treacherous rogue I am become.”

  Fear, her constant companion these days, chilled her more than the breath of the wind. Buchanan detected her shudder and at once threw her up into the saddle and rode beside her to a copse of trees beside an old boundary wall. When he lifted her down, her arms slipped about his neck. Her face was raised to his, her eyes very soft, but he put her from him and turned away. “Stephie,” he said wretchedly, “I … I must tell you—”

  “I know. Hal Archer says Kent may travel the day after tomorrow. What did you think, my dear? That you would break it to me gently? Oh, Simon! Can such news ever be broken gently?”

  He said nothing, and she came up behind him to stroke his sleeve and ask with sad longing, “Why do we allow it? Why must we let … her … ruin our every chance for happiness?” She ran quickly before him and, placing her hands on his chest, said with sudden intensity, “Would she gi
ve you a divorce, do you suppose? Hawk is very rich, and I know he would help, for his own wife was much the same type. If we paid her … lots…”

  His expression halted her hopeful utterance, and he shook his head, his lips tight. “Ernestine likes being Lady Simon Buchanan. She likes Buchanan Court and the house I bought her on Grosvenor Square. And she despises notoriety. But, even if she did not, do you fancy me the type of ramshackle ne’er-do-well who would go to your brother and beg to be bought from a marriage?”

  He led her to the wall, and they sat close together, huddled against it, out of the wind. Stephanie noted the grim line of Simon’s mouth, the eyes that avoided her own so steadily, and, knowing she must fight for her chance at happiness, sighed, “Then we both face a life of loneliness. Only, you at least, have your children.”

  He said bitterly, “One of whom is my own, I do believe.”

  Tears came into her eyes. She could not speak, but leaned her cheek against his sleeve in mute sympathy. Buchanan did not dare to look down at that fair head and, staring at the ragged trees, managed to say with assumed lightness, “Now tell me of yourself and your plans for the future.”

  For a moment she did not move. Then, sitting up and folding her hands in her lap, she answered slowly, “People say I am gentle, Simon. Perhaps what they mean is that I am conformable. I only know I am … not very brave.”

  He scanned her sad, sweet face, the fine curve of the brow, the soft blowing curls, and argued tenderly, “Of course you are. Euphemia says—”

  “Dear Euphemia,” she interjected and, taking up a small stick, began to poke at the earth with it. “And oh, how I envy her. To have travelled. To have seen far-away places and peoples, and such a diversity of customs.”

  “You would not be averse to travelling a good deal?” he asked, recalling Ernestine’s indignant refusal to accompany him to Spain.

  “Good gracious, no! I love England dearly, but I long to see the rest of the world. To be able to do so beside one’s love must be—” The stick snapped under her fingers. Casting it away, she said, “That, alas, is denied me. Some ladies, losing the man they love, find the strength to go on living and perhaps, in time, love again. But I have always known that I would only ever love once.”