Mary Brendan

by Wedding Night Revenge

  Agitated by the increasing likelihood of a glossy ebony head turning her way to investigate the jarvey’s raucous complaints—which seemed to drown out everyone else’s—Rachel jumped up to discover what was causing the bottleneck. Her straining senses just caught a few guttural expletives and a wafting aroma of pulped apples. Their cloying aroma hung heavy on the hot air as she watched a costermonger airing his grievances to a listless beagle with much pointing and gesticulating at his upset barrow and spoiled fruit.

  The altercation to one side of her, between the jarvey and the young brewer, redrew her attention as they began swapping increasingly inventive insults. The passenger in the hackney then poked his powdered periwig through the window of the cab and made an extremely common gesture at the coalman, who had felt entitled to add his two penn’orth to the raging debate on road manners on account of his bent spokes.

  Rachel gave her driver’s sleeve a tug. ‘Can you not turn this thing about, Ralph?’ she begged vainly, for she knew already such a manoeuvre was nigh on impossible in such a crush.

  ‘T’ain’t as simple as that, Miss Rachel, or I’d a bin gorn long since. Ladies shouldn’t hafta listen ta such tawk.’ This observation was accompanied by a baleful glare at the lad on the dray and a censorial shake of the head at the judicial-looking crimped head.

  ‘What is it to you? Eh?’ demanded the perspiring face beneath the wig on noting Ralph’s disgusted demeanour.

  ‘Ladies present,’ Ralph intoned with a nod at his passengers.

  ‘Magistrate present,’ the man countered with a grim smirk. ‘And I’ve a good nose for a no-good knave…’

  ‘I’m persuaded…’ Ralph muttered beneath his breath.

  The magistrate continued tapping his sizeable, greasy proboscis. His mean little eyes swivelled about then he stabbed a finger at the brewer. ‘I scent a fiddler. I don’t recall that name on your cart, or you, from the Brewster Sessions. I’ve a mind to see your liquor licence.’ It was a wild aim that hit a bull’s-eye.

  The young man glared at Ralph. ‘Now see wot yer done. Couldn’t keep yer beak out an’ now yer’ve set the beak on me!’

  ‘Don’t dare tawk to me in that there tone o’ voice,’ Ralph bellowed, and within a moment was off his perch and on to the dusty cobbles. His temper rendered him deaf to Rachel’s hissed orders for him to immediately remount and get them home. Whipping off his smart driver’s coat and hat, he shoved starched cotton sleeves towards his elbows.

  With an agile spring, the young brewer was soon off his dray and confronting him. Having prepared their palms with spittle, there ensued a pugilistic ritual where they bobbed and swayed whilst circling a circumspect yard apart. Just as Ralph took a stance on his bowed legs and dared to draw off a proper punch, his fist was stopped mid-flight by a large, powerful hand.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  Rachel had not seen anyone approach: she had been preoccupied with priming her weapon; if necessary, she was prepared to prevent Ralph being laid low by braining his youthful opponent with her rolled umbrella. Lucinda’s swift intake of breath had Rachel instinctively forcing open the parasol with jittery fingers and tilting it over her face. The soft Irish drawl had already given her a fair warning of who the newcomer might be and as a result her heart was hammering at an alarming rate.

  Ralph made a show of belligerently flexing his recently released fingers. ‘Lucky you 'appened by, sir. I’d 'ave decked 'im toot sweet an’ no mistake.’

  The coalman, atop his cart, had been leaning forward in rapt anticipation. Now he flopped back, folded his arms, and expressed his disappointment at the aborted bout with some weird facial contortions. He denied Ralph his optimism regarding the outcome by sucking his teeth and shaking his head.

  The magistrate welcomed the arbitrator by waving an indolent hand through the cab window. He knew an affluent, influential gentleman when he spotted one and liked to foster any such acquaintance. ‘These two ruffians…’ a finger indicated the coalman and the brewer ‘…are aggressive fellows taking fun from impeding me in my lawful business. I’m due in sessions…’ he extricated his pocket watch ‘…damme…some ten minutes since. And this fellow—’ he nodded so sharply at Ralph his wig slid over his eyes ‘—is determined to be as insolent and offensive as may be. I’ll see the lot of ’em flogged and fined for disorderly conduct and obstructing a Justice of the Peace.’ The periwig was straightened with a satisfied flourish.

  ‘That’s not fair! And not true, either!’ Unable to listen to the wild exaggerations, Rachel emerged from behind her parasol, which she shut with a snap. With a deep breath she raised her golden head.

  The distinguished gentleman with jet-black hair and a devastating likeness to her erstwhile fiancé was so close to the side of the landau she could have reached out and touched him. Bravely she skimmed nonchalant sky-blue eyes over his strong familiar features. It’s not him: I don’t recall him being quite so tall or so dark, was one welcome and coherent thought which emerged from the jumble in her mind. Her eyes sped on to glare at his worship.

  The magistrate was gawping in disbelief that this pretty little madam had made such bold accusations, or that they could possibly be directed at himself.

  ‘If you had waited your turn in the queue instead of attempting to barge ahead, the carriage wheels would not have tangled. We would now all be going peaceably about our business,’ Rachel reasoned hotly, leaving his worship in no doubt he was the target of her denunciation.

  The magistrate’s jowls sunk to his chest before he recovered composure and set them wobbling with a determined twitch of his head. ‘My dear young woman.’ His tone dripped condescension. ‘Have you any idea just who you are talking to? Who you are accusing of that grave sin: bearing false witness?’ His smooth tone conveyed he knew exactly who he was talking to and he was not impressed: she was one of those blue-stockings with milky liberal views and no proper respect for the authority of a superior male.

  ‘But I know who you are,’ a congenial mellow voice interjected. ‘Arthur Goodwin, Esquire, isn’t it now? I believe I recognise you from Mrs Crawford’s little soirée last week…or is it that I’m about to bear false witness…?’

  Arthur Goodwin, Esquire, suddenly lost the puffed-up demeanour he had adopted when this fine-looking gentleman claimed his acquaintance and instead looked exceedingly wary. ‘Indeed,’ he croaked. ‘I…er…I…might have been there…I don’t seem to recall you.’

  ‘I’m not offended…’

  Arthur’s eyes swivelled at the irony in the accented remark. That particular evening, at that particular lady’s bacchanalian extravaganza, he couldn’t have recalled his own name, he’d been so foxed. He’d barely remembered to retrieve his breeches from the mattress of the adolescent minx who’d serviced him before wending his way home. ‘Pray remind me who you are, sir?’ he burbled in a jolly tone.

  ‘Devane…Lord Devane. Strange that we meet again so soon. How is Mrs Goodwin? You mentioned she was suffering, as I recall.’

  ‘Indeed…I might have said so…’ Arthur squeaked, already fearful of the peal he’d be rung by his good lady should she get wind of his regular visits to Mrs Crawford’s to discover if new young girls were taken on. Should the virtuous lady come to hear that he’d been known to curse her as a frigid, scab-faced slut when in his cups… Like a timid snail, his head retracted into the safety of the cab.

  Samuel Smith, the young man who had been driving the dray, was ready with a covert wink of sheer admiration as his saviour looked his way. It was followed by a nod of gratitude.

  ‘Care to help with this wheel of yours?’ Connor responded drily, a tip of his dark head indicating the buckled rim.

  Sam immediately set to.

  ‘Have you a spare minute to lend a hand?’ Connor enquired with a look at the coalman.

  The slump-shouldered merchant jerked out of the trance brought on by the fascinating proceedings, realising he’d forgotten about his final delivery, lumped on the back of his
cart.

  The jarvey gamely pitched in too and, like the other men, speculatively eyed this handsome gentry cove with such a quiet, commanding way about him.

  Sam Smith found himself pondering his lordship’s motives for getting involved at all; which brought him to sliding glances at the beautiful blonde woman in the top-notch landau. His Nibs seemed particularly interested in her; although she seemed determined to look every place possible but at him. Which was odd, considering her friend couldn’t take her curious eyes off him.

  But it had been the fair lady who’d championed them. Usually the Quality didn’t know the trades existed…until they needed a hasty ride or a fire in the grate, or their cellar stocked on the cheap. But she’d spoken up for three menials for no more reason than that the pompous toad of a beak hadn’t been right nor fair… But then he’d heard tell of his worship Arthur Goodwin and already knew he never was…

  Ralph bent knowledgeably over the warped axle, testing its weight, ready to assist the men with the repairs. Rachel discreetly beckoned him, with frantic fingers, desperate to be heading home. There were many dark, heart-rending memories being stirred by the sudden appearance of this man who resembled Connor Flinte so exactly, and she wanted to be alone to decide if she were brave enough today to pick them over.

  The traffic was again moving freely. In the distance the costermonger could just be glimpsed towing his cart and at intervals gesturing obscenities at those vehicles whose passengers were still irritated enough at the delay to chivvy him as they passed. The only other stationary vehicles left in the street were Lord Devane’s phaeton and Lord Harley’s curricle, which had now managed to manoeuvre a path to the phaeton and its pretty passenger.

  Surreptitiously, Rachel observed the Italian woman who was acting the coquette with three raucous dandies. However diligently she flirted, she was managing to keep a vigilant dark eye on her absent companion. Rachel hadn’t noticed Lord Devane look back at her once.

  Lord Devane? Rachel rolled the name around in her mind. From what she recalled, he sounded like Major Flinte when he spoke, he looked like him when she allowed her eyes to flit to his rugged visage…but the name was new to her. Was the man too…?

  ‘Let us be heading home, Ralph,’ tumbled from her lips whilst her mind investigated the absurd possibility that there might be two such striking-looking Irish gentlemen, and a case of mistaken identity. She knew he had a stepbrother of about the same age, but remembered that Jason Davenport had fair hair and, being of different parentage, naturally looked quite different.

  Having been lax earlier, Ralph made amends by immediately doing his mistress’s bidding. He launched himself into the driver’s seat with a sprightliness that mocked his bowed legs and advanced years.

  Lord Devane strolled over, seeming to accidentally arrest their departure by catching the bridle of the nearest grey in order to fondle its ears. The mare turned its head willingly into the deft caress. ‘We’ve not had a chance to exchange a few words…’ The casual address was at odds with the sharp blue eyes minutely examining Rachel’s features.

  With an amount of pique, Rachel realised that if it was Major Flinte, she had been a little arrogant in assuming he would know who she was. There was no discernible recognition in his eyes, just the steady attention of a man appraising an attractive woman. And she knew she was deemed pretty. Her parents told her so, Lucinda told her so, her mirror reflected their views.

  Gentlemen who didn’t know her at all sought introductions; gentlemen who did know of her, and her history of failed romances, still sought to charm her, vainly confident that they could be the one to turn the tables on her and break her heart. She found it faintly amusing that they believed her in the dark over their designs or their motives. She had heard the gossip that sums of money had been wagered in the past on who would successfully woo and win her, then unceremoniously ditch her in a very public way.

  So, when in London, she allowed a few stupid fellows to come calling and take her for a drive in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour; she encouraged them to visit her parents’ box at the opera or theatre. Just as gossip was fomenting over what seemed to be a particular attachment between herself and a town dandy, she would scupper it by snubbing him forthwith, thus reinforcing her reputation as a callous little tease. She had no regrets; and she had no conscience over it, she told herself, apart from the very mundane one of never having profited herself from a little flutter on the outcome of the gentlemen’s puerile games.

  The horses snickered, jolting her to the present. Her eyes flicked up, met a narrowed blue stare fringed by the longest lashes. Something turbulent…frustrating inside her stilled, became calm.

  Oh, it’s him…and he knows me; he thinks he knows what I’m brooding on too. He knows nothing of how I really feel. Do I know how he feels? Is he still angry at me? Still bitter and resentful at having been publicly humiliated? It must have been awful for him…so humbling… There’s nothing in his face…no emotion at all. Why is he passing himself off as a lord? Simply to impress that weasel of a judge?

  If so, the ploy had worked. The hackney carrying Arthur Goodwin to court passed close by on wobbly wheels, and the magistrate’s face appeared at the window. A tentative, conspiratorial smile flickered at Lord Devane before he was borne away.

  The dray and coal cart soon followed the hackney. His lordship inclined his dark head in acknowledgement of their waves and shouted farewells.

  ‘Noblesse oblige,’ Rachel muttered sourly beneath her breath. It mattered little whether he was now a real aristocrat or afflicted by delusions of grandeur, he was simply Major Flinte to her and thus she need not fret over offending him. That, in all its terrible effect, was already achieved… ‘Remove your hand, please, so we might leave,’ she instructed coolly.

  Lucinda, who had been quietly watching the tense, wordless interaction between the couple, spluttered out, ‘I am Mrs Saunders, Lucinda Saunders. I am very grateful for your assistance, my lord. It could have ended badly had you not intervened. Thankfully, all has turned out well…’ A meaningful look then slid to her friend, inviting Rachel to take up the conversation.

  ‘And you are…?’ a soft voice prompted.

  Rachel swung her head about, looked levelly at him. ‘Oh, I am…very grateful for your assistance, too, sir. And you are…about to be so good as to immediately step aside so that I might get along home.’ Rachel tapped Ralph’s arm and settled back into the squabs.

  Ralph looked abashed. He looked at their Good Samaritan, he looked at his churlish mistress. He settled on looking off into middle distance. The horses remained idle.

  ‘Shall I tell you what I think you are?’

  Rachel felt the cheek turned to him prickle, her heart slowly thud. ‘You obviously have time to waste, sir. I have none; but if you must accost me, please make it quick, for I am getting quite impatient.’ She flicked her golden head, gazing past his broad shoulders encased in finest taupe material. ‘As is your carriage companion. I believe she is trying to attract your attention.’ Her flitting eyes had alighted on an olive-skinned visage peering at them over a sherbet-pale shoulder. The Italian woman was practically bouncing on the seat as she shifted back and forth in irritation, and her head turned every few seconds to stare at them. The diva had certainly lost her air of cool sophistication along with her trio of admirers: Lord Harley’s curricle was just turning left at the top of the street.

  Connor Flinte seemed little interested in his phaeton or its passenger. Just an idle glance arrowed that way and he seemed no more inclined to rush off than before. In fact, he waited until Rachel looked at him again before replying, ‘You want me to be quick? Are you sure? It’s been so long, too…’ The hard smile that followed that soft speech sent Rachel’s pulse pounding. ‘Very well. What I think you are…is little changed, Miss Meredith. That’s my initial opinion.’ He gave a small, lopsided smile while watching a few of his fingers smooth a languid path along the landau’s glossy coachwork. Deep blue eyes mo
cked her beneath heavy eyelids. ‘And that’s fortunate for me. But pretty disastrous for you…’ he added in a voice as sweet as honey. Then he was walking back towards his phaeton. He’d taken up the ribbons and soothed the signora’s ruffled feathers by the time Rachel gathered sense enough to choke at Ralph,

  ‘Home, please! Now!’

  Chapter Two

  He will not ruin what is left of my day, Rachel vowed silently as she banished persistently intrusive thoughts of Major Flinte from her mind and walked arm-in-arm with Sylvie along the carpeted corridor to find their sister June.

  Truce! No baskets or garlands, Rachel had told her little sister moments before, with a rueful smile. Earlier in the day they had argued over their bridesmaids’ bouquets and, in doing so, upset June, soon to be a bride. Now Rachel felt eager to restore harmony. ‘A posy of gardenias dotted with laurel leaves and trailing ivy…that’s a fair compromise, don’t you think?’

  Sylvie gazed up at her eldest sister with large, luminous eyes the colour of violent storm clouds. ‘It sounds…tolerable, I suppose,’ she sighed. Her cheeky lack of enthusiasm was belied by the wordless hug of thanks she gave her big sister. ‘William is arrived to dine. He is terribly good looking, isn’t he? I should have liked to marry him if only he would have waited a while and not fallen in love with June. Will you find someone like William for me, Rachel? Perhaps a bit taller, with dark hair instead of fair, and longer sideburns, and no freckles. I’m not sure I like freckles on a man, even just that little bit William has across his nose. I’m not sure I like them on a woman, either. Noreen doesn’t like hers; she puts lemon juice on her face to try and whiten them, you know.’

  Rachel smiled while her slender fingers combed through Sylvie’s platinum curls. Once let loose, they rebounded immediately into supple coils. ‘You, my love, will probably have no trouble in finding just the right man, and without any help from me when the time comes. I shall be approaching my dotage, you know, when you hit your prime, and probably be resigned to knitting, not matchmaking. I can see it now,’ Rachel sighed. ‘Seven years hence, you will be the bane of our poor papa’s life and breaking the hearts of gallants with careless abandon.’