Mary Brendan

by Wedding Night Revenge

  When he thought to again check house numbers, he was stopped in his tracks. A rounded female derrière was rocking provocatively in front of him, physically preventing him from carrying out his duty. He leaned a hand against the spear-tipped green railings, a low-lidded look maturing his boyish features as he watched the woman undulate while scrubbing methodical circles on the top step of number thirty-four.

  A few more seconds’ furious elbow grease to a particularly stubborn spot, and Noreen Shaughnessy sat back on her heels and cuffed her wiry red hair from her eyes. With a puff of exertion, she rested back down on all fours, brush in hand, ready to finish the chore. She hesitated, leaning on the bristles, with her hackles rising. Her humming tailed off and her perspiring face whipped around to peer over her shoulder.

  The sight that greeted her made her skin as rubicund as her hair. Despite her embarrassment, oddly what registered immediately in her mind was that blushing hid her freckles.

  ‘Don’t yer go rushin’ on my account, now,’ Sam told her with a certain male insinuation softening his east-end vowels. ‘You get it right nice ‘n’ clean now. I don’t mind standing here a while longer and just watching you…’

  Noreen scrambled to her feet in a flurry of cap streamers and starched pinafore. The scrubbing brush was pitched with some force back into the pail, splashing the smooth slab. ‘Now what might you be meaning by that, you cheeky beggar?’ she stormed. ‘And look what you’ve gone and made me do.’ With her elbows akimbo, a pugnacious glare was levelled at him, then at her spruce step, awash with dirty water. It was a long time since Noreen had been subjected to this sort of masculine raillery. Her no-nonsense attitude and tendency to lash out with tongue and fists at those as wouldn’t take no for an answer, had long since beaten off any amatory interest from the available men at Windrush. She had Mary to consider and none of the coves as tried to insinuate themselves into her affections cared two hoots for her ungainly sister’s welfare. And she came with Mary…or she didn’t come at all. Now she was annoyed at herself for letting this brash whippersnapper creep up on her and unexpectedly tip her off balance.

  She descended a step, sent him a menacing look; undaunted, he grinned wolfishly back. Flustered by his confidence, Noreen considered bounding down the remaining steps to teach his cocky self some respect for his elders. For she was sure she was some years his senior, despite that she was feeling, oddly, like a green girl. She retreated to stand her ground and snapped out, ‘Faith, is it a fool you are?’ She whipped off her cap and smacked it into shape, then agitatedly shook out her rumpled skirts.

  Noreen slid the stripling a sideways look and guessed he was a servant from a grand house: his smart blue and black livery was of fine cut and cloth. ‘Will you be after telling me what you want, then? Apart from your ears boxed, that is…’

  ‘Well, I don’t know as I should say…bein’ as it’s this early in the day, like. You might reckon as I was uncouth.’

  Noreen choked and burned; he was trying to get up her petticoats.

  Sam smiled at her confusion. ‘Sorry about the step. Looks like you’ll be down there again. Now, if I weren’t so busy, I’d give you a hand…perhaps more ‘n that…’

  ‘Get away with you! It’s none of your sympathy I’m needing—’

  ‘Who is it, Noreen?’

  Sam glanced past the plump maid—who seemed on the point of forcing her hot head through her cap, so brutally was she ramming it on to her wiry hair—to see a slender woman framed in the doorway.

  Sam recognised her at once. When Joseph Walsh had given him the letter with instructions for immediate delivery, he’d imagined it might be her it was intended for. She was paler, looking a little care-worn since last he’d seen her, but no less beautiful for that. In fact, she looked a fragile goddess, with her proud, solemn features and her golden hair loose on her shoulders, and those enormous eyes the colour of tiny bird eggs. Sam thought she looked the sort of woman you’d need to handle with kid gloves, lest she broke. Or you did. With sudden perceptiveness Sam mused on his master’s recent odd moods. That made a subtle smile touch his mouth. Whatever was wrong between them would come right, for never was there a better gentleman in all the world. Path of true love and so on, meandered through Sam’s fertile mind as he glanced obliquely at the servant. He climbed two steps and handed her the note to give to her mistress.

  He registered that the name of the lady who was plucking at the master’s heartstrings was Miss Rachel Meredith. After making her a grave and respectful bow, he was within a trice bowling back along the street. He started to cross the road, hoping to catch up with his friend for a chat as he emerged from the park with the runt of a mutt. Idly he slanted a look back over his shoulder at Miss Rachel Meredith’s house and saw the Irish woman staring after him. Cheekily he spun about and nimbly genuflected, before walking on, chuckling.

  Noreen, horrified that she’d let him catch her watching him, dropped quickly to her knees, snatched up the scrubbing brush and put it to frantic use.

  Rachel frowned at Noreen’s florid countenance and then looked at the errand boy idling with a differently liveried page on the opposite side of the street. ‘I don’t know why, but I thought he seemed familiar,’ she remarked, almost to herself.

  ‘He were familiar…too familiar…’ Noreen muttered darkly and kept on scouring.

  Rachel turned about in the hallway, wondering where she might before have seen the lad. Idly she looked at the letter, wondering if it might be a social invitation. She’d been in town now several days and people were becoming aware of her presence. She and Lucinda had already shared a carriage ride to Hyde Park with little Alan and a trip to the animal menagerie to show him the beasts. This afternoon they were hoping to go to Madame Tussaud’s, then, when Alan went home for his tea, on to the fabric warehouses in Pall Mall, for Lucinda, moaning she was fat, was keen to cheer herself by buying a pretty enveloping shawl.

  The seal on the parchment caught her attention. Her heartbeat tripped as she moved the letter closer to confirm it was that of the Earl of Devane. Quickly she turned the note over and recognised the firm sloping script on the other side. She repressed the spontaneous urge to spin about and hurl it viciously into Noreen’s bucket of slops by reminding herself that this might at last be the dispensation he had promised she might carry home to Hertfordshire. Immediately she repaired to the morning room to find out if it was.

  It wasn’t. But it was a social invitation; albeit one that seemed extended with a careless hand. Rachel let the paper drop from her fingers. After taking an agitated turn about the room she picked it up and reread the concise sentences whilst her small white teeth sank grooves into her lower lip.

  —I know you want to leave London as soon as possible. So do I. I intend to remove to Ireland at the earliest opportunity. I have preparations underway for a social evening at Berkeley Square this weekend, by way of farewell to my acquaintances, friends and family. If you are still desirous of negotiating a certain business matter before I go, it is convenient for me that I give you an audience then. I have no other free time. I have sent an invitation to your friends, the Saunders. If you decide to attend, I realise it would be best you come suitably accompanied.

  Yours, Devane

  Rachel chewed faster at her lip. There was no dispensation. He’d been lying all along. But then she’d already guessed as much when the days passed and no document arrived for her to take home. Devane had not made a prior arrangement with her father forfeiting his right to the estate until after the wedding. Had there been such an agreement, her papa would not have kept such monumental news to himself. He would have shared it with them all to soften the blow and ease their shock and distress.

  Was her hundred pounds suddenly tempting him? She doubted it. This cavalier invitation—as offhand and take it or leave it as had been his demand for one thousand pounds rent—was simply to impress on her that he now held the upper hand. He could not spare her a moment of his precious time before t
he event, but he might find a few minutes to bestow on her at his soirée. He was manipulating her, making her dance to his tune, because once she had led him by the nose, dangled him on a string. He’d said, had he not, that by the time he’d finished with her they’d be even…

  She crumpled the letter in a hand and let it drop to the table. A surge of aching anger quivered through her, making her feel light-headed. She couldn’t again pester him at home over this matter, he knew that. Tempting fate twice and risking a scandal was out of the question with June’s wedding imminent. She would comply with his wishes, of course, just as he knew she would. She was already grateful that he might still negotiate a price for a short lease on Windrush. She felt herself lucky that she might yet persuade him not to immediately sell her inheritance. A reprieve was what she needed; just a chance to put into action a scheme to get it back. If that was achieved by appearing humble and pandering to his despotic ego, so be it.

  Before such calm philosophy was lost to pride, she went to the small bureau in the corner and found a pen and paper. With a deep breath she sat down, dashed off a polite sentence of thanks and acceptance, sanded and sealed it, all within a few minutes. Of course she would go, echoed in her mind as she went to find Ralph to deliver it. She’d ignore the humiliation she’d already endured at his hands and perhaps even apologise for the abuse she’d heaped on his head. For there was still a possibility that June could be married at Windrush and until that was gone, she would bend to his will…as he intended she should.

  Rachel settled the small boy on her lap and helped him line up his tin soldiers on the table. When they were in passable formation, and before the prancing-horsed cavalry could be assembled, too, Alan knocked the redcoats down with a fat fist. He chuckled and turned a mischievous look on her.

  ‘Oh, dear! How unfortunate! An entire infantry regiment has been wiped out,’ Rachel said sorrowfully. ‘And not a bullet fired or a battle fought! What will the Iron Duke say to that calamity? No medals for you, my young man!’

  The boy cackled and clambered from her lap. On sturdy three-year-old legs he scampered away to find something else in his toy box with which to beset her armchair.

  ‘I’m sure Paul and I have only been invited as we’re your friends. Paul thinks it’s because of this new business arrangement he has with the Earl.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s Paul who is right,’ Rachel lied kindly, not wanting Lucinda to know her own thoughts on the subject: that Devane had simply invited them to act as her chaperons.

  ‘As soon as I got the card this morning I was dying to know whether you had an invitation, and whether you would accept.’

  Rachel quickly sipped from her teacup before little Alan returned and knocked it flying from her fingers. She hoped no hint of irony was discernible in her voice as she added, ‘Of course I shall attend. Despite what’s gone on in the past between the Merediths and Devane, there’s no hardship in being civil.’

  No hardship! reverberated like the beat of a drum in her brain. Sometimes she felt as though the effort of pretending she had no quarrel with the blackguard would be the finish of her sanity. Not least because she felt so alone now. She needed someone to confide in. She wanted to openly tell her friend that she hated the damnable man; not only because he had pilfered her estate, her inheritance, but because he was determined to shame and humiliate her, too. If not in public, then most definitely in private. She still burned with mortification from the hateful way he had treated her. Yet when she thought of it, the ache that assailed her sometimes crept from her throbbing head to make tender her breasts or stir her insides to a feverish heat…and then she loathed him even more.

  But it was another reason entirely that kept her lips sealed. By slandering the Earl she would put Lucinda in an awkward position, perhaps even divide her loyalties. Her husband was chief partner of Saunders and Scott, attorneys at law and marine insurance specialists. And that firm had successfully secured a contract to administer an amount of the Earl of Devane’s shipping affairs. Lucinda had discovered from her husband just last night that the contract had been won and this morning had recounted to Rachel some of the background to the work.

  The late Earl of Devane had left his grandson not only his Irish estates and his noble title, but a brace of rotting merchantmen in dry dock that needed extensive refitting. Paul had doubted a firm as young as his would be chosen. But Saunders and Scott had received a directive to estimate whether repairing the creaky hulks was a commercially viable undertaking. As Rachel had listened, dismayed, to Lucinda recounting how valuable a client Connor Flinte was, and how his patronage should bring prestige and other rich noblemen to her husband’s partnership, she had brooded that Devane was intentionally stealing away every ally she had. And already they were scarce…

  ‘I must say, Rachel,’ Lucinda said softly, ‘you seem to be taking the loss of Windrush very calmly. Perhaps losing the safety net of that estate is the little push you need to keep you from embracing the life of an old maid. Or a kept woman! How could you say that that day?’ she scolded. ‘I told Paul and he thought it funny. He says you have a wicked sense of humour.’

  Rachel dragged her thoughts to her friend and frowned her confusion.

  ‘You must remember the occasion. We were in your father’s new landau on that terribly hot afternoon. You said you’d as soon Moncur sent over his proposition as his proposal. We saw Connor,’ she reminded. ‘It was that day when the apple cart turned over and the carriages got in a crush. Then that beast of a magistrate told Ralph off, and the young lad driving the brewer’s dray…’

  Rachel, who had been helping Alan pull his train across the carpet, suddenly looked up. The brewer. That young man who had delivered Devane’s letter had been the man driving the damaged dray. She had thought she’d probably spied the liveried page somewhere about his house in Berkeley Square. In fact, she recalled him now, dressed anything but smartly, preparing to hit her driver Ralph! And now Devane had him in his employ!

  ‘Your papa is still hale and hearty, is he not? You might never want Windrush at all. If married, you would live with your husband at his home. Paul says perhaps Windrush might have become a burden on you at some time—because of the cost of its upkeep and so on. He says perhaps the Earl has, oddly, done you a favour in taking it off your hands…’

  ‘I hope he never says as much to me,’ Rachel remarked sweetly. She gave her friend a smile. ‘I’ve no intention of marrying, no doubt if I’d been a boy my inheritance might have been taken far more seriously…by everyone.’

  Lucinda looked apologetic. ‘I didn’t mean to trivialise it, Rachel. And Paul would be horrified if he thought you deemed we were doing so. I just thought, as you seem, so…so resigned to things…’

  ‘I’m doing my best to be philosophical about it all,’ Rachel said tightly. ‘There’s little else at the moment to be had but wretched wisdom in Windrush’s stead.’

  Lucinda gave her friend a penetrating look, searching for the sarcasm she knew would be lurking in her lucid blue eyes. Intending to mollify her, she added, ‘Paul said that it was clear your father held no grudge against the Earl for winning that game. They were seen in White’s together the following day, even though your papa had a dreadful hangover. Paul thinks Mr Meredith was relieved Connor won Windrush and not that weasel Lord Harley. He was in the game too. He came close to taking the pot instead, you know.’

  ‘No. I didn’t know,’ Rachel admitted on a sigh.

  ‘Your father has taken it philosophically, too…’

  ‘Obviously a family boon, then.’ Rachel regimented the infantry on the table. The smart black-coated Hussars she swept to the floor, making the little boy laugh.

  So it was to be a glittering affair, then, Rachel noted sourly as she allowed Paul Saunders to help her from the carriage and they joined the queue of fashionable ladies and gentlemen sedately ascending the stone steps to gain entrance to the Earl of Devane’s mansion.

  Paul offered both Rachel and
his wife an elegant arm each as their turn arrived to step over the threshold. Immediately, Rachel spied the salt-and-pepper hued head of Joseph, the butler, overseeing the lordly proceedings. A warmth needled her cheeks. It was impossible not to recall the spectacle she had made of herself the last time she was here. She smoothed her silk skirt and fiddled with a sinuous coil of sleek golden hair, whilst she repressed her annoyance at feeling intimidated by a servant. Had she imagined she might sneak in without the butler seeing her? How ridiculous! Still, a niggling hope lingered that the man might not recognise her.

  Her other persona, that shabby spinster with a fit of the sullens, was nowhere in evidence this evening. She had paid particular attention to her choice of gown tonight; the cut was elegant and ladylike, something perhaps her mother might have worn. But for all its sedate style, the steel-blue colour was a perfect foil for her golden-blonde looks and accentuated her eyes. She had used a little carmine to define her full lips and warm her cheeks and a little soot to darken her lashes. When Noreen stepped back to regard the full effect of her handiwork, having just twined a rope of lustrous pearls into her hair, the frank admiration in the maid’s face had made Rachel flash her a warm smile.

  ‘Sure, an’ you look good enough to eat, m’m,’ the maid had boldly opined as she put away the accoutrements that had brought about Rachel’s transformation into that delectable lady.