Mary Brendan

by Wedding Night Revenge

  Rachel was aware of the antipathetic sneer in his tone as he referred to the magistrate. She gave a little smile. ‘Well, that answers my next question. I was just about to enquire whether you recalled the incident.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ Sam said, nodding significantly. ‘I ain’t ever going to forget it.’

  ‘It has made such an impression, I suppose, because you met Lord Devane there. Afterwards, did you seek him out to employ you and Annie?’

  ‘I did,’ Sam admitted proudly. ‘I make no bones about saying that I hoped I’d see him again. I reckoned him a particular gentleman that day for helping. So when I spotted him coming out of a posh house…’ Sam hesitated, remembering the fancy piece who’d been hanging on to his neck that night. He cleared his throat. ‘I saw him and said as we’d be honoured and glad to serve him. I knew Annie ‘ud be safe and happy with such a master. Then he put us off…’ A spontaneous look of disappointment corrugated his features but he continued jauntily, ‘And I was grateful he took the trouble to place us with such a fine lady as yourself.’

  Rachel inclined her blonde head in gracious acceptance of the compliment, feeling churlish, for she’d certainly not wanted them here at first. Mainly she was pondering on how she could steer the conversation to what she really wanted to discover about the particular gentleman. ‘You must have become used to a steady routine in such a grand house.’

  ‘Yes, m’m.’

  Rachel smiled, took a golden ringlet soft on her cheek and twirled it about her finger. ‘The master…Lord Devane…probably kept you to a routine…to coincide with his own. Did he dine at home most evenings?’ she asked with a casual look about.

  ‘Yes, m’m, I think…’

  ‘But you’re not sure?’

  ‘Not really…’

  ‘And is he usually to be found at home, for a while, after dinner?’

  ‘Most evenings, I think… Well, not Wednesday. I know he would regular go out quite early on a Wednesday, with his brother, Mr Davenport, in that flash curricle.’

  ‘Wednesday… Today’s Wednesday,’ Rachel remarked faintly.

  ‘It is, m’m,’ Sam concurred, with a searching look that transformed into a frown.

  Rachel recognised his burgeoning conjecture. ‘Good, I’m glad you are settled here,’ she briskly said. ‘Although I’m not able to definitely offer you a permanent position in Hertfordshire—that will need to be agreed with my father—if it comes about, it seems we will deal well together.’ With a small smile and a nod she lowered her eyes. ‘Thank, you, Sam. You may return to your duties.’

  As Rachel heard the door close she squeezed shut her eyes. Today! If she was to do it at all, she must do it today! Or wait a week. She could not! She must return home. June’s wedding day would soon be upon them. Her mother would be wondering what on earth she was about to stay away at such a vital time.

  Connor had had her consent to spend the night with him, but she had yet to receive an answer as to where to go and when. She imagined such clandestine affairs were conducted at isolated spots out of town: possibly a hunting lodge, or a cottage or a country inn—for obviously they could not cohabit at either of their residences. She now knew he’d had improper liaisons, so he would be experienced in arranging discreet trysts. She was confident he would think her submission genuine. You want Windrush more than anything, don’t you? he had mocked her. And she had readily agreed. He thought he had her bested. It would be seen who was bested when the game was done! And it seemed it would be done tonight.

  She knew the layout of his house now; she knew exactly how to find his drawing room, his library, his study from the hallway. She knew exactly where the deeds were kept: in a desk, in a drawer, opened with a key that had a rather pretty Sévres inkstand as a repository.

  She knew his butler too. Joseph Walsh knew her and had seen the Earl pay her particular attention. Whatever the man thought of that privately, publicly he now treated her with the deference due to one of his master’s close acquaintances. And the fact that Lord Devane had paid her such particular attention at the Pembertons’ musicale and again at his own soirée, must lend a certain authenticity to her story.

  When she returned home with the deeds to Windrush and a tale that her former fiancé had taken pity on her and presented her with her inheritance as a parting gift before he went overseas, who would deem it utterly implausible or incredible? Many distinguished, respectable people had witnessed him seek her out and stay with her—including his parents. He had voiced to her aunt Phyllis his intention to be back in Ireland very soon; disposing of Windrush quickly and effortlessly before he went might not seem such odd behaviour in the circumstances. Parting with it in such a magnanimous, if eccentric, way might not either. He was rich, he had no use for it, and as everyone was wont to impress on her, from serving lads to her own papa, he was an honourable generous man… ’And so say all of us,’ she found herself quietly, hysterically chanting in morbid glee. It might be a simple scheme, but she couldn’t see a problem with it being a success…

  ‘Sweet Jesus! Tell me again exactly what she said,’ Noreen whispered, gazing up anxiously into Sam’s face. She drew him to one side in the kitchen, away from where Vera was rolling pastry on a floury table. The woman was stone deaf, but Noreen knew it was vital to prevent this news being overheard or spread about.

  She had never imagined just how important it would prove to be, tarrying to pick up one of the little lad’s soldiers from the floor in the hallway on the day Mrs Saunders came for tea with the mistress. At first she’d wished she’d never overheard one word. Now she was grateful she’d been intrigued enough after a moment or two to snoop long enough to hear it all.

  ‘Be still,’ Sam ordered Noreen, who was jigging agitatedly on the spot. His callused fingertips soothingly abraded her forearm. ‘Miss Meredith wanted to know when Lord Devane is likely to be gone from home. ‘Course she didn’t say it quite like that. She tried to make out she was more likely to want to catch him in. As if she might drop by and visit him, like…’

  ‘She wants him out of the house, is what I’m thinking.’

  I could have snatched it up and fled. I swear he wanted me to. Just so he could thwart me in it… The words reverberated in Noreen’s suspicious mind. Miss Rachel wanted Himself elsewhere so he couldn’t thwart her in it! ‘Can I trust you?’ Her anxious eyes scoured Sam’s face. No man in her twenty-five years had ever treated her the way he did, with a desire and a deference that made her feel at the same time fragile as glass yet strong as an ox.

  ‘If you need to ask, perhaps you can’t,’ he returned shortly.

  ‘There’s things you don’t know about the mistress and that blackhearted divil.’

  ‘Don’t say so about him. He’s a good man…’

  ‘There’s things you don’t know! Isn’t it meself’s heard the truth about him from Miss Rachel’s own lips?’ she hissed. She threw a chary look at the old woman still making a pie. ‘So, before I tell you all about it, what I’m after finding out—are you man enough for me, Sam Smith? Will you trust me when I tell you God’s own truth? Will you do what I’m wanting you to do? For if she’s planning what I think she’s planning and it goes wrong… Mother Mary! It’ll ruin things as will never be put right. Not for her…not for her sisters. And Miss June soon to be a bride!’

  The silence seemed long, too long. Noreen’s pleading eyes fell from the strength of consideration in his. She gathered her uniform in her trembling fists and made to sweep proudly past.

  His answer came in one unconditional word. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Miss Meredith!’

  As the elegantly attired blonde woman smiled at him and inclined her lovely head in greeting, Joseph Walsh immediately ushered her into the hallway. He’d taken a ticking off last time from his master for not showing this woman liberal hospitality and he didn’t intend repeating his mistake by keeping her waiting any longer on the doorstep.

  After that bizarre incident when she’d arrived looking
oddly dishevelled and belligerent, he had made it his discreet business to discover a little about Miss Meredith. Now he knew that this lady and Connor Flinte had once been betrothed, and from the way the man acted when she was about, Joseph wouldn’t at all be surprised to soon see them as a couple once more. Thus he refused to ponder on whether the lady thought it wise to test her appeal or her reputation by again arriving alone and unexpected at her admirer’s residence.

  ‘Lord Devane desires my company,’ Miss Meredith brightly, nonchalantly declared, thus reinstating the butler’s nonplussed expression. ‘Are my friends, Mr and Mrs Saunders, yet arrived?’ she added to Joseph’s amazement.

  The butler coughed, struggled admirably for composure. ‘Why, no, Miss Meredith. As far as I’m aware they’re not…expected?’ he ventured. ‘Lord Devane is not…er…presently at home…’ he told her with a finger at his lips and a deepening frown, as though fretting that he must have mistaken or forgotten some instruction from his employer. A sudden idea occurred to him, causing an abrupt elevation of his peppery eyebrows: perhaps the fault lay with Lord Devane. A prior arrangement might have slipped his lordship’s mind. He might have succumbed to routine—or pressure from his stepbrother—and gone carousing as was customary on Wednesday. That thought was given tenability by the fact that, unusually, both gentlemen, not just the younger, were inebriated by six of the clock when they had quit the house and sped away in that racing curricle.

  Thus Joseph didn’t quite know how to tell this lovely, soft-eyed woman that it seemed she’d been stood up because the Earl of Devane was too drunk to remember he’d invited her or her friends to call. Hastily he reminded himself that dealing with such trials and tribulations as the Quality felt entitled to wreak was part and parcel of the duties of any butler worth his salt. With an air of confidence, he reassured her, ‘I’m persuaded he might soon return…’ In his mind, Joseph already had volunteered one of the footmen to scour the likeliest haunts for sight of his master’s unmistakable equipage gracing a seedy kerb.

  ‘Might I wait?’ Rachel indicated the hallway chair where she had sat before. That occasion seemed aeons ago, so much had occurred in the interim.

  ‘But of course! Come along to the rose salon and find a comfortable chair,’ Joseph told her solicitously. ‘That pretty room is a favourite with Lady Davenport,’ he politely imparted on leading her to a door along the echoing corridor. ‘When Mr and Mrs Saunders arrive I shall have them join you. I’ll fetch some tea…’

  ‘No! Please don’t trouble yourself, Joseph,’ Rachel cried quickly. ‘I have not long ago dined,’ she sweetly added in mitigation to her blunt refusal of refreshment. If her scheme was to have a chance of success, she needed to be left alone, not have him rejoin her after an unknown interval.

  With a polite bow Joseph was again by the door. As it closed after his retreating figure, Rachel gripped at the pink-cushioned, gilt-framed chair behind and stiffly lowered herself into it. For a moment nothing registered other than dazed relief at actually having got inside on such a flimsy pretext. She had done it! ‘Please don’t ever let Joseph get into bad trouble for admitting me,’ was the next thought that emerged prayer-like through her quivering lips.

  Her fingers clenched on the golden chair arms, sliding damply. Obliquely she realised just how much in shock she was. Her heart was hammering so fast and hard beneath her ribs that she was amazed the butler hadn’t noticed her quaking and become suspicious enough to expose her straight away as a fraud. She put a hand against the satin-covered spot beneath a rounded breast, pressed it as though to forcibly constrain the vibration rocking her fingers. She breathed deeply to calm herself.

  Encouragingly she reminded herself that she might have been economical with the facts, but not once had she actually told a lie to Joseph to gain admittance. His master did desire her company, the lustful brute, and she had only enquired whether the Saunders had arrived, not that she expected them to do so.

  Thank goodness poor Joseph had been too flummoxed by it all to directly ask whether she was invited. On the periphery of her nervous exhilaration, contentment registered: Joseph had unequivocally accepted her right to be here. Lord Devane’s interest in her, his patronage, were common knowledge.

  Suddenly her environment intruded on her thoughts. She took a swift, encompassing look about the perfectly proportioned square room. It was indeed pretty…feminine…with its dusky-pink drapes and furnishings and the thick creamy rug that spilled over the floorboards, stopping short of the wainscoting so that a narrow perimeter of polished wood was displayed. The furniture was fashioned from rich red mahogany: dainty long-legged pieces that complemented the room’s elegance. That was the most admiration she lavished on her sumptuous surroundings.

  All her intelligence was then devoted to preparing for the work in hand. She would wait a few more minutes; give Joseph Walsh time to go about his duties before she dared put a foot back into the corridor. She must perfectly time her sortie for there would be one chance only to achieve what she’d set out to do.

  She had chosen her clothing carefully. Her gown was of a sombre night-blue sarsenet, her stole, black lace. She hoped the sun would soon fully set, for the duskier it became the less likely she was to be spotted darting along the corridors. Not that she wanted it dim enough for the servants to be scurrying about lighting tapers. Should she be discovered roaming the house, her audacious escapade must be aborted and her store of excuses delved into.

  She shied away from such a predicament, determined to remain positive and optimistic. She looked at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes past eight. It was still quite light outside although the last sunbeams had disappeared. In fact, it was a beautiful early summer evening. Through the open fanlights she could hear a chorus of blackbirds piping in the dusk, sense a balmy air soft on her skin. For a moment the mesmerising movement of billowing pink velvet held her attention.

  Sharply rallying her thoughts, she quickly darted out of the chair and gained the door on noiseless feet. She pressed an ear close to the panels. There was no sound but the fast pump of her own blood deafening her. One small hand slid clammily about the massive brass knob and noiselessly eased open the door an inch…then another…then another, until she had a clear view of the vestibule and was confident it was vacant.

  On the point of slipping through the aperture, she suddenly heard footsteps and male voices. Hastily she shrank back and pushed the door into the frame until just a gap of an inch or two remained.

  Joseph Walsh and a liveried footman were walking in the direction of the great doorway as though having emerged from the bowels of the house. The footman appeared to be listening to Joseph’s explicit instructions then, with a final nod, he was on his way out of the house. Suddenly Rachel knew why. Of course! The butler, confused by his master’s odd absence when he had guests, would try and find him to alert him to the oversight and bring him home.

  Rachel screwed up her lovely face in alarm and exasperation. Closing the door fully, she leaned back against it, thinking…thinking…

  Logically, it would be some little while before Lord Devane’s whereabouts was located. There was still time. She must simply act without delay.

  Having waited, heart in mouth, the few minutes she calculated it would take Joseph to disappear towards the kitchens, Rachel again opened the door a crack.

  She was wrong! Joseph hadn’t disappeared at all. This time the sight that greeted her drained the colour from her face and a sharp indrawn breath grazed her throat. She watched, stunned, through the minute opening as the butler pushed the great door closed having just admitted a new arrival. Joseph would, of course, know this man, for a short while ago they had been work colleagues…

  Sam Smith and Joseph Walsh were conversing amiably as they strolled in the direction of the rose salon and thus missed the moment the door clicked fully shut.

  Rachel waited tensely, straining to anticipate the moment those cracking footsteps would stop and the door would open. Th
e uneven tattoo drumming on marble came closer…closer…then passed, faded away. She remained perched on the edge of the gilt chair, her fingers clenched on its brocade seat. She sat statue-like for some minutes, barely breathing or thinking; just expecting to hear the beating feet again as the men returned to confront her.

  After several minutes of echoing silence, the first anxiety that burrowed into her numb mind was that Sam Smith might be here to alert her to some disaster or other that had occurred in her absence at Beaulieu Gardens. As her logic stirred, she dismissed it. If that were the case they would have entered the room. And, anyway, none of her servants knew she was here. She had deemed it prudent to keep this visit to Lord Devane’s residence strictly to herself. The fewer people involved in this night’s work, the better it must be. A hackney cab had brought her here and she intended returning with her booty in the same manner.

  Why should Sam Smith not visit his old colleagues? He had made it clear he enjoyed his time working at this house. He and Joseph looked quite gregarious, as though they enjoyed a chat. He was on the staff at Beaulieu Gardens now, but once Sam’s chores were done for the day, what remained of his time was his own to spend where and with whom he would. It was just a bizarre coincidence that tonight of all nights he should choose to pay a visit to the house his new mistress was intending to rob.

  Rachel’s eyes darted to the mahogany clock in the corner. The time was approaching fifteen minutes to nine. She must make a move; revive her courage and carry out her mission, or take the coward’s way and slink away home.

  Determinedly, she again approached the door and opened it a crack. She placed a foot outside, then, muttering in frustration, withdrew it almost immediately as she heard indistinct male voices shouting from somewhere in the depths of the house. Was she never to be out of this accursed room! Through the small gap Rachel frowned despairingly at the hallway, but could see nothing although the commotion seemed to be increasing in volume. Other voices were joining the babble, both male and female, until the whole house seemed a swelling cacophony.