by Anita Mills
Feigning business in London, Bertie begged off from accompanying Patrick to Newmarket for the races, and then took the three days of his friend’s absence to put his preposterous scheme to work. It had been a difficult task at best for Bertie, who had shied away from females ever since Patrick had rescued him from the clutches of a very mercenary bit of fluff, but he’d screwed his courage to the sticking point and made the acquaintance of Miss Ashley. And in the course of a very stilted morning call, he’d managed to find out that she had more than a passing interest in horses, a circumstance that fit his plans perfectly. From there, it was possible to invite her to drive out in Hyde Park behind the bang-up-to-the-mark grays that Patrick had helped him find at Tattersall’s. She’d almost declined, but Miss Canfield persuaded her to go. Bertie had to congratulate himself on how well he’d done.
Now he labored over the two notes he planned to leave for Patrick and the Canfields. Worse than an indifferent scholar, he scratched out two very different explanations, pausing from time to time to make corrections in his abysmal spelling by writing another choice above the first. Then, finding he’d left out something he’d wanted to say, he added lines in the margins until he had to turn the pages around to read what he’d written. Finally satisfied that he’d covered everything, he sanded each letter to dry the blots he’d made and then sealed them before directing his butler as to their delivery.
That done, he ordered the packing of his portmanteau while he dressed with infinite care. After ruining no fewer than six neckcloths, he finally gave in to the ministrations of his valet. It seemed that he was never destined to achieve even the simplest tasks with the ease of someone like Patrick, who, as far as Bertie could tell, excelled in everything. Well, this time, it would be Bertie Bascombe who did Patrick Danvers a good turn—it would be Patrick thanking Bertie for a change. With that comforting thought, he threw back his shoulders and prepared for the adventure of his life.
By the time he presented himself at the Canfield house, he was about to lose his nerve. Only the consolation that he was helping Patrick secure a fortune spurred him to lift the knocker on the great double doors of Sir Max’s house.
Above him, Juliana Canfield peered out the window and giggled. “Caro, come look—’tis your gentleman caller.”
Flashing the younger girl a look that plainly said her patience was sorely tried, Caroline Ashley lifted another curtain to look down. “Your mama is not going to like this, Ju. And he is not my gentleman caller,” she added severely. “Of all the cork-brained things you have gotten me into, this must surely be the worst. I could have cheerfully wrung your neck when you all but accepted for me. Ju, I shall be amazed if Albert Bascombe can maintain a conversation above five minutes.”
“Nonsense. He was here at least fifteen.”
“And you did most of the speaking.”
“I know, but he is so rich,” Juliana drew out in a perfect imitation of Lady Lenore. “I mean, what is conversation when there is a fortune to be had?”
“Stop it! I daresay that young Bascombe means to court you, but has not the wits about him to do it. No doubt I shall be treated to a plea for help,” Caro muttered dryly.
“No.” Juliana was positive. “I think he means to fix his interest with you—and Mama will be mad as fire.”
“That’s why you did this to me, you wretch, isn’t it? To pique your mama even if I have to endure an afternoon of trying to follow Bascombe’s rather disjointed attempts to speak. I vow that the next time that Conniston calls on you, I shall tell him you’ve set your mind on seeing the ruins at Wells.”
“Caro, you’d do no such thing! He’s forty if he’s a day—and Mama positively toadeats him just because he’s supposed to have thirty thousand in the ’Change.”
Caro sighed as a tap sounded at the door. “I suppose there’s no help for it this time, but I warn you, Ju—if you ever do this to me again, I shall go back to Miss Richards.”
“But, Caro”—Juliana grinned mischievously—“you must think of the advantages. If Bertie Bascombe does come up to scratch, you just might be a countess someday. Then you may outrank Mama, for Papa is but a baronet, while Bertie’s father is an earl.”
“Thank you, but I do not aspire to the distinction.” With that, Caro gathered up her rather worn bottle-green pelisse and drew it on over her brown walking dress. “I know—I should wait to put this on, but I’ve no wish for the assistance. I daresay I shall be back shortly, for I expect Bascombe’s conversation to be exhausted ere we get to the corner.”
“Fiddle. I’ll warrant you have a positively exciting time, Caro—if you cannot like him, you will at least get to be seen in Hyde Park. Who knows—if it becomes common knowledge that Albert Bascombe’s calling, perhaps ’twill bring others.”
“With my expectations?” Caroline lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. “My dear, the next time we go to Hookham’s, I mean to have a look at those romances you are borrowing.”
“Never forget that you could have been my cousin’s viscountess, Caro,” Juliana reminded her.
“Much good that would have done me, my dear,” Caroline murmured as she pulled on a serviceable pair of brown kid gloves. “I should have been left in the country to increase alone whilst your cousin continued his gaming and dueling. Thank you, but I can think of a hundred things I should rather do.”
Picking up her chip-straw hat, she settled it over the dark coil of her braids and deftly tied the ribbon under her chin. “There—that should about do it, don’t you think?”
“Caro, can you not be romantical in the least?”
“Not in the least. Females in my circumstances cannot afford to cherish foolish dreams, my dear.”
“Caro—”
“Do not be worrying over me. I’ll come about—and without setting my cap for a fat purse.”
When Caroline reached the landing, she could see Albert Bascombe pacing the marble-tiled entryway like a trapped animal. He looked up just as she negotiated the last few steps and his pale eyes brightened with approval.
“I say, Miss Ashley, but you are deuced prompt for a female,” he commended. “M’sisters say they are ready and then leave me standing an hour.” Taking in her hat and pelisse, he nodded. “And when you get down, you are ready to leave—I like that.”
“Thank you.”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then threw back his somewhat frail shoulders much in the manner of a servant assuming a burden. “Well, then I daresay we’d best be going.”
To Caroline’s surprise, the waiting conveyance was a traveling coach complete with liveried driver and coachmen. She hesitated. It was one thing to take a turn in a public park in a barouche or a landaulet or a phaeton, but to be alone with a gentleman in a closed carriage was something else. For a fleeting moment she thought about going back for Juliana or one of the maids, but then after another look at the pale, freckle-faced young man at her side, she decided that he was obviously quite harmless. Besides, it was unlikely that she would be recognized by anyone outside the coach.
“Ain’t a whip like Patrick,” Bertie responded to her questioning look. “Can’t drive—never could. Besides, curricle’s got a broken axle.”
“Patrick?”
“Westover. He can drive to an inch.”
“I see. Tell me, Mr. Bascombe, are you a particular friend of Lord Westover’s.”
“Uh … know him, that’s all. Just meant he can drive, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
As he was handing her up, Bertie almost lost his balance and Caro had to steady herself by clasping the doorjamb. “Your pardon,” he mumbled, “but I ain’t used to females. Got no address, either.”
“But you have sisters,” Caroline reminded him.
“Don’t take ’em anywhere, if I can help it.”
“But you talk to them, don’t you?”
“Sometimes. Thing is, Gussie’s still in the schoolroom and Georgie’s married. Not that
I liked Georgie anyway, mind you, ’cause I didn’t. Got tired of her sayin’ I was a slowtop.” He paused to consider. “But Fanny’s all right—don’t know I’m a slowtop yet.” He bumped his head and fell into the seat across from her. “Oh,” he groaned, “I did it again. Patrick said—” He caught himself guiltily and shook his head. “Heard Westover say once,” he amended, “that one of them head-measuring fellows would have a devil of a time with mine.”
“A phrenologist?”
“That what they call ’em? Uh-huh—guess he would, ’cause I’ve always got bumps all over. Daresay it’s all a hum anyway, you know. You ever get your head measured?’
“No. I think it’s a hum too,” she answered with a smile.
“You do?” He brightened, grateful to have something to talk about. “Well, when we was in our cups, Patrick let some fellow look at his, and y’know what? Fellow was a dashed loose screw! Said Patrick’s amatory instincts needed checking, if you can believe it! Like he was some sort of rakehell or something!”
“Uh—”
“Oh. Shouldn’t be talking about such things to a female, I guess. Well,” he changed the subject abruptly, “do you speak any French?”
“Yes.”
“Good, ’cause I don’t and one of us ought to.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, it’s an accomplishment.”
“I suppose it is. At Miss Richards, every young lady must be fluent ere she is finished.”
“I couldn’t learn it,” he admitted simply.
“I suspect you are too critical of yourself, sir. And even if you did not master French, there must be any number of things in which you excel.”
“You think so?” he asked doubtfully. “I must say I ain’t found ’em yet. Now, Patrick—he’s the downy one—he’s got the brains and the looks.”
“Then he does not use them—the brains, I mean,” she retorted acidly. “And if you do not mind, I would very much rather not discuss someone I’ve taken into dislike.”
“But you have it all wrong, Miss Ashley. Patrick ain’t like anyone thinks—he ain’t.” His face earnest, Bertie leaned across the seat toward Caroline. “Everybody thinks he’s a bad fellow, but they don’t know it was Bridlington that caused it. Came out at the inquest—his papa tried to quash the evidence. Patrick was acquitted, Miss Ashley. And if that ain’t enough, Bridlington’s papa encouraged Standen and Haworth to quarrel with Patrick, ’cause he thought they could take him if the weapon was a sword. After the Standen affair, I tried to get Patrick to go abroad, but he couldn’t see that he ought to—said he’d fought a fair duel and he’d be hanged if he ran. I told him that what with Bridlington’s papa so hot for his blood, he’d deuced well be hanged if he stayed. But it ain’t like Patrick to run, Miss Ashley—it ain’t. And he was acquitted again. Then with Haworth, they did not even have an inquest. Thing is, with a rich man like Bridlington trying to ruin him, don’t see how Patrick can come about. ’Course, he ain’t tried,” Bertie admitted with a sigh as he leaned back against the squabs again. “He ain’t received, but he don’t try to be, either. Look at Rotherfield—he was just like Patrick, but he still goes everywhere. Oh, there’s them that cuts him, but then there’s them that doesn’t.”
“I was not referring to Lord Westover’s past difficulties, Mr. Bascombe,” Caroline cut in, “but rather to his arrogance.”
“Arrogance?” Bertie took indignant exception. “Patrick ain’t arrogant, Miss Ashley! He’s the deuced decent! And there ain’t anyone more honorable than Patrick Danvers—I don’t care who you would say—there ain’t! You know something, Miss Ashley? I’m a slowtop—always was—and when we was boys, the other fellows laughed at me, but not Patrick. I can tell you that if he hadn’t been my friend, I’d have been in the basket more times than I can count. Why, he rescued me from the gaming hells before m’father disowned me, he got me out of the clutches of the cent per cents with his own money, and when I got in trouble with the muslin company, he got me out of that too. Come to find out, the baggage was trying to get me to pay for Crofton’s brat! And he fought Haworth over me, too—that’s how Bridlington planned to get him. When Patrick wouldn’t fight, Haworth turned on me and called me out. Patrick knew I’d be carved like a duck, so he met a man that everyone thought would kill him. And you know what? ’Twas Haworth that died from the wound when it turned putrid. And it could have been me.”
“Your loyalty to Lord Westover is commendable,” Caroline soothed when Bertie stopped to catch his breath. “Unfortunately, his family does not share your opinion of him. And I’ve no wish to—”
“Because he embarrassed ’em!” Bertie snorted. “They wanted him to run—to stay away until people forgot. Oh, aye, the Danverses would have liked him better, but Bridlington was calling him a murderer. So he let ’em arrest him, and it was a very near thing, I can tell you. If it hadn’t been proved that Bridlington paid to have his son’s weapon hidden, Patrick would have swung on the Nubbin’ Cheat!”
“Mr. Bascombe, ’twas not my intent to distress you,” Caroline tried again. “Perhaps if we talked about something else, it would be better.”
“Your pardon, Miss Ashley—shouldn’t have run on like that, I suppose, but I get tired of hearing about what a rounder Patrick is.”
“Well, your defense of your friend is commendable, I am sure.”
Having said his piece, Bertie found himself at a loss for further conversation. In less than five minutes, he’d said more to a female than he’d said in five years and now he had nothing left to say. He turned to stare out the carriage window into the London street. When Caroline found it necessary to comment on the various landmarks, Bertie responded in monosyllables until she abandoned the attempt. They sat in strained silence for perhaps another fifteen minutes until she suddenly noted their direction.
“Mr. Bascombe, we cannot reach the park this way. Perhaps you should stop and direct your driver before we are hopelessly lost.”
He’d hoped she wouldn’t discover his plan quite so soon, but for a female, she was deuced clever. Bertie drew in a deep breath before turning back to look at her. “Can’t,” he told her at last.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Can’t,” he repeated. “We ain’t going for a turn in the park, Miss Ashley. Deuced sorry for it, but I am abducting you.”
“You jest,” she decided matter-of-factly.
“No.”
“Mr. Bascombe, this is ridiculous. Why would you wish to abduct me?”
“Mean to marry you. Knew you would not entertain my suit if I asked.” He repeated the carefully memorized lines he’d practiced. When she stared at him, he looked at the floor and mumbled, “Knew you wouldn’t. Slowtop,” he added succinctly, as though that explained everything.
“But you do not even know me.”
“Knew that if Patrick thought you was all right, you must be.”
“I see.” She nodded in dawning understanding. “And I suppose you too are in need of an immediate heir.” Her voice was deceptively calm.
“M’father’s past his prime,” he defended. “Make you a countess someday.”
“And of course you had no wish to survey the Marriage Mart for an eligible female,” she pursued.
“No. I ain’t in the petticoat line.”
“But somehow you saw me and that was that.”
He eyed her warily now, uncertain as to where she was leading him. “I saw you at the Beresfords’.”
“And, never even having danced with me, you conceived this ridiculous scheme? Really, Mr. Bascombe, but you will have to concoct a more plausible story than this.”
“Dash it, I called on you once,” he defended.
“Yesterday morning. And if I recall it correctly, we exchanged perhaps a half-dozen sentences. Indeed, I believe it was Juliana who spoke the most.” She fixed him with a disbelieving look. “Tell me, Mr. Bascombe, how is it that you did not fix your interes
t with her? Could it be that the three of you—Juliana, Patrick Danvers, and yourself—devised this idiotish plan?”
“No! Patrick don’t know of it! And I don’t even know Miss Canfield. No, I am abducting you, Miss Ashley, and I am carrying you off to France where I intend to marry you,” he maintained stubbornly. “I’m eloping with you. Thought it out—a man has to get married, after all—must secure the succession and all that. You’re a nice-looking female and you ain’t got a family to pay off with the settlements.” He glanced up furtively to see if she believed him. “Dash it, Miss Ashley! I got no address! I can’t face the Marriage Mart!”
“You cannot have developed a tendre for me.”
“But I did!”
“Tell me, Mr. Bascombe—do you wish to kiss me?”
Bertie’s eyes widened in dismay and he swallowed hard before nodding. “Want to marry you in France.”
A gleam of amusement crept into Caroline’s eyes. “But why go to France? ’Tis a long way to travel in a cramped carriage, isn’t it? Why not just get a special license and stay in England?” She leaned across the seat until her face was almost even with Bertie’s. “Are you certain you wish to kiss me, Mr. Bascombe? I do not believe for an instant that you do.”
“Of course I want to kiss you! I mean, in the course of things, I should expect to.” Red-faced, Bertie realized he was about to be trapped into admitting his plans if he did not do something. Manfully, he leaned over and bussed Caroline’s cheek. When she did not move away, he closed his eyes and gave her a quick peck on the lips. “There,” he breathed triumphantly. “See?”
“Are you absolutely certain that you feel those tender passions necessary for marriage, Mr. Bascombe?”
“Absolutely. But we have to go to France.”
“Why?” she demanded bluntly. “How do you propose to marry me in a Catholic country?”
