by Anita Mills
Unbidden, tears of frustration began to well in her famed blue eyes, giving them added sparkle. Unconsciously she brushed them away and prepared to accept defeat.
It was a gesture that was not lost on the earl. As used as he was to the wiles of the other sex, he was touched by the artlessness of this simple human reaction. He drew back the letter and stuffed it back in his pocket. “All right,” he agreed with a sigh, “I’ll pursue the matter further, child.” Turning to Leah Barsett, he nodded. “The only word I can make out of this whole thing is ‘France,’ so perchance he took her there. I will set inquiries afoot at Dover and see if we can trace them. Miss Canfield, you will hear of my success or failure either from Lady Lyndon or myself by the end of the week.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” Juliana breathed in relief. “I shall quite look forward to it.”
“Good heavens! My salts!”
They turned to where Lenore Canfield stood clutching her bosom in shock. Lady Lyndon, used to the reaction from her friendship with Rotherfield, was the first to move. “Marcus,” she addressed the earl, “assist Lady Canfield to a chair if you will, please.” Taking a bottle of smelling salts from her reticule, she uncorked it and waved it beneath Lady Lenore’s nose. “There—you are quite all right, I am sure. Her color is returning nicely, my dear,” she told Juliana as the earl steered the shaken woman to a seat.
Juliana, who had told Rotherfield that her mother would have palpitations, had certainly never expected her to actually have them. After all, the woman had never done so before. She grabbed a copy of the Gazette that lay on a table and began fanning with it. “You are quite all right, Mama—’tis the heat. May I present Lady Lyndon? And Lord Rotherfield is but come calling with her, after all.”
Lenore Canfield looked up at the disreputable earl with such malevolence that even he was taken aback. “What a surprise,” she managed through tightly compressed lips.
“Yes,” Leah Barsett interposed smoothly, “Marcus is accompanying me to the Pantheon today, and I persuaded him to stop with me since it is quite on our way. But we really must be going, Lady Canfield, for I am told the best buys are to be obtained in the morning. Perhaps Juliana would wish to accompany us—”
“No!” Lenore choked, and then realized how she must sound to Lady Lyndon. “That is to say, I am sure it would be nice some other time.” Casting a baleful eye at Rotherfield, she shook her head. “I am sure you understand, sir, that Lord Barrington has applied for Juliana’s hand, and it would not do for him to think her the least bit fast. While dear Lady Lyndon may be seen with you, she is a married lady, after all, and can survive the association.”
Her meaning was not lost on Leah Barsett, but instead of infuriating the lady, it appeared to amuse her. The beautiful Leah merely chuckled good-naturedly. “Alas, ’tis your dreadful rep, Marcus, that makes Tony think I am so safe with you. He knows full well I shall not be subjected to importunities from other men while in your company, I daresay.” Drawing on her gloves, she nodded to him. “We really must be going, for I am determined to have some of that blue lustring and those dyed feathers I saw last week. Fanny Egglesworth assures me that they will be gone early.”
As soon as they had left, Lady Lenore turned to her daughter coldly. “Make no mistake about it, miss— while an association with Lady Lyndon is desirable, one with the Earl of Rotherfield is not. I will not tolerate your casting out lures to a man of his stamp. Do you understand me, Juliana?”
“Perfectly, Mama. You would have me go about with Lady Leah, provided that Lord Rotherfield is not in attendance.”
Pleased with the unusually meek tone of Juliana’s voice, Lady Lenore let the matter drop. But she made up her mind that the sooner her daughter was safely and respectably married, the better.
Outside, Leah Barsett waited until the earl had joined her in her carriage before announcing, “I like her, Marcus, but ‘tis not like you to put yourself out for a child.”
“It isn’t, is it?” he agreed imperturbably.
12
Patrick read Caro’s letter and sank into the nearest chair in a state of disbelief. “The little fool—the bloody little fool!” he muttered under his breath. “She’ll ruin herself!”
Bertie took the paper unnoticed and squinted in concentration while he tried to read it. “Well”—he shook his head in disgust—”if that don’t beat the Dutch! After all we have been through for her, you’d think—”
“I can’t let her do it! She cannot know what ‘tis like to be cut by everyone—she cannot. My reputation may have put me beyond the bounds of polite society, but I can still save her from the slanderous insults, Bertie.”
“I say, Pat, you ain’t going to go after her again!”
“I am.”
“But—”
“Bertie, I have to! As little as I consider it to my credit, my reputation is such that there’s not a man in England fool enough to insult my wife. I can spike their guns. Oh, the tabbies may talk for a month or two, but she can survive that. She cannot survive going back unwed.” Resolutely Patrick rose and straightened his shoulders. “Besides, I mean to have her.”
“Thought it was your honor.”
“That too, but I think I could live with her—that it would be different with her than with some empty-headed ninnyhammer.”
“You sound like you was head over heels,” Bertie observed.
“Maybe I am.”
“Well, if that’s the way it is, we’re wasting time. Got to find out if she was on one of the packets today. Then we just go back and find this damned school. I ain’t got much stomach for another abduction, mind you, but if you’re set on it, well, then I guess I ain’t above helping you. But if I was you, I’d just find her and tell her you’ve thrown your hat over the windmill for her,” he added practically. “I would.”
“Bertie, sometimes you are a prince.” Patrick grinned in spite of himself
“I say, Pat, I ain’t! A friend, that’s all.”
Many times in the following days, Bertie regretted his offer of help. The search was fruitless from the beginning. After being unable to determine that she had actually crossed the Channel, they’d combed Calais before returning to Dover. No ship’s master on either side of the Channel could recall an unattended female of Caroline’s description. Having remembered that Juliana’s school was in Shropshire, Patrick dragged Bertie there only to find that Miss Richards had not seen her since she left to go with the Canfields, and she had not heard from her in weeks. Now at a total loss, they turned back to London, arriving well after dark.
As his carriage turned down Curzon Street toward his house, Patrick still could not admit defeat. At the corner to the Canfield residence, he struck his palm in inspiration and told Bertie to call on Juliana. Rapping on the ceiling to gain his driver’s attention, he had the carriage halted.
“Me?” Bertie howled as though stuck. “I say, Pat, I can’t! I mean, ’twas me that abducted her! They ain’t going to let me in the door, I tell you. I’ll be clapped up in Newgate—if I ain’t taken straight to Bedlam! No!”
Patrick leaned back in his seat and played absently with the rapier he kept in the coach. Bowing the thin blade with his hands, he let it go and it quavered in the air. “No?” The famous Danvers eyebrow shot up quizzically. “Bertie, we have not come this far to quit. You abducted Caroline Ashley from this house—you have a debt of honor to determine her safety. If she has been able to get back into my aunt’s house, my presence could well put her out on her ear.”
“Besides, it’s night! Can’t call on a female at night. Won’t be home anyway.” Bertie could see he was making no impression. “Bound to be out—Incomparable, after all—asked everywhere,” he continued desperately. “And if they was home, they know I left with Miss Ashley. How can I go back and ask where she is? They’ll think I’ve done something to her. And if she’s there, no telling what she’s told ’em—they might send for the constable!”
> “Bertie—”
“You do it.”
“My patience is at an end, Bertie.”
“But I made off with her!”
“If you left a note anything like the one you left me, I promise you they had not the least notion of what happened,” Patrick responded dryly.
“Pat, I can’t talk to your cousin—I can’t. Ain’t in the petticoat line—I ain’t! Wouldn’t know what to say to her!”
“Bertie—”
Bascombe could see it was useless. Capitulating gracelessly, he flung himself down from the coach and presented himself at the Canfield door. To his horror, the butler did not turn him away, and a footman was sent to inform Miss Canfield of his presence. When she came down, he could only stare.
“What have you done with Caro?” she demanded as soon as she’d closed the door behind her.
“Thought you’d be out,” he blurted foolishly.
“You came calling on me because you thought I was out?” she asked incredulously. “Mr. Bascombe, are you quite all right?”
“If you mean I’m touched in my upper works,” he retorted stiffly, “I ain’t. But Patrick sent me to ask if you’d heard from Miss Ashley. I can tell you ain’t heard either, so I’ll go.”
“May I remind you she left with you. What have you done with her, you fiend?” Juliana stepped in front of him to bar his way. “Well?”
“Me? I ain’t done nothing!”
“She cannot have just disappeared, sir. We have not seen her since she left with you almost two weeks ago. You have your brass coming here to ask for her, Mr. Bascombe. I think the Runners would be interested in what you have done with her.”
“I told you—I ain’t done nothing!”
“Where did you take her?”
“Took her to Calais, but it ain’t like you think, Miss Canfield—I swear! Patrick—”
“My cousin would not be a party to an abduction,” Juliana cut in coldly, “and Caroline Ashley would not have willingly run off with you. Where is she?”
“Oh, what the devil?” Bertie wavered a moment, squirming beneath Juliana’s implacable stare. “Miss Canfield, I abducted Miss Ashley in hopes that Patrick would come after her and they could make a match of it. Just wanted to help, that’s all. But she bolted—and we ain’t seen her since?”
“What?”
“We ain’t seen her since. Patrick’s half out of his mind over it, too. Stupid thing for me to do, but deuced silly of her to run off.”
“Patrick knew of this?” she demanded awfully. “I don’t believe you, Mr. Bascombe.”
“Of course he didn’t know it! Left him a note—like the one I left you. Mad as fire, too. She ran away, saying she was going back to that damnable school, but she ain’t there. Miss Canfield,” Bertie explained plaintively, “we been all over England looking for her.”
“Well, she is not here. I didn’t know what happened to her, so I told Mama she’d gone to care for her sick godmother.” She sank onto a settee and sighed. “Before long, Mama’s going to demand to know where she is, Mr. Bascombe.”
Bertie shuddered. The thought of Lady Canfield’s wrath coming down on his head was frightening. “Tell her someplace up north,” he offered.
“Where? Besides, that does not help Caro. If she’s not here and not with Miss Richards, something’s happened to her—something dreadful. Mr. Bascombe, you’ve got to find her.”
“Me?”
The door opened suddenly to admit Lady Canfield. Juliana jumped guiltily at the sight of her mother bearing purposefully down on her. Bertie clutched his beaver hat helplessly. Suddenly Lady Lenore’s face inexplicably lightened, and she held out her hand to him.
“Mr. Bascombe—dear Mr. Bascombe—for shame, coming here for a little tête-à-tête with my daughter behind my back.” Incredibly, her face was wreathed in smiles. While Bertie goggled in confusion, she turned to Juliana. “You sly puss! Now I know why you were so adamant about Barrington, my love, and rightly so, I might add.”
“Mama—”
“Ah, Mr. Bascombe,” Lady Canfield continued rapturously, “does the earl know you are here?”
“M’father?” Bertie furrowed his brow and tried to make sense of her conversation. “Well, no, but—”
“Then why are you here?” she asked bluntly as the smile thinned.
“Uh… attached to Miss Canfield—that’s it,” Bertie groped helplessly. “Uh… had to see her… highest regard … lud … ”
His disjointed and confused explanation brought a gleam to that avaricious lady’s eye. “Well, I very much regret that Juliana’s father is out of town, but I daresay ’twill not matter. After all, I am certain he would not stand in your way.”
“Uh … ” Bertie stared in dismay.
“Mama!”
“Oh, I quite count Mr. Bascombe as one of the family, my love.” Lady Lenore dismissed Juliana’s indignant expression with a wave of her hand. “Countess of Haverstoke! La, what a triumph for you both! You are indeed a fortunate young man, Mr. Bascombe, for I take leave to tell you she is a most unexceptional girl. But then I daresay you know that, after all.”
“Uh… most unexceptional… but—”
“Under other circumstances, I could not approve your being here unattended at this hour, but I expect this calls for a celebration. Thomas!” she called out as she rang the bell pull. “Some of Sir Max’s best wine! ’Tisn’t every day that one’s only daughter is betrothed!”
“Mama!” Juliana howled. “It is no such—”
“Hush, love! A little maidenly reserve is one thing, but I can assure you Mr. Bascombe will make you an amiable husband, won’t you, Mr. Bascombe?”
“No! That is to say, Miss Canfield is a very good sort of female, I am sure, but—”
“Mama, stop this!”
Lady Lenore’s smile faded. She fixed Bertie with a penetrating gaze that made him squirm. “Mr. Bascombe, I will not have my daughter’s affections trifled with! You have come calling at an unreasonable hour, you have contrived to see Juliana alone, and you obviously stand on intimate terms with her. As a fond parent, I should not like to think the worst of you.”
“Oh, I assure you that—”
“Good. Then we are agreed. Once the announcement has appeared in the Gazette, Sir Max will contact you about the arrangements. You will not find us overly
demanding, I think.”
“Mama, I won’t!”
“Nonsense, my dear. Here is Thomas, after all.” Taking one of the filled glasses from the silver tray, Lady Lenore lifted it in triumph. “To my daughter— the future Countess of Haverstoke!”
“Lady Canfield,” Bertie tried desperately as a glass was thrust into his hand, “I—”
“Sir Max and I could not be more pleased, I assure you.”
Tears welled in Juliana’s eyes until they brimmed. “Oh, Mama, how could you?” she wailed.
“I say, Lady Canfield, if she don’t—”
“Nonsense. She is overset merely—a common occurrence when one contemplates the married state. She will be fine, Mr. Bascombe.”
“Mama,” Juliana managed as she brushed aside an errant tear, “would you mind so very much if I spoke to Mr. Bascombe alone? As we are now betrothed, I daresay there cannot be any objection.”
Lady Lenore, well aware of what she’d accomplished, hesitated. “But I fail to see the necessity—”
“Please, Mama.”
“At this hour, I cannot allow you above five minutes, young lady,” Lady Lenore capitulated finally. “I am sure Mr. Bascombe must be on his way.”
The door had scarcely closed before Juliana rounded on the hapless Bertie. “You fool! How could you have let her do this?” Drawing herself up imperiously, she faced him and ordered, “You will cry off, of course.”
“Dash it! I ain’t a loose screw! How’s it to look if I was to do that?”
“I don’t care. Attached to me indeed! Of
all the things to say to my mother, that was the stupidest, the most idiotish, the most—”
“You didn’t speak up either!” he retorted.
“Well, I can tell you this: if you do not cry off, Albert
Bascombe; I’ll make you sorry for it—I’ll get into a scrape and you’ll have to. I will!”
“Why don’t you cry off? Females can do it better than men. You changed your mind—that’s it—we ain’t suited!”
“Obviously you do not know my mother!”
“Tell you what,” Bertie placated. “I just won’t puff it off to the paper. Ten to one, she’ll let the matter drop in a week or two.”
“Mama?” Juliana eyed him incredulously. “You jest, of course. Did you not remark her interest in the title you will have someday? My mother is the worst of the matchmaking mamas, Mr. Bascombe, and she has her clutches in you! If you do not cry off, I shudder to think of what will happen to you!” she shot back at him as she flounced out of the room.
13
Caroline closed the book gently and prepared to tiptoe from the room, but Lady Milbourne’s eyes fluttered open and she reached out a bony hand to stay her.
“Don’t go yet.”
“I thought you were asleep.”
“No—tired merely, my dear. You have given me such pleasure with your reading, Caroline,” the old woman murmured. “It cannot be very pleasant for you to sit for hours with an invalid, after all.”
“Actually, I enjoy reading very much.” She reopened the book and searched for her place.
“No—I would speak,” the elderly woman sighed. “This stupid complaint robs me of my strength but does not sap my mind.” She paused a moment to consider the young woman before her and then nodded. “Yes, you remind me of my daughter Charlotte—very definitely. Oh, she had not the dark hair nor the dark eyes, but there was much about her manner that I can see in you. Marianna was the great beauty, you know, and Frances was so very social, but Charlotte was possessed of both wit and ability. Alas, they are all gone now—Marianna of the wasting fever, Frances in childbed, and Charlotte from an inflammation of the lungs.”
