Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  This would not do, he told himself, as he settled his curly-brimmed hat more firmly.

  Let her be, Anthony. Eleanor is a devoted daughter and she comprehends your wishes. He stilled, hearing the voice in his mind. He took comfort in his wife’s voice since her passing seven years before.

  Henry turned to see what had agitated his father, and a slow smile, so like his mother’s, appeared.

  “Eleanor looks well, does she not, sir?” Henry asked with affected sincerity. “Depend upon it, sir, an intrigue must be afoot. See how she attends to her duties as hostess most assiduously. She must be about some mischief.”

  * * *

  After a final exchange of pleasantries with that gentleman, Eleanor drifted away to greet a late arriving acquaintance. This fashion of arriving whenever it suited would never be bon ton to him, no matter the sophistications of the Upper Ten Thousand.

  His posture stiffly erect while inspecting his gloves, Tilney offered his young jackanapes of a son—decidedly his wife’s child with that mischievous cleverness and cool countenance—a sour face before schooling his features and turning back to his distinguished guest.

  Lord Brice Goodnestone, standing with Henry, had also observed the direction of General Tilney’s interest. “Oh aye, a neatish, little filly with good action. On the tall side. Perhaps too thin for my taste”—scrutinizing Eleanor closely through an ornate gold filigree quizzing glass dangling from a black ribbon. “Still… not half bad…” The young lord took a second and a third glance at Eleanor’s tall, pleasing figure in her new peach dress and bonnet.

  Longtown’s nephew, Lord Goodnestone, was a very eligible matrimonial prospect for Eleanor, if somewhat simple in his understanding, and a bit of a dandy. General Tilney noted the multiple watch fobs and seal at Goodnestone’s waist, the green and white striped waistcoat, the cut of his blue coat, and boots obviously blacked with fine champagne. The baron’s pale skin and dark circles under the eyes might appear to him a sign of dissipation in a soldier of his command, but he had learned that most young bucks in society these days kept late hours and slept little during the Season, which had only past.

  “Miss Tilney of Northanger Abbey, recently returned to the country after a successful presentation to the Queen, bears no resemblance to a ‘neatish, little filly’.” He stated repressively like he would to a Johnny-Raw recruit.

  Out of anyone else’s lips, the insult to Eleanor and his family honor would have met with the flat of his sword. His nostrils flared as he swallowed his spleen.

  “Dash it!” the young man exclaimed then drew back to bow deeply. “My sincerest apologies, General. Miss Tilney is a most genteel lady. Highest regard for the ladies. Meant no offense. Diamond of the first water. Not too thin, at all, now that I have looked again. Decidedly not equine, sir.”

  The hurried string of words made Henry’s eyes bulge like he might choke on his laughter. The buffle-headed fribble dried up, cleared his throat, took out a snuff box clicking it open and shut without removing any snuff, returned it to his pocket, adjusted his hat, then fidgeted with his walking stick and gloves.

  The general let him writhe like a fish on a hook before recollecting why he needed to ignore the boorish insult. “You meant no offense, to be sure, and might have meant to compliment Miss Tilney.”

  “To be sure. To be sure.”

  Forbearance must be extended to the nephew and heir of his longtime friend the Marquis of Longtown. Goodnestone had already come into an early fortune upon the death of the late Lord Goodnestone and of a maternal aunt who had left him a legacy.

  Eleanor should be allowed to respect, if not highly esteem, her future partner, Anthony—to which he replied to his Genevieve: And did not we learn to respect and esteem our marriage partners in time?

  * * *

  His conjuring of Genevieve Tilney was a guide to his conscience. They had had more than a few acrimonious parleys over the years, usually in the privacy of their chambers, mostly about the children, but occasionally his pronouncements. They saw the world very differently, but he had learned to respect and esteem Genevieve and her acumen.

  Genevieve had taken his measure long before her own was bared before him. His temperament was unbending and resentful, selfish and arrogant, while hers had been a puzzle. She had understood that his rigid control was born of the early example set by his own father, his time in the army, and an incident from their past that inflamed him with bitterness even to this day.

  Henry regarded Lord Goodnestone with close scrutiny as if he were a creature to poke with a stick only to see its reaction. His younger son was protective of his family and, in particular, his sister. Before Henry could deliver whatever provocative remark he was preparing, General Tilney ordered, “Retrieve Eleanor, if you would. She would be disappointed not to make Lord Brice’s acquaintance.”

  Henry hesitated, met his eye with the silent promise that he would pursue a further conversation, and then swiftly moved off.

  “A deprivation indeed,” his eldest said, joining him. After a swallow of wine—likely some of his most expensive and finest wine, pilfered from his private reserve, Frederick continued, “Would Lady Mary Cavendish be present? A merry girl with a fulsome, ahem, dowry and a drowsy chaperone.”

  Frederick, dashingly kitted out in the uniform of a cavalry captain, looked over the female guests with hooded eyes, determining his next conquest. His son had more swagger than he ever had at his age.

  “Captain Tilney, have you by chance visited Mrs. Temple’s establishment? Faro is the game there, but I was caught up after the excellent dinner she served in Hazard. M’luck was out that night—at least at the gaming table.”

  “Yes, I have had the pleasure, my lord. Mrs. Temple does run a fine game. Played piquet half the night with Wolversley.”

  “I hear tell a certain duchess who loves her Silver Loo is a frequent guest…”

  Frederick’s gaming habits nor his intrigues with females were such that interested him. Unlike some men, General Tilney was fortunate in his offspring. None made the family the subject of idle tittle-tattle or threatened to bring ruin on them through excess or debauchery. He would not stand for it and they all were wary of putting him in a distemper.

  * * *

  He observed Henry approach Eleanor’s circle only to discover that it also included the reedy gentleman with whom she had been in conversation under the oak tree.

  “Who is that gentleman next to your sister?” he interrupted Frederick. “Did you bring him here to avoid his creditors?”

  It would not be the first time Frederick had slipped a few of his cronies into a house party.

  “Surely you are not in earnest?” Frederick regarded the gentleman with an appalled look. “That coat is not the result of an outstanding tailor bill. And none of my friends would be caught out of their rooms in such a rig—rather run into Dun Territory.”

  “Then who is he?”

  “I do not— Stay a moment…” Frederick tapped his wine goblet against his lips before taking a thoughtful sip. “He is not altogether unfamiliar…”

  Frederick knew every one of the younger set worth knowing and he proved it now. He slid a sly glance over and then rolled his eyes toward Goodnestone.

  Ah, a conversation for another time.

  “Might you have met him at The Red Door?” Lord Brice missed the subtle exchange between father and son but added his suggestion as his clumsy attempt to drag Frederick back to listening to his card by card account of a recent win at his favorite gaming hell. The lordling, like many others, wished to be numbered in Frederick’s circle. The general saw nothing inherent in Frederick to draw them like lemmings, but draw them, he did.

  And why was Frederick smirking?

  Whoever this unknown guest, Frederick was amused by his presence. But here was Eleanor looking composed and offering Lord Brice a polite smile. Dear Eleanor. He knew he could count on her to accede to his wishes.

  * * *

  “Goodnest
one is a gamester and jot a good one. Still plump in the pocket, but everyone knows of his deep losses. His man can barely get him to return to his rooms for a change of linen and a decent meal. He is here to placate his uncle’s wish for an alliance with our family and to rusticate until the next race meet at Newmarket where he will likely drop a pile on a screw of a horse because he is not the judge of horseflesh that he imagines he is. His interest in Eleanor does not go beyond his uncle’s wishes and her large dowry—which he clumsily asked me the figure,” Frederick informed him censoriously later that night in his study.

  “Why the devil did you not speak of this earlier? You knew I had settled on Longtown’s nephew for your sister.”

  Frederick took his time blowing a smoke ring and then taking a longer draw on the cheroot paired with his brandy.

  Henry responded from his place in the shadows near the door. “How could he have known, sir? We were not alive to the direction of your thoughts until the guests arrived. Sir, I must strenuously protest. Eleanor cannot marry such a man.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You need not belabor the point. I will need to look elsewhere. Damnation!” He slammed down his fist on the mantle causing a few ornaments to dance. “Longtown needs to take him to task before he has not a feather to fly with. I would take a horsewhip to either of you if you displayed such weakness of character.” Checking his filial pride, he asked his favorite, “Frederick, how is it that you were familiar with the same gaming houses when you were speaking to Goodnestone?”

  Frederick, so much like him when he was his age, never looked up. “Merely making conversation as I thought you would have wished. I will point out that he spoke in specifics and I took a listening stance. And no, I am not familiar with every gaming hell in Town.” His son tilted his head and his lips pursed. “If you are asking if I am at low tide or been bitten by the gaming bug then you would be all out because I am not. I have spent the odd evening at the card tables, but I know a flat from a leg and I will not be taken in.”

  Henry added nothing, merely observed, wearing that supercilious grin.

  Harrumph!

  These disclosures did not surprise him. His mind was distracted over Goodnestone’s disappointing prospects and the need to begin anew on a search again for eligible suitors. He pushed it aside to think on it later.

  He gestured back across the passage toward the music room. Earlier that evening, he had watched with consternation as Eleanor requested that scarecrow with a red thatch of hair to turn the pages of her music. She had had the effrontery to introduce the fellow to him as a Mr. Ellicott.

  “Who is this Mr. Jago Ellicott? He told me he is a barrister from London. I have no Ellicott of London on my guest list. I had Eleanor send an invitation to an Ellicott in Cornwall who will inherit his father’s title and estate.”

  At this, Frederick did not even attempt to contain his amusement. He chuckled low and then laughed openly.

  Frederick held up a hand to stop his father’s impatient words and said, “I promise. He is not an interloper or opportunist, sir. Or at least not a traditional one. James, the Ellicott heir, does not enjoy house parties unless there is sport involved. He is wary of any attempts to catch him in a parson’s mousetrap, but he is a sly one so he sends his younger brother, Jago, in his stead. He imagines one Ellicott is as good as another. The Ellicotts are a good family and cousins to the Freethys of Somersetshire. Grandmothers were sisters or some such.”

  General Tilney stopped breathing at the mention of the Freethys.

  He blinked when he found himself in a chair, a hand thumped his back, and the scent of brandy wafted up from the glass pushed into his hand.

  “Sir! Father! Are you well?” exclaimed Henry, his worry evident in his voice.

  “Give him time. He’s had some sort of shock,” Frederick said calmly enough, but he too, was taking his measure.

  Both sons’ faces intent on his. Dark hair and dark eyes, noble profile, and square jaw. Tall and lithe. Hardy from youth and exercise. Tilney and Drummond in them. Blessedly devoid of that insidious Freethy blood.

  Relieved, not for the first time, over his near miss, he expelled a deep breath.

  “Sir?” Henry distracted him. “Should we send for the apothecary?”

  “Unnecessary. I am well, thank you.” The room felt close and warm as the memories crashed into him. “I will retire for the night.” He stood and set his glass aside.

  Henry started to rise, but Frederick’s hand restrained him, probably allowing him his dignity.

  “There is no need to take a fidget, as you see,” the general snapped at Henry, who looked to lend him his arm.

  He left his sons there, curious and concerned. It could not be helped.

  * * *

  It was later than he thought. All the servants but a handful of footmen had gone to their beds. Several tapers were left on a table in the hall to light them to their chambers. He took one and made his way up the stairs and down the familiar passage. After he was out of his evening clothes and into his banyan and slippers, he dismissed his valet.

  When alone, he went through the connecting dressing rooms into the long unoccupied mistress’ bedchamber. He set the candle down on the dressing table and gently uncorked the bottle nearby letting the light floral scent waft to him before taking up the miniature portrait by its gilded frame. He settled at the foot of Genevieve’s bed and stared down at the painting done when they were ten years married.

  Genevieve wanted a portrait of the pair of them and a larger second one of the entire family. It still hung in the morning room where she liked to sit and look upon it. He had commissioned yet a third painting of Genevieve that used to hang in his bed chamber—it was an intimate painting in her dressing gown with her hair down. He had ordered it moved in here on her death because it was too much a reminder of his loss. Eleanor had requested that portrait of her mother and so he later had it moved to his daughter’s apartment. He did not need portraits of Genevieve to recall her appearance or stir his memories. In the seven years since he laid her to rest in the Tilney mausoleum, she secretly remained with him.

  He knew what was whispered over the years: he had been a hard husband who left her to run his household and estate while he continued his brilliant military career. He had shown no grief at her grave. He had bought the church memorial and epitaph to be commissioned out of some sense of guilt. He had shut up her rooms and denied her existence even to her children.

  He had allowed the talk to continue unchallenged. Better they think him unfeeling or some sort of villain than the truth: his loss was so deep that he wanted to get down in that grave along with her. That he had cried like a child while walking along her favorite path. That he was nearly sick every time Mrs. Cummins served Genevieve’s favorite dishes. That he looked for her and listened for her step...still. That he caught himself turning to speak with her and remembering over again that she was gone. That he did not send for the apothecary or her physician right away because they had argued over Frederick’s desire to go into the cavalry instead of his old foot regiment and he thought it was one of her tricks to manipulate him. Genevieve was not above using what was in her female arsenal to combat his stubborn, resentful nature—even taking to her bed and refusing trays of food or his admittance.

  Only, her last bout of illness had surprised and frightened them both when she quickly turned for the worst. After she contracted the fever, he begged her forgiveness for waiting to send for her physician.

  “There is nothing to forgive, Anthony. I had not been convinced of the severity myself.” Then her lips turned up in a weak smile. “I would ask that you overlook my earlier petulance.”

  “’Tis forgotten,” he told her. “I will get Frederick a commission in the cavalry.”

  She smiled wanly, holding his hand weakly. “Thank you, my love, for letting me win this one.”

  Neither said aloud what they feared: it would likely be their last skirmish.

  * * *

&n
bsp; “We have a Freethy under our roof tonight, my darling.” He lay on the bed now and clutched the miniature to his breast. “I swore we would never associate with that family again. In truth, he’s not a Freethy but an Ellicott.” He drew a deep breath and let it go. It has been so long—thirty years since the Freethy creature nearly destroyed everything for me. Had it not been for you, my cunning Genevieve...

  MARCH 1768, HMS DORSETSHIRE

  As His Majesty’s Ship, Dorsetshire, cut through the waves, sails snapped and lines hummed, my companion and I leaned against the rail, between two of the guns, and looked out on the starless evening while warm and dry inside our heavy boat cloaks.

  The chill, damp air of the North Atlantic in early spring was preferred to our closed, cramped state room below deck where Ensign Davies suffered from mal de mer as he had for the entire journey. The surgeon said it was a good thing that we neared Portsmouth and that Davies should, upon no circumstances, cross more than a mill pond from now on.

  “Much has happened in the four years since we have laid eyes on England.” Major Felix Courtenay tipped his face, deeply inhaling the briny air not in the least affected by the ship’s movement.

  The ever-cheerful voice and ready smile made the sandy-haired, sturdy man a favorite among the other officers and his men. Under his cloak, Courtenay’s red regimental coat wore a black band and he had a black ribbon rosette on his cockade hat. His older brother, Sinclair, had died of a putrid fever the summer of ‘67. Courtenay was returning as the new head of the Courtenay family and to take charge of the estate, his widowed mother, and two sisters still at home. He was also to marry, as soon as may be, the lovely Miss Priscilla Dent, daughter of his neighbors, Sir John and Lady Dent.