by Jo Beverley
She remembered with a smile how she had feared his disturbances. She could look back now to that day at The Middlehouse and laugh at the game he had played with her. He had been remarkably kind, she realized, and must have known how nervous and unsure she was. Now she wanted nothing more than to be disturbed as frequently as possible.
This beautiful morning would have been perfected by the presence of her betrothed by her side. However, it was not Lord Wraybourne but Mr. Carruthers who appeared to accompany her. She was not surprised. He frequently rode out in the morning and had often joined herself and Sophie. But though he was a pleasant companion, Jane could well have dispensed with his presence on this particular morning.
“Miss Sandiford!” he exclaimed, doffing his hat with his usual elegance. “Fortune smiles on me today. Permit me to accompany you.”
Since he had already guided his horse alongside, Jane could not easily refuse him, and though she found him silly, he was an easy companion now that he seemed to have abandoned his embarrassing pose of thwarted lover. She supposed that a fortune hunter, which she knew him to be, must by nature be amusing and agreeable if he was to have chance of success. He was a fribble but an amiable one, and so she gave him good morning.
He asked solicitously after Lady Sophie and expressed warm satisfaction on hearing that she was in excellent health. He went on to converse about the weather, the prospects in the park, the upcoming delights of the Season and the most recent on dits. Jane, finding that her part in the conversation was easy to uphold, remembered her mother’s comments about the Art of Conversation. Here was another master of it of whom that lady would not approve.
“I hear great talk of you and Lord Wraybourne, Miss Sandiford. You appear to be the latest Romeo and Juliet, the latest Abélard and Héloïse.”
“I hope not, Mr. Carruthers,” she said with raised brows. “I am anticipating a happy ending.”
“A happy ending. Of course!” he replied with a laugh. “But how difficult it is to think of a pair of happy lovers. Othello and Desdemona, Antony and Cleopatra, Tristan and Isolde were tragedies all. Perhaps,” he added after a short pause and in a serious tone, “this is because love is so full of traps for the unwary.”
“Well,” she declared, “I do not think that is the tone to take with one who is soon to be a bride.”
“A bride, yes. I am sorry,” he said with a speaking look. “It is probably a reflection of my own poor state. You see before you a man with a broken heart.”
“I feel for you,” she said sincerely, but surprised.
She had not thought he had the capacity for suffering in the cause of love. She did wonder, however, who was causing him to pine. She cast about in her mind to think who he had been attending since he had ceased to pester herself.
She was somewhat disconcerted by his turning to her and declaiming in passionate tones, “Oh, sweet lady, I value your words of kindness!”
“Then you may have as many as you want,” she said lightly. “Words are free, and I try always to be kind to my friends.”
“A friend. Is that all I am to you, Miss Sandiford?”
She was suddenly uncomfortable and glad of the stolid groom, sitting on his horse within sight. “What more could you be, Mr. Carruthers?”
His smile was sad. “Once you gave me to hope, dear lady, that I might be more. You said . . . but I realize now that I took too seriously a few playful words. You young ladies like to play games with the hearts of men.”
Jane was upset at being seen as thoughtless, particularly since she suspected it was true in this case. She attempted to smooth the matter over, hoping all the while that he was not going to become a bother again.
“I never meant to play games, Mr. Carruthers. When I came to Town it was all new and a little frightening. I welcomed your company. I am sorry if I misled you. I was, after all, already engaged to Lord Wraybourne. You knew that.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “I knew. But since when has love followed sense? Francis Bacon wrote, ‘It is impossible to love and be wise.’ I am afraid he had the truth of it.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Carruthers,” Jane replied bracingly, to hide an uncomfortable degree of embarrassment, “but I really cannot believe you to be as smitten as you pretend. I am nothing out of the ordinary, and it is certainly unwise of you to cast your heart towards one who is already bespoken.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary! With your beauty, Miss Sandiford, and your kind heart and clever wit, you are a rara avis among all the pretty blossoms we call debutantes.”
Jane suppressed an urge to point out to him how he had mixed his metaphors. She could not deny there was a grain of pleasure to be had at being the object of such strong devotion, and she felt she should be kind to him. All the same, she did not quite believe his protestations and found the whole scene most uncomfortable. Even if he was passionately in love, he had no right to embarrass her in this way.
“Mr. Carruthers, I must ask you never to speak of this again,” she said firmly.
He sighed. “As you wish, sweet lady. I am, after all, unworthy. I realize that. Even were you free, I could not lift my eyes to you.”
Jane suddenly realized he was sounding like Sir Tristram again and had to turn away to hide her twitching lips. Such protestations no longer seemed appealing, merely silly.
Mr. Carruthers mistook this reaction for encouragement. “You are touched! Dear Miss Sandiford, I knew your heart could not stay hard. I have no hopes of true felicity, but if only I could be sure, at least, that you would be happy in your fate!”
Jane turned in surprise. “Then you have your wish, Mr. Carruthers. I am very happy and expect only greater joy. I love Lord Wraybourne.”
It was the first time she had spoken the words aloud. She was caught up in the magic of the moment, savoring them, repeating them in her mind . . . then came to herself to realize the dratted man was still speaking.
“. . . too late. Is he truly worthy?”
She had tried to be kind. Now it was time to be firm. “I beg your pardon, I missed what you first said, Mr. Carruthers.” He looked quite flushed and agitated. Heaven knows what new embarrassment he had been spewing forth. “I am sorry. I must go. Good day.” With that she urged Tigress forward and ignored a shouted comment behind her.
On the way home she rode slowly and allowed herself to relish once more the thought of love, like a lamp glowing within her. She was, quite simply, different because of it. When would she tell Lord Wraybourne? Should she wait for him to say the words to her? He could not love her yet, or he would not be busying himself elsewhere even if it was innocent business for his uncle. Feeling as she did, she would not willingly part herself from him for a second. Still, that hardly mattered. He was hers, love or not, and she could soon count on his presence day by day. That was enough happiness, for now.
Jane wondered how she would find Sophie upon her return, but that mercurial lady was once again in spirits, assisting Lady Harroving, herself in one of her better moods, to settle details for the masked ball. As Lady Harroving hurried off to consult with her staff, Sophie showed Jane the designs for the decor.
“Maria is turning the ballroom into a veritable forest with trees in pots, and there are to be fireworks at midnight, Jane. These are the drawings. There will be groves and grottoes and only a few lights.”
“It looks lovely,” Jane said, “but we will be forever losing track of people.”
“That is the idea, goose!”
“But what of the whisperer?”
“Jane, you allow that pest to upset you too much. He is an unpleasant worm but not dangerous at a ball. Even if he were to get you alone, you would only have to scream. As he seems too cowardly to ever show his face he can hardly do you harm. The secluded areas will be ideal for lovers. I would have thought you would be in favor. Just think what fun you and David will have.”
“I am sure he would not approve.” Jane was aware of sounding stuffy and, of course, Sophie laughed.
Jane had to seek reassurance. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course I do. I have seen the way he looks at you. I am sure he hasn’t thought about another woman since he first met you.”
“Oh Sophie,” Jane protested, the scene in Clarke Street coming to her mind, “that is coming it too strong. When we first met, Lord Wraybourne and I were strangers and even though we became betrothed, we were strangers when we parted. I do hope he has come to like me, but I hardly expect that he is bouleversé. After all, he has been gone so much of the time I have been in London.”
Suddenly, she remembered what he had said, that it was better he be away from her until they were married, and she felt her face warm.
The color must have shown, even on her creamy skin, for Sophie said, “Why, Jane. What is there in that to make you blush?” She did not wait for an answer. “I envy you, Jane. Even though you will not tell me what has been going on, I am sure David has been making love to you. And here I am, innocent of all but a few daring pecks on the cheek from young men in Bath. I have been careful not to encourage familiarity since I came to Town, and what has it achieved? Exactly what one might expect—nothing! Even your dratted whisperer hasn’t found me worthy of his taunts.”
She was silent a moment, then as if on a different topic went on, brightly this time.
“Do you know what I heard today? A delicious piece of gossip. Jennifer Witherspoon, who was the most prissy piece imaginable at school, is marrying Jimmy Fentress in a hurry because they were caught in an incriminating situation.”
“The one with spots and no chin?” Jane exclaimed.
“Which one?” giggled Sophie. “Good heavens, both of them!”
At that, they both burst into laughter, only interrupted by the butler with a note for Jane, who took it, wiping her eyes. She hoped it would be from Lord Wraybourne, but it was not his hand.
She could hardly have been more shocked to read:
My dear Miss Sandiford, I felt it Imperative you be told that Lord Wraybourne has spent a Considerable Time in recent weeks with a Young Lady who resides in Harrogate, a Young Lady of whom rumor says she has been sent to Yorkshire to be away from her friends while she awaits the Consequences of her Imprudent Behavior with a Gentleman in London. A well-wisher.
Jane read the words through twice, then started to read them a third time as if they might change into something less horrifying. Sophie took the note from Jane’s hand.
“What is it? You look quite pale.” She read the message and exclaimed, “This is utter rubbish, Jane. Pay it no heed. I doubt if David has ever been to Harrogate.”
“Oh yes he has,” said Jane calmly. “He told me so.”
The woman from Clarke Street, she was thinking. He sent her to Yorkshire and then went to be with her. No wonder she seemed upset if she was telling him she was expecting a child.
“How extraordinary. But even so, any acquaintance there would be chance-met.”
Jane looked at Sophie. “Tell me. If David had a mistress—and it would not be so unusual, even I know that—and she was expecting his child. What would he do?”
Sophie had turned quite pale herself. “Well, he would arrange something, I suppose. Perhaps find her a husband or a place to stay until the child was . . . born.” She stared. “Oh, Jane!”
Jane licked her lips, unaware that she was also clenching and unclenching her fingers nervously. “I do not mind so much the mistress,” she said in a wavery voice. “And I suppose a child would be mischance. But why has he been with her so much? I suppose he has returned to her now. He said he had business for your uncle in Exeter.”
“Uncle Henry?” queried Sophie with enough surprise in her voice to make Jane sigh. “What will you do, Jane?”
Jane already knew the answer. Her heart gave her no choice. “Why nothing. I am marrying your brother. It will be up to me to make sure he does not stray.”
“I think you should show David this note. It must be nonsense. It sounds so unlike him, and I am sure he really cares for you.”
“Oh no.” Jane was proud of the command she had regained over her voice. “I have reason to believe that there may be some truth to this. And if your brother was the cause of this poor woman’s predicament, I am sure he would take care of her. I would prefer to ignore it, though I do wonder who my well-wisher is.”
“Yes.” Sophie studied the note again. “I did suspect for a moment that it might be Maria, but this is far from her hand, which looks more like the tracks of a clumsy spider.”
“Would she really write something like this?”
“Certainly, if it suited her ends. What of Phoebe Danvers?”
“No. I think she is content with Dromree, and I cannot see her stooping to anonymous notes. Had she wished to inform me of something like this she would simply walk up to me and say it.”
“I think you may be right, and I like her the better for it. Who else?” She saw an expression on Jane’s face. “Who have you thought of, Jane?”
“Crossley Carruthers! He was behaving very strangely this morning when I met him in the park. I missed part of what he said, but he could have been trying to tell me this. I have never seen his handwriting.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put anonymous notes beyond him, but what does he hope to gain by it? If he thinks to make you elope with him, he’s lost his wits. And what would it gain him? You have no money of your own, have you?”
“No, and my parents would see me in rags before they acknowledged such as him as my husband. Could he be so foolish? He declared that he knew his love was hopeless—”
“His what?”
“Love. He claimed to be dying of love for me.”
“Well, that is twaddle! He is the most shallow, self-centered creature alive. He loves nothing but his own comfort. Do you know, he chooses which invitation to accept according to the quality of the food or the comfort of the beds.”
“But even a hedonist can love.”
“Oh let us forget him and the foolish note,” said Sophie abruptly. “But I will have a word with Mr. Carruthers when next I see him.”
The occasion presented itself that very evening at a reception, where Mr. Carruthers found himself the nervous target of Sophie’s interest.
“So many weeks of the Season gone by, Mr. Carruthers,” she said sweetly. “So many pairings, not to speak of the couplings.”
“Lady Sophie!” he exclaimed with a strangled laugh.
“And, alas, I have not found the man of my dreams, and you have not found your fortune.”
“Really, I—”
“Of course, you have foolishly wasted so much time at Marlborough Square. What can you have been about? You must know you are not up to my weight, and Jane has not a penny at her own disposal, besides being spoken for. Maria! Do not tell me you are smitten with my cousin?”
She turned laughing eyes on him as he absorbed her words, and could not help but say, “I believe Miss Sandiford to bring a handsome dowry.”
“Oh certainly,” she replied. “But it will not go willy-nilly, only to a target of Lady Sandiford’s choosing. If Jane were so foolish as to marry to disoblige her parents, she could die in poverty and they would not raise a finger.”
He had recovered his composure. “Then we must all rejoice that she will wed with their blessing,” he said and sauntered off.
Sophie’s spirits were lifted by this encounter, and she was amused to see that Mr. Carruthers spoke briefly with Lady Harroving, then left. A glare across the room from her cousin was quite pleasing as well, for it confirmed her suspicion that Lady Harroving
had something to do with Crossley Carruthers’ strange pursuit of Jane.
Jane summoned a smile when Sophie related the incident and was truly relieved to think she did not have Mr. Carruthers’ broken heart on her conscience. Whether he was the author of the note or not, however, the fact remained that the contents probably contained a germ of truth. Thus, she found it impossible to be in high spirits. If only she had not seen Lord Wraybourne that day in Clarke Street, she could have laughed off the whole thing as Sophie was inclined to do. But in that knowledge, Jane could only console herself with the thought that he was impelled by duty and not by love of the lady in question.
Jane was further distressed to see Sophie move off to join a group which included Lord Randal and his sisters. Knowing how she herself felt, Jane could guess Sophie would not be able to stop such behavior even if she realized how harmful it might be in the end. Perhaps, Jane really ought to find the courage to speak to Lord Wraybourne or to Lord Randal. However, the mere thought of doing the latter gave her a frisson of horror, and the former seemed too disloyal.
The Harroving party moved on to Almack’s, and Jane entertained a faint hope that the Ashby party would go elsewhere. But, of course, they joined the cream of Society at the Marriage Mart. Jane wondered whether the pa tronesses had entertained doubts about giving vouchers to Lord Randal. He was hardly a pattern of propriety, but then there were a number of other gentlemen present, and not a few of the ladies, whose private lives would not bear close scrutiny. Birth could outweigh a great deal, after all.
Promenading with Mr. Brummell, Jane found herself discussing, in what she hoped were general terms, her predicament. She had always found the Beau a pleasant companion, and he was very shrewd as well as surprisingly discreet.
