The Harem Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  It seemed, however, that the earl could not share his wife’s interest in the vicar, for he scowled mightily whenever Mr. Stanmore’s name was mentioned. A fact that brought a positive gleam to his mother’s eye and which Penny found puzzling, for she could not imagine any fault Jason could find in Mr. Stanmore, nor why his obvious annoyance seemed to please his mother, the dowager.

  A bustling at the front entrance drifted down the hall to the cozy parlor where Penny had been sitting, a novel abandoned at her side. Callers? There had been so few of these in their weeks of rustication that Penny did not wait for Hutton’s summons. She arrived in the foyer in time to see Gant Deveny handing his many-caped driving coat to Hutton. “Lord Brawley!” she exclaimed, then, recovering quickly, added with surprising truth that she was delighted to see him. As well as the softer, gentler Mr. Dinsmore, who accompanied the viscount.

  Gant Deveny turned to greet her, white teeth flashing into a lopsided grin. The irony of the situation—the contrast with the night when he had been the one to greet her under such inauspicious circumstances in the same entry hall—struck them both at once. Penny glanced at Hutton, who stood ramrod straight, very much on his dignity, then back to Lord Brawley. She giggled. He chuckled, then, green eyes dancing, burst into an open guffaw. Hutton let out an audible huff. Penny and Gant Deveny attempted to stifle their laughter, only to bend nearly double in paroxysms of hopeless mirth, while Harry Dinsmore looked on, thoroughly confused.

  “Good God, whatever can be so amusing?” the earl demanded, from half-way down the stairs.

  “We were . . . remembering . . .” Penny began.

  “The night your lady arrived last winter,” Gant finished.

  Jason immediately glanced at the obviously outraged Hutton. A slow grin spread over his face. In retrospect, in spite of his own reprehensible conduct that night, it was rather funny.

  It also marked how very far his marriage had come in a remarkably short space of time. If they could all laugh about that disastrous night, perhaps there was hope for them yet.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hope was fleeting. In spite of the flurry of assigning rooms to their unexpected guests and ordering the luggage taken up, the Countess of Rocksley caught the speaking look Lord Brawley exchanged with her husband. Merciful heavens, what now? With the certainty of some new disaster come upon them, Penny excused herself, saying she needed to be certain the rooms were properly turned out, and left the gentlemen to closet themselves in the earl’s study.

  “Well?” Jason demanded, as soon as they all had glasses of Madeira in hand and were sprawled in the room’s comfortable chairs. “And do not tell me you are merely passing through Shropshire on your way to Brighton.”

  His listeners paid the earl the compliment of chuckling at this feeble attempt at humor. Harry Dinsmore sunk further into his bergère chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. Gant Deveny’s rather prominent Adam’s Apple convulsed as he swallowed the bald statement he had been about to make. “Ah . . . you recall the scandal between Lord Byron and Caro Lamb while you were in town?” he inquired rather obliquely. At the earl’s abrupt nod and impatient scowl, Lord Brawley ventured, “As you can well imagine, no man could be faulted for tiring of such a surfeit of adoration, and any normal woman might take the hint—”

  “But not Caro Lamb,” Harry Dinsmore contributed eagerly, catching the purpose of Brawley’s circumlocution. “Byron wants nothing more to do with her, but she follows him everywhere, camps in the street outside places she ain’t invited, throws herself at his feet.”

  “Worse than a leech,” Gant declared. The chit’s gone mad, fit for Bedlam. “Can’t stand Byron myself, but I have to admit it’s enough to make me feel sorry for the poor devil.”

  “Feel sorrier for Charles Lamb,” Harry Dinsmore grunted. “Imagine having such a wife.”

  There was a decidedly awkward silence as all three men contemplated Mr. Dinsmore’s words. “Is that the point you are trying to make, gentlemen?” the earl intoned. “That I should be grateful my wife’s reputation is not in worse shreds than it already is?”

  Lord Brawley looked at Mr. Dinsmore, who raised a hand to cover his lips and slowly shook his head. Gant Deveny, obviously elected to be the bearer of bad tidings, emitted a heartfelt sigh. “Never thought any such thing, Rock, I assure you. Your countess is a fine woman. No one who meets her can fail to recognize her for the lady she is. Whole thing’s a misunderstanding, blow over in no time, without a doubt.”

  “Then . . .?” The earl raised an eyebrow, and waited.

  “It’s Daphne!” Mr. Dinsmore burst out, forgetting his intention of letting Brawley take the brunt of the earl’s displeasure.

  “She has decided to emulate the antics of Caro Lamb,” said Gant. “We caught wind of her intentions and have come to warn you. She has leased a house near here and plans to lay siege to the citadel, as the Lamb has done with Byron!”

  “She cannot think I will take her back!” the earl barked.

  Harry Dinsmore cleared his throat. “She wants a good deal more than that, I fear.”

  “It seems,” Brawley said, “she has convinced herself that your marriage is totally invalid and that she will rescue you from the harem harpy. As she puts it,” he added hastily, when Jason appeared on the verge of erupting from his chair with the purpose of throttling his best friend.

  “Or else she simply plans to drive a wedge between you and your wife,” Mr. Dinsmore said, “so that you will divorce Lady Rocksley and be free to marry her.”

  “Has the whole world gone mad?” Jason groaned. Jumping to his feet, he paced the room, hands behind his back, head down. “Is she here now?” he demanded at last. “Am I to expect her to arrive at my door, hard on your heels?”

  “Unknown,” Lord Brawley responded. “She has effected a short-term lease for something called Fenwick Manor, I’m told—a property belonging to some cit in Bristol.”

  The earl swore with grim fluency. “Not two miles from here,” he muttered, “less as the crow flies. I’ll wring the blasted woman’s neck. Just let me get my hands on her—”

  “Can’t do that, old chap,” Harry Dinsmore advised. “Bad ton. And I daresay the countess would not care to see you hanged.”

  The earl’s profanity grew even more inventive, causing his friends to view him with undisguised admiration. “Hutton!” the earl bawled. When the butler answered with suspicious alacrity, all three gentlemen realized he must have had his ear to the door. “Send a footman to Fenwick Manor at once to inquire if a Mrs. Daphne Coleraine is in residence.

  “And now, gentlemen,” the earl added after Hutton’s departure, “let us anticipate the uproar when my mama and my wife discover this catastrophe. And plan how we may come out of it with our skins intact.”

  “I say!” protested Mr. Dinsmore. “Ain’t fair to say ‘our skins,’ you know. Deucedly unfair, in fact. Tell him, Brawley.”

  But Gant Deveny was slumped glumly in his chair, thinking of the ancient tale about death being the reward of the messenger bearing bad tidings. At the moment death seemed almost preferable to the storm that was about to break over Rockbourne Crest. Yet, as good friends should, he and Harry were here to support Jason in his time of need. And Jason’s countess as well. For no one, particularly a bride on such shaky ground as the young Countess of Rocksley, deserved as formidable an adversary as Mrs. Daphne Coleraine.

  On the following day, Penny left the gentlemen to their own devices and, blithely unaware that the footman had returned to impart that Fenwick Manor was in hourly expectation of Mrs. Coleraine’s arrival, set off for the village, driving a gig, with Noreen O’Donnell up beside her. During the long years of her Aunt Cass’s illness, a visit to the village had been her only freedom. Before haring off to London, Penny had initiated this practice in Shropshire and re-embraced it with alacrity upon her return. Though Old Betsy was anything but a high-stepping prad, Penny reveled in being in full control of
the reins and in her ability to direct the aging animal wherever she and Noreen might wish to go.

  Today, in addition to errands for her mama-in-law and for herself, she planned to call on Helen Seagrave, whose struggles to support herself, her ailing mother, and a querulous aunt on the pension of her father, a colonel who had died in the army’s brave stand at Corunna, had brought her to giving lessons on the harp and pianoforte. Although Penny also enjoyed the quiet companionship of Miss Mary Houghton, the squire’s daughter was a mere nineteen and so painfully shy that Penny was already coming to conclusion that it must be Helen Seagrave for the vicar. Though how the burden of Miss Seagrave’s relatives was to be managed, the countess was, as yet, uncertain. But the determination that there should be at least one happy pair of newlyweds, other than Blossom and her Ned, in this particular part of Shropshire was firmly fixed in her mind. She would see Mr. Adrian Stanmore properly wed before the year was out!

  But any opportunity Penny might have had for a private coze with Helen Seagrave was soon knocked to flinders, for no sooner had the countess accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Seagrave than the elderly maid-of-all-work opened the door to Mrs. Tabitha Houghton and Mary. The squire’s wife burst into the small, but nicely appointed salon, like a ship under full sail, Miss Mary trailing like a dinghy in her wake.

  As befitted the wife of the local squire, Mrs. Matthew Houghton dominated village life. Although she gave proper deference to the county’s noble landowners, no one was left in doubt about who ruled the roost during the many months her titled neighbors spent in London, Bath, and Brighton, or enjoyed hunting with the Quorn or shooting in Scotland. Tabitha Houghton’s appearance was as imposing as her voice, a stentorian cry of which a parade sergeant might have been proud. In combination with her height and a sturdy girth that seemed twice that of her daughter, Tabitha Houghton presented an altogether intimidating presence that eclipsed Mary’s quiet attractiveness.

  There was a flurry of shifting seats as Helen Seagrave and her spinster aunt, Miss Ainsley, promptly effaced themselves to allow Mrs. Houghton and Mary to sit beside Helen’s mother on their somewhat threadbare sofa. “Have you heard?” the squire’s wife boomed, casting but the slightest of nods at the four ladies already seated in the room. “Fenwick Manor is let at last. A widow from the city, I’m told. The squire says I may send her a card for my musical evening, for he has been assured she moves in the first circles in London. A fine addition to our society, I am sure, for I fear we are much too quiet,” she added with patently false modesty. Then recalling that one of those present was the Countess of Rocksley, Tabitha Houghton smiled thinly and declared, “Of course we are much livelier now that Rocksley is, at last, spending time at Rockbourne Crest.” She flashed the countess a wolfish smile. “Lord Rocksley plans to attend my musical evening, does he not, my lady? We should be quite desolate, I’m sure, if he did not join us.”

  Penny, who was certain Jason would part with a goodly number of guineas if only he could buy his way out of this social obligation smiled blandly and assured Mrs. Houghton that not only would the earl attend but so would his two guests, if the squire’s hospitality could be stretched to include two single gentlemen just down from London.

  This exciting news immediately diverted all thoughts from Fenwick Manor and its new resident. Two London gentlemen! While Tabitha Houghton held forth to Mrs. Seagrave and Miss Ainsley on the immense possibilities of such an addition to their social circle, the three younger ladies put their heads together, speaking in whispers.

  Miss Helen Seagrave, at three and twenty, had been on the verge of conceding that life had passed her by when Adrian Stanmore had introduced her to the Countess of Rocksley and, for some unaccountable reason—similarity of age or perhaps a recognition that the drab façade of each hid a liveliness of spirit—Penny had instantly taken her up.

  Miss Seagrave possessed a pair of speaking gray eyes, set in a serene face, which was seldom allowed to shine, as, in an effort to appear old enough to be an instructor of music, she had confined her lustrous brown hair in an unbecoming coif and put on her caps at a very early age. A disguise that had not fooled Penny one whit, perhaps because she, too, knew what it was to hide her light beneath a bushel basket. Helen Seagrave was a woman of lively mind and ready wit, and the countess was quite determined to improve her new friend’s status in the world. Helen would make a splendid vicar’s wife, she was certain of it.

  Though what she could do for poor Mary, who did not have the gumption to say boo to a goose, she was at a loss to imagine. As Penny imparted what she knew about Lord Brawley and Mr. Dinsmore to the avid ears of her two listeners, she re-examined her plans. Mr. Dinsmore might do for Mary, though Lord Brawley was, of course, quite hopeless. Although she could not help but like him—for she sensed a genuine sympathy beneath his cynical demeanor—she could not envision him as anything other than a lifelong bachelor.

  “Ah, look!” hissed Miss Ainsley, as the sound of a four-horse team caused her to peer out the window. Without a thought to their dignity, five of the six ladies (for Mrs. Seagrave remained languidly displayed upon the sofa) rushed to the window, where a glossily painted, though heavily laden, coach was passing by, revealing a glimpse of what appeared to be a grand London lady in a modish bonnet topped by a marvelous curl of matching ostrich feathers.

  “Headed for Fenwick Manor, no doubt,” declared Mrs. Houghton. “And very grand she is, I’m sure. Yet I daresay she will attend my musical evening as long as you do so, Lady Rocksley,” Tabitha Houghton opined. “To be sure, the squire must call upon her this very day.”

  “Do you know the lady’s name, ma’am?” Penny inquired.

  Mrs. Houghton frowned. “Crimshaw . . . Calworthy . . . no, Colby . . . Cole . . . something of that nature. I fear I did not properly attend. Mr. Houghton will impart the whole of it soon enough. Come, Mary, it’s time we finished our errands.” So saying, the squire’s wife swept out of the Seagrave cottage, with every intention, as they all knew, of visiting each and every one of her cronies to impart the exciting announcement of the newcomer’s arrival.

  Penny, with a touch of Lord Brawley’s cynicism, realized for the first time how great the furor must have been when news of the earl’s marriage had burst upon the village. But that was a subject she wished to avoid. With something that might have been termed mutual sighs of relief, Penny and Helen settled down to a pleasant exposition of the fine qualities of Cranmere’s vicar, Adrian Stanmore, as opposed to the somewhat dubious reputations of the two gentlemen from London. If Miss Seagrave had so much as a soupçon of curiosity about Lord Brawley or Mr. Dinsmore, she gave no hint of it.

  The Countess of Rocksley returned from the village with a scant half hour to dress before dinner, so it was only when all were gathered for sherry that she was able to recount the tale of the new arrival to her mama-in-law. “You would scarce credit it, ma’am,” Penny declared with a self-deprecating grin. “There we were, the five of us, attempting to peer out the window at the same time, standing on tippy-toes, craning our necks, while keeping far enough back from the lace curtain to hope we might not be seen. Later, I fear Miss Seagrave and I were overcome by a mix of hilarity and chagrin when we realized how shockingly provincial our behavior must have seemed if the lady had but looked in our direction.”

  “Are you quite certain she was a lady?” the dowager inquired.

  “Oh, yes. Mrs. Houghton seemed to know all about her. She plans to call on her and leave a card for her musical evening.”

  “If she has the squire’s approval, then I suppose we must call upon the lady as well—”

  “No!” The roar of disapproval came simultaneously from three male throats.

  The Dowager Countess of Rocksley turned a basilisk stare on her son, whose look of anguished embarrassment was all too clear before he dropped his eyes to the complex pattern of the Persian carpet.

  “I believe,” said Lord Brawley, stepping smoothly into the breach, “that we thought you
might wish to reserve judgment until you have met the lady at the squire’s musical evening.”

  The dowager knew a faradiddle when she heard it. And sincerely hoped her daughter-in-law did not. For she very much feared the identity of the newcomer was neither unknown to the three gentlemen present nor did it bode well for her son’s fledgling marriage. Truly, he had been in short coats the last time she had seen him look so guilty.

  With exquisite timing, Hutton announced dinner. If a slight frown creased the lovely countenance of the younger Countess of Rocksley as she went in to dinner on Lord Brawley’s arm—a look that indicated she was attempting to solve a puzzle—the others could only be grateful she had not yet reached the correct conclusion. Mr. Dinsmore, his voice somewhat louder and higher than usual, carried the brunt of the dinner conversation, recounting the latest on dits, including some of the more colorful incidents in Caro Lamb’s pursuit of Lord Byron. Lord Brawley interjected his usual sarcastic jibes, but even Penny could see his heart wasn’t in it. Jason’s demeanor throughout the several removes seldom relaxed from an outright scowl. The dowager made several attempts to converse in a normal manner, but a strained aura hovered over them, like the heaviness before a thunderstorm. And it all had something to do with the stylish newcomer in the elegant coach. Of that Penny was certain, although her duties as hostess at this awkward meal precluded her analyzing just what the problem could be. When she had Jason alone . . .

  But he might not come to her tonight. After all, he had not come the night before, though she had not found this surprising, as it was inevitable he would stay up late talking with his friends. But tonight? Perhaps she should be greatly daring and go to him, for there was a mystery here, and, even though she was nearly certain she would not like the answer, she was determined to solve the riddle.