Too Dangerous For a Lady

by Jo Beverley

  * * *

  Hermione would have drifted in dreams, but practical concerns forced their way in. The world hadn’t disappeared and neither had the consequences of her actions.

  She changed her shift for her nightgown. She picked up her scattered clothing and arranged it all neatly on two chairs, as if she’d undressed in an orderly manner. That didn’t deal with the blood spot on her sheet. It was small, but it was there, along with some dampness. Laundresses would speculate. Servants would gossip. . . .

  She rang the bell, hoping Nolly hadn’t gone to bed.

  The maid was there in minutes. “Are you feeling better now, milady? I heard you fainted.”

  And more, Hermione could see. “What are people saying?”

  “That you recognized a gentleman, milady—a Lord Faringay—and fainted. He carried you away with her ladyship going along with you. That you’d been close to Lord Faringay and thought him dead. And that you were in your stockinged feet, milady.”

  Hermione put a hand to her head. “I left my boots by a door.”

  “Should I go and get them, milady?”

  “No, no, they’re not important.”

  “What happened, milady? Did that man do something to you?”

  “No, but . . . Yes.” There was nothing for it. “The sheet.”

  Nolly went over. “I’d say he did something, all right.”

  “Nothing terrible. We’re going to be married.”

  “Happen they all say that, milady.”

  Hermione giggled. “Yes, but it’s true. Lady Arden knows.”

  Nolly’s eyes went wide.

  Hermione had meant marriage, not marriage bed, but she’d let the lie live. “Even so, I don’t want the laundresses to see that sheet.”

  “I see that, milady, but I don’t know where to get a clean sheet here. I reckon we’d best wash this one. I mean me, milady.”

  “‘We’ is fine, but then it will be wet.”

  Nolly looked around. “I have it. You have some of that red wine left. We’ll pour it over.”

  “I was drinking port in bed?”

  “You were doing something in bed, milady,” Nolly said, deep with disapproval no matter what Lady Arden was supposed to know. “It’s the best I can think of.”

  “And it’s very clever. We’ll use food as well. I was eating in bed and spilled everything.” She poured the bit of port over the stain, then upended the remains of pastry, cake, and fruit on top and smeared the mess around. “Thank heavens for raspberry jam.”

  “Lawks, milady, that’s a terrible mess.”

  There was a knock at the door. Hermione wanted to ignore it, but everyone would know she was in here. She nodded to Nolly, who went to open it. Then opened it wide.

  Beth Arden came in.

  Hermione instinctively stepped in front of the messy bed, but then moved aside. “Beth, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve made a horrible mess eating in the bed. I know I shouldn’t have.”

  Beth’s lips twitched. “It is often tricky, isn’t it?” she said. She addressed Nolly. “Ask Mrs. Tailstock for fresh sheets, and bring back another maid to help you remake the bed.” When Nolly had left, Beth dropped the lightness. “Are you all right?”

  Hermione knew she should probably feel confused or even guilty, but she couldn’t help a beaming smile. “Wonderfully. We’re to marry as soon as we can. We did marry in our own way, but properly. I mean we’ll do it properly! I’m sorry. I’m giddy. To find him alive!”

  Beth came to hug her. “I’m so glad. I felt some qualms at leaving you alone together, but your grief had been so powerful, and the way he reacted to your distress and collapse . . .”

  “The way he reacted?”

  “With all the distress and ardor you could want. He would have fought off armies for you at that moment.”

  Hermione exhaled with delight, but then she remembered the real enemies. “He’s in danger, Beth. I can’t say how.”

  “I know. Hawkinville explained some of it.”

  “That’s a relief. I wish there was something I could do. I want to protect him.”

  “Regard him as a soldier, Hermione. We can’t go with them into battle.”

  “We can wish we could.”

  “We’d be a hindrance to them.”

  “Not if we were trained to fight.”

  “Indeed, but this is not the time to debate such a change in the natural order.”

  “Boadicea? Amazons? Oh, what am I saying? I don’t have the nature for violence.”

  “I understand you have a more normal skill that might be of use.”

  “The likeness. I’ve never been a skilled artist. I can attempt a tolerable watercolor landscape, but faces?”

  “We can only ever do our best. Did Faringay explain how it seemed he was dead? I’ve heard no explanation of that.”

  Hermione told the story, but then the maids came in to remake the bed. Hermione wanted to babble excuses, but she attempted a haughty expression of indifference. She knew Beth had stayed to lend propriety. If the marchioness saw nothing suspicious in the stained sheet, then how could a servant suggest it?

  When the bed was pristine and the servants had gone, Beth said, “I’ll leave you to rest now. The party is coming to an end, but I still have guests.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “I hope we can be friends.”

  “I hope we already are. Will you be a witness?” Hermione asked. “At the wedding?”

  Beth smiled. “It would be an honor.”

  When she was alone, Hermione stood dreaming of her wedding. It could be the simplest affair in a plain room and she wouldn’t care. She would be married to Thayne.

  He’d always be Thayne to her, but once married, she’d be Lady Faringay.

  Hermione, Lady Faringay.

  She was tempted to write it down, over and over, as lovers so often did. Years ago she remembered attempting “Mrs. Thayne,” but without a first name it had lacked magic. She laughed when she remembered trying “Mrs. Lieutenant Thayne,” but that certainly hadn’t worked. Laughter faded when she remembered attempting a portrait of him. She’d thrown it away because it could have been any man, and an ugly one at that.

  She looked out again at the garden. It was still deserted, for now a light rain fell through dying lamplight.

  She remembered the grief she’d felt out there. It had been overwhelmed by joy, but she never wanted to feel the same pain. He must live and her drawing could help. She must find the ability to create a recognizable likeness of the brutish Boothroyd.

  * * *

  Seth Boothroyd kept watch outside the Parsifal Street building, untroubled by mizzling rain, or by not knowing what Beau Braydon looked like. He would find a way to avenge Nathan, struck from behind, with no chance to fight.

  Men began to return from their evenings in hackneys and carriages, hurrying into the building beneath umbrellas. He caught scraps of conversation, but none of interest until a fancy carriage halted and two dandies climbed down, shielded from the rain by a large umbrella held by a liveried footman.

  “There,” one said. “Safe and sound.”

  “You’re not inside yet,” the other said.

  “A rifle from a distance, Braydon? In this light?”

  The men went inside. The footman closed his umbrella and took his perch on the back of the carriage, and it went off down the street.

  So that had been Braydon. Fine dark clothing and natty hat, worn at a good angle. Not sure about hair color.

  Nathan would have liked that hat. Nathan knew how to dress. He bought my clothes, made sure I wore them right. Nothing’s the same without him. Nothing will ever be the same without him.

  Slowly, a new thought came to him.

  Bloody Ned Granger had killed Nathan. Nathan had gone a
fter him, and Nathan was dead. That other man had sounded a lot like Ned Granger. Hadn’t looked like him, but sounded like him.

  He set off back to Great Peter Street. Mrs. Waite would know what to do.

  Chapter 40

  The next morning Hermione breakfasted in her room, then went to see Edgar, hoping no sign of her adventures showed.

  He was sitting up in his chair, watching the square. She thought he might be watching for Grammaticus, but then remembered they’d decided not to tell him in case the man was clearly a fraud. Was that fair, though? She hated being treated like a foolish female, but she was treating Edgar like a foolish old man.

  She sat beside him. “We’ve found Dr. Grammaticus.”

  He turned sharply, eyes bright. “He’s coming here?”

  “I hope so. He’s living in Tunbridge Wells. He may have no true cure to offer, Edgar.”

  “I know that. I’ve always known that. But it’ll be good to try. Good to be doing something.”

  “I hope his cure works quickly, then, so you can dance at my wedding.”

  “Wedding? To whom?” But then he said, “Quickly? Why the hurry? Wait a moment. Yesterday you were in a state because the man you loved was dead!”

  “Then I found he wasn’t. He’s Lord Faringay and we’re to marry.”

  His brows met in anxiety. “You’ve never mentioned anyone called Faringay. Someone asked about a Granger. What have you been up to, girl? Are you being duped?”

  “Don’t get in a state. Faringay and I met five years ago, then again recently, and found we love each other.”

  “So who was the dead man? And who’s Granger? You’re spinning me a tarradiddle, girl.”

  “I’m not a girl!” She reined in her temper. “Very well. Here’s the story in brief. I met Faringay at a ball five years ago. He was a lieutenant in the army then, and soon left for the war. We lost touch, but met again in Lancashire on my journey to you.” She skipped the bit about his stealing into her room. “By then he was using the name Ned Granger and engaged in secret work for the Home Office, though I didn’t know it.” Perhaps she’d leave out the letter and abduction, too. “For that reason, we didn’t have many opportunities to meet, but I hoped to encounter him in London, which I have.”

  “So what’s this business about him being dead?”

  “Ned Granger had taken a position in a group of dangerous revolutionaries, but he was discovered, so the Home Office staged his death and Faringay took up his real identity. He’d assumed a scruffy appearance as Granger, but he’s now very neat and stylish.”

  “He played this trick without telling you?”

  “He didn’t know,” Hermione said quickly, but really, she was exasperated by Edgar’s trying to rule her life.

  “I knew you were caught up in something dangerous,” he said, scowling. “The less you have to do with Faringay, the better.”

  “I love him, Edgar, and I have for years.”

  “Love. More dangerous than poison, that is. I’ve known people die for love, and not in a swooning sort of way. But there’s no cure for that ailment, is there?”

  “I fear not.”

  “You’re marrying quickly. Why?” Hermione felt herself go red. “Never mind. I know how young blood runs hot and sense flies up the chimney, but he’d better do right by you.”

  “He will.”

  “Is he worthy of you, Hermione?” he asked, in a gentler way. “You’re a grand lass and marriage is for life.”

  This sort of protectiveness she could welcome. She took his hand. “He’s a grand lad, and I want him for life. Edgar, will you give me away?”

  Perhaps red showed in his grayish cheeks. “Your brother-in-law would be more suitable.”

  “He’s not my family and I don’t want to delay, not even for days. I can’t explain, but I can’t.”

  “All these things you can’t explain,” he muttered. “And you haven’t thought. I can’t walk you down an aisle.”

  “Very well. We’ll marry here. In your room. A special license permits that.”

  “Are you sure? No church? No people gathered outside to see the bride?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then I will, and gladly. Annie’ll be pleased. You’ll need your dowry.”

  “There’s no hurry. He has adequate money.”

  “All the same. I had my banker over here yesterday and I’ve set it in hand. You’ll need some extra for bride clothes and all such stuff. I have some cash to hand.”

  “There’s no time for that and I have Beth’s finery. But thank you.” She kissed his cheek. It wasn’t as gray as it had been when she’d first seen him, but she’d have kissed him anyway. “Your gift of money will mean a great deal to Polly.”

  He shrugged that away and said, “Settlements. You’ll have good settlements to secure your future. I’ll have my solicitor back here immediately. Some of my money’ll be put in trust for you. And your Faringay will provide generous pin money.”

  “You’re acting like a father, Edgar.”

  He pouted. “If I’m to give you to him, I’ll see it’s done right.”

  “You are very dear to me, Edgar. Truly.”

  He wiped his eyes. “And you to me. Be happy. And be safe! You’ve still the kris on you?”

  She took it out of her pocket to show him. “But I’m in no danger here.”

  “Keep it on you. Like I told you, the worst danger sends no heralds. I wish I weren’t so damned feeble!”

  She squeezed his hand. “Try not to worry. I’ll be careful at all times. Now, we’re to go to church, and afterward I’m supposed to attempt a drawing.”

  “A drawing? Of whom?”

  “A man I saw in Warrington. The one who was pursuing Thayne.”

  “Thayne, Granger, Faringay. What honest man has so many names?”

  She chuckled. “Most peers have both title and surname.”

  “And how many of them are honest?”

  She laughed again and went to dress for church.

  She walked to a nearby church with the Ardens and some of their household. When she returned, she heard Thayne waited in the library. Never had anyone shed outdoor clothing so quickly, but still by the time she joined him, Arden was there, and also an elegant, fine-boned man who was introduced as Braydon. Another lean, but tougher, man was Sir George Hawkinville at last.

  “Of Peel Street,” she said when they were introduced.

  He inclined his head. “I regret your involvement, Lady Hermione, but your effort today could be crucial. Shame most men aren’t taught drawing skills.”

  “My lessons can only take me so far, Sir George, but I’ll do my best.”

  Braydon said, “My gift is memory, Lady Hermione. I hope to be able to help that way.”

  She smiled, but then became aware of a tension in the air. “What’s happened?”

  “No matter,” Hawkinville said, but Thayne answered her.

  “Last evening a gentleman in the government received an oilcloth package at home, which he opened himself, in private because it was perfumed with violet. He thought that indicated that it was from a lady of his acquaintance. Inside he found a letter, also perfumed, to such an extent that it was damp. He hid it in a locked box in his bedroom until he could attempt to read it. This morning, he was woken by an explosion. It was fierce enough to break the lock and fling the lid back so that it broke. The box burst into flames, but they were extinguished, so there was no disaster. But that is the second attempt.”

  Thayne hadn’t told her there’d been one earlier. “Surely now everyone will know about the damp letters,” she said.

  “Given the involvement of servants in this case, it can’t be kept quiet, but what if they send a package out of town, or to a military barracks? There’s more. There was an explosion at the Customs House last night, a
pparently caused by gas. There’s no evidence of outside interference, but we have to wonder. We have to stop Solange now.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  A small easel had been set up on the library table, with paper ready, and pencils. Hermione sat before it and picked up a pencil. This was important and, above all, key to Thayne’s safety, so she must create a good likeness, but when everyone gathered behind her, it didn’t help her nerves. She tried to summon an image of the man who’d snatched her, but saw only implacable eyes and terror. Instead, she turned her memory back to that encounter at the Lamb and found she could remember him quite well.

  “Square,” she said, glancing behind at Thayne. “I remember thinking that. That he had a square head on square shoulders.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  She lightly drew that, then began to sketch eyes into the square head. It wasn’t right, and she remembered the shrill voice of Miss Chandler, their long-suffering governess. “The eyes are in the middle of the face, Lady Hermione, not toward the top!” Miss Chandler had drawn a line across the middle of the oval of a head. “Draw the eyes there.”

  Hermione lightly drew a line across the middle of the square. It looked far too low, but Miss Chandler’s way had worked, so she drew two ovals along the line.

  “Not so excessively close together,” Thayne said, leaning forward over her right shoulder. His closeness didn’t help her concentration, but otherwise it was magical. And his comment was helpful. She’d made the same mistake in that long-ago drawing. “Put the nose in first,” Miss Chandler had commanded.

  “His nose?” she asked Thayne. “I think it was quite broad.”

  “That’s right.” Thayne’s voice, close by her ear. His breath against her cheek. His warmth and smell surrounding her. She pulled herself together and sketched in a broad nose, remembering rather flaring nostrils. Then she corrected the ovals at a better distance.

  “Low forehead,” Braydon said.

  “He was wearing a hat,” she remembered. “Quite a smart one.”