“I would also like you to know that Lady Brodfield is sitting with me.”
“Yes, sir. Ahem. I was just telling her what a pleasure it is to see her again after such a long time.” He bowed. “Lady Brodfield, I hope you enjoy the concert. My lord.”
Bowing again, Lord Lyndgreen disappeared, and Phoebe turned to Devenham. “I am not sitting with you,” she hissed. “I am sitting with Judith and Edward. If you choose to sit with us also, I hope you will behave! There was no need to scare the wits out of the poor fellow. He had not even asked about where or with whom I might be sitting.” She snapped open her fan in annoyance and began to use it vigorously.
Devenham just smiled. He nodded toward Edward and Judith, who were attempting to keep clear the two chairs beside them. “I think we had best take our seats, while we still have our choice open to us.”
The program began with a lively Mozart minuet and a song by Gluck played by the pianist and the harpist. Lady Follett had also brought in a violinist and two vocalists, one a baritone and the other a rather statuesque soprano. This last mentioned lady struggled through a melodramatic version of the ancient tragic ballad of “Fair Rosemund” before she launched into an enthusiastic rendering of several Italian and French folk songs accompanied by the instruments and the baritone.
“She must not be English,” Judith whispered to Phoebe, leaning across Edward to do so.
The gentleman singer offered a selection from opera, which was followed by one of Dr. Haydn’s piano sonatas in honor of Princess Esterhazy.
“Which one is she?” Phoebe asked Devenham softly. “You must have met or at least seen her in Vienna.”
“Over there—see, she is nodding to acknowledge the compliment. Her husband’s relatives in Austria kept Dr. Haydn employed for almost thirty years.”
Devenham’s knowledge about the music being performed surprised and impressed Phoebe. He was quiet, only offering an occasional comment, but he answered her questions with what she thought was admirable patience. When the last piece of the evening was announced to be a Beethoven sonata for violin and piano, he became quite visibly excited.
“This ought to stir some people up,” he said with enthusiasm. “I chanced to hear some of his newer work last winter in Vienna, and he is beginning to strike out in some very unconventional directions. I will be interested to see what you think of it.”
The piece that followed was indeed quite different from the rather restrained and dignified standard fare and even from earlier Beethoven work with which she was familiar. The sudden changes in dynamic levels and the strong and varied emotion of the piece captured the attention of everyone in the room despite the soporific effect of the heat. The occasional dissonant harmony and irregular rhythm were not at all what anyone was used to hearing.
“Is that really how it is written?” Phoebe asked the earl in admiring disbelief.
When the piece was finished, there was no reaction at all from the surprised audience for several seconds save the continued motion of ladies’ fans all around the room. The silent fluttering made Phoebe think of butterflies.
Then Devenham began to applaud loudly, getting to his feet. Others quickly followed suit, building the enthusiasm in the crowded room to a crescendo. The performers acknowledged the accolade and then escaped the overheated chamber with what Phoebe suspected was gratitude. It took a good deal longer for the collected guests to exit and make their way downstairs to the dining room, where the Folletts had provided a cold supper buffet.
“I could tell you enjoyed the Beethoven by the look of rapture on your face,” Devenham told Phoebe as they moved along with the crowd.
“I did not realize I was so transparent,” she answered, wishing she would not blush so easily as she felt the tingling in her face. “It was very different, as you said. Very emotional.”
“Passionate,” the earl declared. He lifted one eyebrow at her suggestively.
Distracted by her concern about Devenham’s behavior and delighted by the music, Phoebe had quite forgotten to be nervous or self-conscious during the concert. Her anxieties returned in full force when she reached Lucy’s dining room and saw the milling crowd engaged in eating and conversation. Her steps must have faltered, for Devenham squeezed her hand and said, “Courage in the face of battle is the true test of a good soldier, dear madam.”
“Let us find Judith and Edward,” she begged. In the crush, her sister and brother-in-law had become separated from them.
Devenham spotted them quickly with his advantage of greater height. “There they are, near the windows,” he said, steering her toward them. “Once you have joined them, I will get you some of the sliced chicken and pastries.”
“Thank you,” Phoebe said, trying to sound appreciative. “I think lemonade would go down more easily, however.” Her throat felt too tight to admit solid food. Just then she saw Sir Charles Mortimer making his way toward them. If she had to converse with someone, she would prefer it to be him.
“Sir Charles,” she acknowledged with a nod.
“Lady Brodfield! And Lord Devenham. How delightful to see you! My dear Lady Brodfield, my condolences on the loss of your father-in-law. I thought I caught a glimpse of you at his commemorative. I am simply glad to see you getting out and about again. Lord Tyneley was such a fine example of a man; his death is a great loss to all of us.”
Turning to Devenham, the older mad added. “Having this fellow back from the war is a great gain, however.” The two men shook hands heartily.
“How nice that you are already acquainted,” Phoebe murmured faintly.
“Welcome home, you rascal. Although I understand you haven’t managed yet to get all the way home. You are looking well, I must say, if not yet quite hale and hearty.”
“I have had the most excellent care in all of London. I believe,” the earl responded, looking pointedly at Phoebe.
She blushed, feeling both embarrassed and annoyed.
“I would be on my way home already, I don’t doubt, except for a small matter to clear up at the Horse Guards.”
Sir Charles laughed. “Yes, I heard something about that matter, I believe. Something about heroic behavior while under fire and a promotion to lieutenant colonel?” He cast a teasing glance at Phoebe and added, “There always are other charming distractions to delay one in London, are there not?”
He forestalled her protest with another quick laugh. “I only tease you to see that lovely smile, my dear. I happen to know of your skill as a nurse, for there were times a few years back when you tended Lord Tyneley quite devotedly and gave him considerable comfort.” Sir Charles smiled now a bit sadly. “I’m certain he never guessed that his bequest to you would turn out to be problematical. I know he held you in great esteem.”
Phoebe glanced around her uncomfortably. Was there anything Sir Charles did not know? Was there anything he would consider private enough not to broadcast for all to hear in a public gathering? She thought it providential that at that moment Lucy interrupted them.
“Gentlemen, you must excuse us,” Lucy said with an angelic smile. “I have been granted permission to present Lady Brodfield to Her Highness, the princess. I know you would not want me to keep a lady waiting.”
Rescued from wolves to be cast to the lion, thought Phoebe in despair. Her face must have betrayed her, for Lucy squeezed her hand reassuringly and said, “Put that smile you had back on, my dear. The princess will be charmed with you, and her approval will help to hobble a good number of wagging tongues I know. Did I not tell you to trust your second come-out to me?”
As they walked away from the gentlemen, Phoebe heard Sir Charles resume his conversation with the earl.
“Devenham, you must join me for dinner at Watier’s while you are still in Town, so I can congratulate you on your survival more properly.”
“I would be pleas
ed to do so. Just name the day; I am at your disposal.”
Phoebe was too far away to hear Sir Charles answer with some urgency, “Good, then. Let’s make it tomorrow.”
Chapter Eleven
Devenham was quite conscious of the change in Phoebe’s manner toward him. He had spent many hours pondering what had happened between them, examining his own feelings and trying to understand hers. Another man might have accepted defeat, convinced by her claim that she had no interest in him. But Devenham believed in the response he had sensed in their kiss.
He smiled as he maneuvered the Allingtons’ gig through the traffic along Bond Street toward Piccadilly. She had been annoyed with him through much of the previous evening at the Folletts’. Annoyance was better than cold formality and wariness. He had also caught glimpses of something warmer in her eyes when she thought he was not paying heed to her. She had looked stunning in her black evening dress, with her dark hair caught up to expose her neck and her shoulders exposed by the cut of her gown. He had been hard-pressed to behave himself.
He was smitten, there was no question. He should have been grateful that she was trying so hard not to return his sentiments. He doubted he was either capable of or ready for the only type of relationship that was possible with a respectably widowed sister-in-law of a friend. Yet he was not grateful, and that in itself told him he had never felt this way about anyone before. He found, in fact, that his own needs seemed quite irrelevant. Gentle, loving, generous Lady Brodfield had begun to show him what love could be, yet was herself starved for love. He wanted to help her open her heart, even if she never accepted his.
“Your pardon, sir, but if you keep smiling and frowning in quite that way, I don’t doubt you’ll find yourself admitted to Bedlam instead of the Horse Guards this afternoon.” Mullins’s voice cut into Devenham’s wayward thoughts.
“What? Sorry.”
“There’s Piccadilly just ahead.”
The earl put his mind temporarily back on his driving. He had not yet made good on his promise to visit Tattersall’s, so he had been forced to rely upon Sir Edward’s generosity in allowing him the use of the Allingtons’ gig for the day. He had not been quite able to bring himself so low as to arrive for his appointment at the Horse Guards in a hackney. Mullins had been conscripted to act as his groom, for the earl still needed assistance getting up and down from high carriages.
Devenham made the turn onto Piccadilly and the second turn onto St. James Street. He had two goals to accomplish at the Horse Guards. The first was to make one last effort to stop the promotion he did not want, and the other was to learn something about Richard Brodfield.
He had listened with interest to Sir Charles Mortimer’s reference to Phoebe’s “problematical” inheritance and had only managed to learn the details of this by later relating the odd conversation to Sir Edward. But what Edward told him had not shed any light on Phoebe’s past.
The earl was convinced that Phoebe’s resistance to him and, according to Edward, to the whole idea of remarriage was tangled up with what had happened after her marriage to Stephen Brodfield. Mullins had ferreted out the scandalous story of Lord Brodfield’s death, but Devenham did not believe the story was straight. There were too many questions, too many things that didn’t add up, not to mention the basic disbelief he felt deep in his gut. He was too much a soldier to ignore that kind of instinct. It made sense to him to get what information he could on the other players in the piece. That meant Richard Brodfield and also his mother, Lord Tyneley’s recently bereaved widow.
The gig proceeded down the length of Pall Mall and eventually turned onto Whitehall, bringing Devenham to his destination a full ten minutes early for his appointment with Sir Henry Torrens, secretary to the Duke of York as commander-in-chief. Devenham counted himself lucky to have obtained this appointment before the duke’s return to London, which was expected within days.
“Mr. Wilcocks,” he said, addressing a young clerk to the secretary’s undersecretary, who was scribbling away at some papers in the outer room where he waited. “Is there some service I might be able to render you in return for a small favor?”
“I suppose that depends, my lord,” the young man answered with what Devenham thought was admirable caution. “What service can I perform for you?”
“You could find a few spare minutes to look up some information for me. Nothing that is not a matter of public record, rest assured.”
The wrinkles of anxiety that had marred the young fellow’s forehead disappeared. “I believe I could do that for you anyway, Lord Devenham, without obligation on your part. What was it you needed to know?”
“I would like to know the service record and status of Richard Brodfield, Lord Tyneley’s son.”
“Which regiment, sir?”
Devenham paused uncertainly. To his surprise, another voice answered for him.
“The 23rd Light Dragons, Wilcocks. And never mind looking it up—I can supply Lord Devenham with the particulars he wishes to know.” It was Sir Henry, standing in the open doorway to his inner office.
“Sir Henry, good afternoon.” Devenham felt a bit like a child caught sneaking tarts from the kitchen.
“Come in, sir, come in. We are ready for each other a few minutes early, which is to both our credits. I should be well pleased if the rest of my day would proceed so smoothly.” Sir Henry bade the earl sit in a leather-upholstered wing chair that faced his massive, paper-strewn desk. He closed the door and moved behind the desk, regarding Devenham with a raised eyebrow.
“I did not think it was to check on Mr. Brodfield that we had arranged this interview. Am I mistaken?”
Devenham sighed. “Not at all, Sir Henry. I had not meant to bother you with that business.”
To his surprise, Sir Henry laughed. “Ah, Lord Devenham, I believe I know what brings you here, and to be sure, I think I also know why you are suddenly interested in Richard Brodfield. Word travels so quickly in this town, don’t you agree?”
He leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest. “On the first matter, the official one, I don’t know that I can be of any help, but I am willing to listen. Why would anyone object to being retired as a lieutenant colonel, I ask myself.
“Now the other matter, I think, has to do with a certain lady whose acquaintance you have recently made. You realize, of course, what the beau monde would make of it if they got wind you were checking out the lady’s relations. However, I promise you that I will tell no one.”
Sir Henry had been smiling and speaking in a light tone, but now he sobered. “The reason I do not need to look up this particular case is that it has very recently been under my attention. Richard Brodfield sold out his commission as a captain in the 23rd as soon as he could after Waterloo. I will tell you in confidence between us as gentlemen, Lord Devenham, that Captain Brodfield did so in some haste, as the procedures to have him cashiered out of service had already been set in motion by his superior officers.”
“Cashiered!” exclaimed Devenham. “That is a serious business, indeed. Are you at liberty to say on what grounds?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you any of this, for it will not be in his record, but you are a good man and a good officer, and I think you should know. There were several charges made against him, including unauthorized absence and some rather ugly morals charges. You never heard this from me, however, you understand?”
“Completely, Sir Henry. And I am extremely grateful.”
“Grateful enough not to stir up trouble over a promotion His Royal Highness is determined to confirm?”
Devenham exhaled. Then his lips turned up in a small smile of begrudging admiration. He had been outmaneuvered by an expert. “Could you not at least drop a word to him that I am not in favor of it?” he asked a bit helplessly. “Tell him the accounts of my behavior were greatly exaggerated, and the bre
vet rank bestowed upon me was given in haste at the peak of an action where other men were equally or more deserving.”
“Do you question the judgment of your own superior officers?” Sir Henry asked pointedly. “Did you not lead the men under your care once the responsibility of the rank was put upon you?”
Then in a gentler voice he added, “I admire your modesty, Lieutenant Colonel, and your concern for the men who stood beside you does you credit. My advice is this: Accept what is offered to you, and if it bothers you so much, when the day comes that you actually see the extra shillings in your pocket, take them and give them to those who need them more.”
Sir Henry rose from his chair, signaling to Devenham that the interview was over. The earl rose as well, and the two men walked to the door together.
“Still giving you a bit of trouble?” Sir Henry asked, pointing to Devenham’s leg and cane.
“Just a trifle,” the earl responded offhandedly. “A touch of the laudanum still helps.” He and Sir Henry exchanged a look that acknowledged the brotherhood between war veterans who have survived the ordeal of being wounded.
“Let me give you another piece of advice while I am at it, Lord Devenham,” offered Sir Henry, his hand resting flat against the closed door. “If you wish to protect the reputation of the lady we have taken care not to mention here today, you should consider moving back to the Clarendon or somewhere now that you are so much improved and are getting about Town. You know how tongues will wag. I just mention it in case the thought had not already occurred to you.”
“Thank you, Sir Henry. I am in your debt.”
Young Wilcocks looked up questioningly as Sir Henry escorted Devenham to the outer door. The look on his face must have triggered something in Sir Henry’s memory, for that good gentleman suddenly exclaimed, “By Jove, I nearly forgot to say! His Highness the Duke will be holding a reception on the twenty-ninth, to honor the Waterloo officers who were not yet returned in the middle of July. There are a good number of you, and what with all the other attendant guests, His Highness the Prince Regent has most graciously offered Carlton House for the event. The invitations go out tomorrow.”
Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) Page 14
