by M C Beaton
The Comte Duval rounded the terrace and stood staring, his face quite pale under the paint. No one. He thought he saw the flicker of a skirt disappearing through the bushes but he could not be sure.
“Someone heard us?” said his companion, coming up behind him, speaking in English.
“She left this,” said the comte, slowly plucking Constance’s fan from the rose bush. “What shall we do, my little English friend?”
“We must flee!” babbled his companion. “The game is up!”
“Quietly, mon amie, quietly. Doucement!” said the comte, swinging the fan back and forth in his long fingers.
“If she knows what we were saying, what we were plotting, she will raise a rumpus immediately and we can still escape. If there is no brouhaha in the next few minutes, she has not heard or understood, but nonetheless we dare not let her live. We must start to find out then who the owner of this fan is and when we find her, why, we kill her.”
“Oh, no!” bleated his companion.
“Oh, yes, my little English coward. You are now in too deep to draw back. We find her, we kill her. Life is very simple if you but take the proper action.…”
Amelia had been too engrossed in her battle of wits with Mrs. Besant to notice Constance’s long absence. She had also practically forgotten the existence of Lord Philip Cautry who was heartily wishing himself elsewhere.
“And that gown!” Mrs. Besant was saying. “Surely you can do better for Miss Lamberton than that. I declare it has a patch on the sleeve.”
“She likes going around like a drab,” snapped Amelia. The sunlight winked on the diamond pendant at her neck, driving Mrs. Besant to further attack.
“After all, dear Amelia,” murmured Mrs. Besant. “We all know ’twas exceeding kind of you to give the girl a home. But a roof over her head seems to be all she has. And you still have not told me how she came by that scar.”
“It’s a birthmark!” said Amelia.
“A birthmark!” exclaimed Mrs. Besant, showing all her teeth. “Come, come! There wasn’t a mark on her back at Almack’s. Therefore she got it sometime after Almack’s. When she went home, perhaps?”
Amelia took a deep breath and leaned across the table, pushing her pretty face almost into that of Mrs. Besant and affording Lord Philip an excellent view of two large breasts revealed by her plunging neckline. “I am surprised you had the time to notice,” she said silkily. “The morning post takes up so much of your time.”
Mrs. Besant reeled back in her chair and raised her hand like a fencer receiving a hit. “Well, well,” she said breathlessly. “I am sure Lord Philip is bored with our women’s chatter.”
“You must excuse me,” said Philip, taking the opportunity to escape. Amelia bit her lip. In her way, she enjoyed her verbal battles with Mrs. Besant more than the attention of any man, but Lord Philip had the two things she desired most, money and a title. “You are quite right,” she said, rising and slipping her arm through Philip’s, “and I shall promenade with you.”
Philip looked down at her enchanting face, and wondered why he had ever found her attractive. She was vulgar beyond belief and, if Mrs. Besant’s hints could be believed, she was also making life hell for that poor little Lamberton girl. His green eyes raked over the grounds for a way to get rid of her, and with relief, he espied the elegant, if foppish, figure of the Comte Duval.
“Monsieur le Comte,” he cried, before Amelia realized what he was about. “I must beg you to escort Lady Amelia for me. I have business to attend to.”
“Indeed, I am delighted to relieve you of your beautiful charge,” said the comte, bowing low while Lord Philip wrinkled his nose fastidiously at the strong smell of musk emanating from that gentleman’s clothes.
Philip bowed and left them. He found he was becoming increasingly worried about Constance’s welfare. He suddenly saw her walking under the trees with Peter Potter. She was laughing at something Peter had just said, her face alight with humor and mischief. “Why, she is really pretty,” he thought in surprise. “Almost beautiful. Now, were she married to someone suitable, it would solve all the problems. Peter, perhaps?”
At that moment, Peter caught Constance’s hand and bent his long sheep-like face to kiss it, and Constance gently drew her hand away, her face turning pink with embarrassment.
No, Peter is too clumsy, he thought angrily. She needs someone stronger—more masculine—like… like…
“Like yourself?” whispered a mocking voice in his brain. “Like yourself?”
Chapter Seven
The following day, Constance was informed by Eliot that she once more had the use of my lady’s old clothes. And not only that, there was a letter for her!
Constance broke the unfamiliar seal and crackled open the parchment. She scanned it briefly and then began to read it more closely. It was from her late aunt, Miss Lamberton’s heir, a Mr. Nicholas Barrington.
“Dear Miss Lamberton,” she read. “I am selling Berry House since the house itself is of no interest to me and the little land there is, is nothing more than a few impoverished fields. I heard from the vicar that Lady Amelia Godolphin had kindly offered you a home and I am glad your future is secure. Nonetheless, I and my wife shall be calling on you on the tenth of this month, since we wish to assure ourselves that you are comfortably situated. I remain yr. Humble and Obedient Servant, Nicholas Barrington.”
Constance’s heart leapt with sudden hope. Today was the tenth! And Mr. and Mrs. Barrington were concerned over her welfare. She would beg them to take her with them. Perhaps they could employ her as a housekeeper, or if they had children, as a governess. But Amelia must not even guess at her hopes. She would simply tell her that they were to call and that she wished to remain at home to receive them.
Amelia greeted the news rather sulkily. There was a fête champêtre in the Surrey fields she wished to attend. She was looking forward to recommencing the pursuit of Lord Philip in that sylvan setting, and with even more pleasure she was looking forward to another verbal battle with Mrs. Besant.
But if she did not let Constance stay to see these tiresome relatives, Mrs. Besant was sure to find out about it somehow and use it as a weapon.
“Very well, then,” she said ungraciously. “I see you are still wearing those terrible old clothes. Tell Eliot to find you something directly. I declare you go around looking like a quiz just to embarrass me!”
Constance restrained from pointing out that she was wearing her own clothes on Amelia’s express orders, and merely murmured her thanks.
Then came the agony of waiting. Amelia finally left in a flurry of silks and bad temper. Constance, attired in a pale yellow muslin gown tied under the breast with long yellow silk ribbons, set demurely in the drawing room, perched on the edge of her chair, starting at every sound of carriage wheels on the street outside.
Bergen, the butler, kept scuttling into the room on various pretexts, seeming to enjoy Constance’s dislike and fear of him. At one point, as the butler’s pale gooseberry eyes roved over her figure with blatant insolence, Constance felt she would have to give up her vigil and escape from the house, but all at once carriage wheels did stop outside, and Bergen scuttled off to answer the summons of the knocker.
But it was not Mr. Barrington but Lord Philip Cautry who was ushered into the room.
Constance rose and curtsyed low, determined to get rid of him as soon as possible. But his infuriating lordship seemed to be in no hurry. He sat down in a chair opposite and stretched out his long legs in front of him. He discussed the weather, the press of traffic in the streets outside, the latest on-dits while Constance stared at him in amazement. He seemed a positive chatterbox this morning.
“You are wondering why I have come,” he suddenly said abruptly.
“I-I assume you expected to find Lady Amelia at home,” rejoined Constance nervously.
“No. I came to see you, Miss Lamberton.” He rose and came to stand over her, his green eyes glinting like a cat’s in the dim
light of the room.
“How-h-ow nice,” said Constance faintly, her hand nervously feeling at her wrist for the strap of her fan and finding it missing.
“I am concerned about your position in this household,” he said, and immediately wondered if he sounded as pompous to her as he did to himself. “I bear an old and honorable name, Miss Lamberton. I am offering you the protection of that name.”
The beautiful hazel eyes flew upwards in surprise and dismay. “My lord,” said Constance. “It is exceeding kind of you to offer me the protection of your name, but I assure you I am not yet reduced to such straits.”
Lord Philip stared down at her in amazement and fury. And then he realized she had misunderstood the great honor he was about to confer on her.
He knelt on one knee beside her chair and took her hand in his. “Miss Lamberton,” he said, “I am not asking you to be my mistress—but my wife.”
Constance looked at him in dazed bewilderment and then a slow, enchanting smile lit up her face. This was like all her girlhood dreams come true—this handsome lord kneeling beside her and proposing marriage. And if Lord Philip Cautry could have kept his aristocratic mouth shut, then Miss Lamberton would undoubtedly have accepted him on the spot.
But he felt compelled to add, “I realize this will not be a love match, Miss Lamberton. I feel I owe it to your dear father’s memory to see that his daughter is no longer ill-treated. My family will be surprised, of course. They will naturally have expected me to look higher for a bride. But, no matter. I will deal with them.”
A cloud settled down over the sunshine of Constance’s face. There was a long and heavy silence. A hawker shouted his wares outside, the clock on the mantel ticked breathlessly on, and the shuffle of the butler’s feet sounded in the hall outside.
At last Constance said, “You do me great honor, my lord. But I fear I cannot accept. You see, the relative who inherited my aunt’s estate is calling today and I am determined to beg him to remove me from this household. I do not wish to be ungrateful to Lady Amelia, but, indeed, I am not happy here. I fear…”
She broke off as Lord Philip Cautry rose to his feet, his face as black as thunder. He had only heard her refuse him. She had refused none other than Lord Philip Cautry, he who had been fêted and petted and chased after by every matchmaking mama in London since he was first out of short coats.
“Then we shall say no more about it,” he said through stiff lips. “I bid you good day, madam!”
Constance rose up with a little pleading gesture. But he had gone.
He had gone and left her, all too late, with the realization that she was in love with him.
Hard on the heels of his departure, Mr. Barrington and his wife were announced.
Constance forced a smile of welcome on her face and moved forward to greet them. Mr. Barrington was a cadaverous man somewhere in his thirties, with a long, lugubrious face. His wife, by contrast, was small and plump and blond, with wide, empty, china-blue eyes and an alarming titter.
Mrs. Barrington was the first to speak after introductions had been performed. “La!” she cried. “Don’t you look fine! That silk must have cost all of five shillings a yard, I do declare. Where is the Lady Amelia? Lord, I just pine to catch a glimpse of her!”
Constance explained that Amelia was gone from home and not expected back until late. Mrs. Barrington gave a moue of disappointment and relapsed into silence, leaving her husband to break into speech.
“And how do we go on?” he asked, after Constance had rung for refreshments. “Fine feathers make fine birds, Miss Lamberton. ‘There is an upstart crow beautified with our feathers,’ heh? Is that one of my lady’s gowns?”
Constance pretended not to have heard either the question or its preceding insult and instead burst out, “Oh, you must help me leave this house, Mr. Barrington. I am sure I could work for you. I am not afraid of hard work. My life here is torment. See how Lady Amelia has beaten me!” And she turned her back to show them the weal.
She then clutched his hands and gazed pleadingly into his face.
“Tush! Tush!” said Mr. Barrington, trying to disengage himself. “I have never heard of such ingratitude. But I see what it is. You have to work here as a companion, heh? But you would rather be sitting in comfort in my household and do nothing for your keep.”
Constance flushed angrily under the unjust attack. “No such thing!” she cried. “I tell you I am grossly ill-treated here. I am prepared to work for you in any capacity.”
“Here is ingratitude of the worst!” cried Mr. Barrington. “Lady Amelia rescues you from a life of poverty and gives you all this”—here he swept a bony hand in the direction of her dress—“and yet you wish to run away. Shame on you! And what if you were whipped? Why, I whip my own servants if they are lazy.”
To Constance’s infinite fury and embarrassment, Mr. Barrington sank onto his knees and began to pray in a loud voice. “Forgive this ungrateful handmaiden, O Lord, so that she may be spared the torments of hell-fire. Look down…”
But that was as far as he got. Constance had picked up the teapot and had started to pour a thin stream of scalding tea over his bent head.
He leapt to his feet with a howl of pain. “Come, Amy!” he cried to his wife who had sat munching cake in an abstracted way through the whole proceedings. “Let us leave this… this… ungrateful hussy!”
“Oh, aren’t I going to meet Lady Amelia, then?” wailed Amy as she was dragged from the room still clutching her cake. “I shall write to Lady Amelia today,” howled Mr. Barrington from the hallway. “She shall hear of what you said!”
Then the street door banged and Constance collapsed in a chair.
“Fine work you’ve made of this day,” sneered the voice of Bergen, the butler, from the doorway. “Turned down my lord and then slandered my mistress to your relatives. Just you wait till my lady gets back!”
“Go away, Bergen,” said Constance in a tired little voice, “or I shall open that window and tell the whole street of your insolence.”
She seemed in such a wrought-up state and she made a half move to rise from her chair. Bergen believed she might do just that, and he knew the other household servants would support Constance, so he sulkily backed out. He suddenly decided it might be better to let his mistress discover Miss Lamberton’s goings-on for herself.
Constance sat trying to control the shaking of her body. What on earth was she to do? After fit punishment had been meted out by Amelia, she would undoubtedly find herself out on the street.
Her only hope now was that Lord Philip would accept her, after all. When she remembered the furious look of hurt pride on his face, her heart sank. But he was the only person she had to turn to. She would need to visit him at his home. There was no other way. But where did he live?
She rose and stood staring blindly out of the window.
Her eyes suddenly focussed on the figure of the Riders’ secretary, Mr. Evans, who was walking past the house. She ran out into the street, desperately calling after him until he heard her and stopped and walked back to where she was standing.
“Please, Mr. Evans!” cried Constance, quite wildly. “I must find Lord Philip Cautry immediately. Do you know his direction?”
“He lives in Albemarle Street,” said the secretary, surprised. “I do not know if he will be at home but you could send a footman round with a letter, asking him to call.”
“Oh, no!” said Constance, thinking of the waiting and listening Bergen. “I must go to his home. Please, will you escort me?”
“I have several commissions to effect for Lady Eleanor…” began the secretary doubtfully.
“Oh, please!” called Constance, looking frightened out of her wits.
“Very well,” said Mr. Evans, thinking rapidly of an excuse to explain his delay to Lady Eleanor—any excuse, that was, but the correct one. Lady Eleanor would not love the idea of him squiring Miss Lamberton to her brother’s house.
When Constance had co
llected her bonnet and shawl, he politely offered his arm and then hailed a passing hack. When they were seated in its smelly interior, he said doubtfully, “It is not the thing at all for a young lady to call unescorted to a gentleman’s home. You appreciate I will have to leave you there?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Constance bravely. “I am already ruined.”
Anyone else would immediately have wanted to know how the young lady became ruined, but not Mr. Evans. He felt he had enough worries in his life at the moment, and did not want to hear about anyone else’s. As the hackney drew into Albemarle Street, he noticed, however, that Constance kept scrabbling at her wrist. He hoped she had not got fleas for the hackney carriage was undoubtedly alive with them.
“Is there something up with your wrist, Miss Lamberton?” he asked solicitously as he helped her down from the carriage.
Constance gave a nervous laugh. “I keep feeling for my fan,” she said, “and then I remember I have lost it. It became caught in a rose bush at Lady Eleanor’s party.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Evans as he walked up the steps of Lord Cautry’s mansion. And then another worry entered his brain. “Are you sure Lord Philip will wish to see you?”
“I-I think so. I hope so,” said Constance.
Mr. Evans decided not to wait. If by any chance Lord Philip was annoyed at the presence of this young lady, then he, Evans, did not want to be around to share his lordship’s annoyance.
He accordingly performed a massive tattoo on the knocker, and with a jerky lift of his hat fled off down the street.
Constance was left alone to give her name to a disapproving butler who ushered her into a small saloon and shut the door.
She had not long to wait. In a few minutes, the door opened and Lord Philip strode into the room.
