by Joan Smith
“Go to hell,” Belami growled, glaring at the exposed nags. Guilt and shame conspired to put him out of humor. “Don’t you know any better than to leave these bloods out in the middle of a howling storm? Damme, it’s cold. I wish I had brought my closed carriage.”
“I suggested the closed carriage, me,” Pierre reminded him, snapping the whip and urging the animals forward. “I know snow. I saw the snow forming in the clouds. ‘The curricle,’ you told me.”
“Yes, yes, you’re a bloody genius and I’m a fool. Spring ‘em,” Belami said, wrapping himself in the fur rug, which Pierre had had the foresight to include in the carriage. The groom shivered dramatically as Belami wrapped himself to the eyes in the rug. “Grab a corner if you like,” he offered.
“I couldn’t keep on the road with my arms wrapped up. She’s slippery,” Pierre said.
“I thought you were waiting for winter with great impatience,” Belami reminded him.
“You call this winter? Hah, late summer, I’d call her. I’ve seen colder Augusts at home. I said slippery, not cold.”
“Does slippery usually set you to shivering?” he asked, pulling a corner of the rug loose and throwing it over Pierre’s knees.
Any pose of not being cold had to be abandoned. The groom changed the subject to the lateness of the hour instead. “We’ll never make Beaulac in time for the ball,” was his next cheerful speech. “She must have been some frolic, the widow Barnes, to keep you three hours.”
“We played chess,” Belami said. “Wake me when we get to the home road.” Then he pulled his curled beaver over his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He had deep scheming to do, to figure a way out of marrying Deirdre Gower. He was frequently in hot water with women, but not customarily with innocent debs. It was still half a mystery to him how he had bungled the affair so badly that he had actually stammered out a sort of offer.
The trouble was, Deirdre was such a flat she had no idea how men acted with women. It was her very lack of knowing how to flirt that had done him in. Chaperones ought to teach their charges how to flirt, for God’s sake. He had mistaken her shyness for haughty indifference. Haughty indifference was irresistible to him. He had to prove to himself he could engage her interest. Well, he had. And it hadn’t taken much work, either. Stood up with her three or four times, walked out with her once, then followed her to the conservatory at her aunt’s ball. That was his undoing. She had looked damnably attractive in the shadowy moonlight, so he had kissed her. What else could one do when alone with a woman in the moonlight, surrounded by the exotic spice of flowers in bloom in December? She shouldn’t have gone there alone; she knew he would follow her. If she hadn’t been a flat she would have known he’d have to kiss her. And if he hadn’t been a complete idiot, he might have suspected old Charney would be lurking at the window, to see the kiss, and insinuate what course was now necessary for a gentleman.
But Deirdre could still have saved them both, if she’d had the decency to refuse his offer. He was obliged to offer; she wasn’t obliged to accept. It was a trick to nab him, and one trick deserved another, so he had stayed completely away from her while he was in London. Charney and Bertie between them had cooked up this curst ball and the announcement to be made at midnight. He trusted his late arrival would have convinced Deirdre of any lack of real affection on his part. If there was a gentlemanly bone in her ladylike body, she’d turn him off.
There were some few members of society one did not like to offend, and the Duchess of Charney was one of them. And really he didn’t want to hurt Deirdre either. It was naivety as much as anything that ailed the girl. If only she’d call off the engagement, he was perfectly ready to find her unexceptionable, for anyone except himself.
Before leaving London, he had taken the precaution of worrying loud and long to a few friends, who were also intimates of the duchess, that some of his investments had gone sour. A diminution of fortune might discourage Charney, but on the other hand, he could hardly claim to have lost three rather large estates within the space of a few weeks. Setting up a high flyer as his mistress would not be sufficient to do the trick. He had had one under his protection at the time Charney put her niece forward. The risk of Bedlam discouraged him from claiming insanity in the family. Any pending major misalliance on Bertie’s part would be bound to help, but then, one’s own mother. . . . And Bertie was such a jingle brain she’d end up marrying whatever hedgebird he got for the part.
When they reached the home road, it was nearly midnight, and he still had no solution to his problem. “Wake up!” Pierre said, nudging him in the ribs with the butt of his whip.
Belami pulled out his watch and focused his eyes to read it in the moonless shadows. Ten minutes to twelve. He left it in his hand to watch for midnight, but looked around at the scene before him. Beaulac reared its handsome head and shoulders up into the whirling snow that swept through the black night on eddies of wind. Beaulac was too formal a building to entirely please this romantic young lord. He would have preferred a heap in the gothic style, with arched windows that were so much more feminine than the mullioned rectangles of Beaulac. He was fond of flying buttresses, and an occasional gargoyle would have pleased him; but on this night, with the darkness and snow concealing the severe geometry of Beaulac, he was satisfied with his home. The many lit windows lent a lively and haphazard air to the place. His gaze wandered off to the grounds, noticing the undisturbed snow. The last guest must have arrived several hours ago, he thought, but at least no one had left yet.
He happened to glance up to the roof, and thought he discerned a shadow moving there. He smiled, recalling the many times he had stood there himself, draped in a sheet, to scare the wits out of the gullible servants. What had he called that ghost he was supposed to be? Knag, that was it, with the k silent. Pity Beaulac didn’t have a real ghost like Longleat’s Green Lady, to rescue him from this unwanted entanglement. A bemused smile hovered about his lips as he sat, staring and thinking unholy thoughts.
The long hand was still several minutes away from twelve as they pulled into the stable, but Belami said, “Bonne et Heureuse Année, Pierre,” anyway.
Pierre sneezed violently. “La même pour vous, melord.”
“Gezundheit”
“Comment?”
“Let another groom tend the grays and you look after yourself. I suggest a warm bath and a hot drink,” Belami said.
“No hands but these take care of my grays,” Pierre declared, holding out his hands.
“Those hands won’t do any of us much good if they’re attached to a corpse,” Belami said, and hastened off.
He entered by the kitchen door, to slip up to his room by the back stairs and change his clothes. It was odd, but convenient, that there were no servants in the kitchen. They must have gone up to serve the midnight dinner. The stable was full of carriages, so the ball was obviously in progress.
Belami had left his valet in London, as the man was in the throes of a torrid triangular love affair with Lord Norris’s upstairs maid. Belami was a firm believer in true love, especially for people other than himself. He had given Uggams a handful of golden boys to help his suit along, and offered the woman a position in his own household as well, if she accepted his valet’s offer. His generosity had left him with only Pierre to help with his dressing, and for the present, he must help himself. Naturally his grays came first.
He struggled out of his topboots, fawn trousers, and jacket alone, and scrambled into his pantaloons and black jacket. He brushed his hair and tied up his cravat with a careless disregard for the Waterfall and Oriental and such fashionable arrangements as prevailed amidst the ton. While his fingers performed these automatic functions, his mind reverted to Knag, and other more plausible means of egress from an unwanted engagement.
Belowstairs, the hands of the clock rapidly approached midnight.
* * * *
It was some moments later when Belami hastened, head bent, along the upstairs hall. He took no notice
of the female guest approaching till he had nearly capsized her.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, steadying the girl by placing a hand on either arm. How cold she was!
She wrenched herself from him with an unusual degree of violence. He blinked, and recognized the form of Deirdre Gower. His anger was not less than hers. Naturally the curst woman had to be the first person he encountered, before he had his alibi properly rehearsed. Her back was stiff, her neck stiffer, and her eyes on fire.
“Good evening, Deirdre. Happy New Year,” he said with a cool civility that did not belong on a fiancé’s lips. “Not at the ball?”
“You have the temerity to ask me that!” she exclaimed, preparing her accusations. “Ac-tually I came up looking for you.”
Ac-tually! Deirdre Gower was the only woman in England who thought actually was two separate words, and that the t was not only pronounced, but given an awful stress. Many times he had winced under the word, as it usually preceded some pedantic lecture of which he did not stand in need. And to think, when he first heard it, he had found it a beguiling affectation.
“You’re no doubt upset that I’m a trifle late,” he said, knowing some apology must be uttered.
“No, I’m not upset that you’re late. I wouldn’t have cared a brass farthing if you hadn’t come at all. In fact, I wish you hadn’t come!” she told him, eyes flashing.
He stood bemused. Ac-tually, Deirdre was mildly attractive when shaken out of her customary lethargy. Was that why he had once found her worth investigating, because she had been angry about something? What could it have been? he wondered. His glance roamed from her great gray eyes, illuminated by unspeakable anger; to her nose, short, straight, well shaped; to the upper lip, short, and giving a kissable quality to her full lips. The hair, alas, was archaic. She wore it in a scraped-back style not noticeably different from her aunt’s. The gown too, while passable, lacked any flare of distinction. It was a white gown, crepe, somewhat limp, its only embellishment a string of pearls, unless you could call that gray band around the bottom embellishment. What was it, anyway—wet, dirty? Her speech soon diverted his attention upwards again.
“Why didn’t you stay away?” she asked.
“Sorry to disappoint you. I had a spot of trouble. We lost a wheel in the snow. Miserable traveling weather,” he added blandly.
“If you had come three days ago when you were supposed to, you would have missed the vile weather. But then I suppose the story is to be that you arrived after midnight tonight,” she said, lifting her brow and looking at him with all the scorn of his banker when the account was overdrawn. She noticed his somewhat impetuous toilette, and thought he had taken enough time to make a tidier one.
Belami was noticing something else. There seemed to be some meaningful weight on the words after midnight. Was it a reference to the hour the announcement was to have been made? “I believe I arrived around twelve,” he answered.
“Not around twelve, Belami. Ac-tually it was twelve on the dot. Very dramatic, very effective, but totally unnecessary, I assure you. You didn’t have to add melodrama to the affair. I had already decided to jilt you. Yes, you are released from the burden of marrying me. And in case you’re wondering why, let me enlighten you. It has nothing to do with tonight. Twombley is engaged to Lady Cecilia Carruthers. I only ever agreed to have you to escape him. Bad as you are, at least you’re not as bad as Twombley. He was my aunt’s first choice for me.”
A blessed cloak of relief descended on his shoulders, like a mantle of peace. He felt like the Ancient Mariner when the albatross finally fell into the sea. For a fleeting instant, he loved Deirdre Gower, stiff neck, actually, and all. “I have always heard comparisons are odious,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Not as odious as you are!”
“Another comparison! Where does that leave me? Stranded above Twombley and below comparisons.” He crossed his legs and leaned against the wall, smiling down at Deirdre.
“At least Twombley is not a thief!” she charged with an angry toss of her head.
“That, at least, is beneath him,” he agreed. “Er, do I descry some intimation in your conversation that I am a thief?” he asked playfully. “What have I stolen? Let me guess.”
“What did you do with it?” she asked, ignoring his playful attitude.
“Tell me first what I have purloined, and I can give you a better answer,” he parried.
“It is not a joking matter, Belami. I know you take nothing seriously but your dissipations, but the duchess is speaking of calling in Bow Street. I know you only took it to break our engagement, but it wasn’t necessary. You can sneak it back, and my aunt and I shall leave quietly.”
A frown settled on his handsome face. His mobile brow was lifted to its full height, and though he did not give up leaning on the wall, there was a new air of alertness about him. His eyes looked black and dangerous. “But you still haven’t told me what I took,” he pointed out in a patient voice at odds with his eyes.
“The diamond necklace, of course. How could you, Belami?” she asked, her voice husky with emotion. Logic told him it was the missing necklace that upset her, and his sensitivities told him that she was much prettier when so agitated. Instinctively he stood up straight and put out an arm to comfort her.
Again she wrenched away from him, with a good semblance of revulsion. Alas, it was only a semblance. Blackguard that he was, she still felt a strong attraction to his physical presence. His soul and his character she despised heartily, but these invisible entities fell from her mind when she was with the physical specimen. It wasn’t fair that a blackguard should be so attractive. He was often described by society as an Adonis, but the name didn’t do him justice. It was too old and lifeless. Belami was more than a hero from antiquity. He was Romeo magically grown to a more mature manhood, and he was Byron’s Corsair, for there was a beguiling hint of wickedness in those dark eyes that studied her.
As she watched, his first show of concern deepened to consternation. “Are you telling me someone stole the Duchess of Charney’s diamond necklace?” he asked, his voice high with disbelief, like a stage actor.
“As if you didn’t know it!” she said, with a scathing eye. But still he looked on, nonplussed, causing her to run in her mind from stable to house, don the disguise, and descend to the ballroom in ten minutes. Then to get back upstairs and hide it and change again into pantaloons. It hardly seemed possible, but such was her opinion of Belami that for him, it seemed not only possible but very likely.
“Deirdre, how can you accuse me of common theft?” he demanded, offense writ large on his features. She watched as the offense turned to haughty disdain.
“There was nothing common about it. It was extremely bizarre, and everyone thinks it was you,” she added righteously.
He looked up and down the hall, then turned around and opened a bedroom door and pulled her inside. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said with a mocking smile. “I have no designs on your virtue. I never cared for scaling mountains. I would just prefer to have this conversation without interruption. Now, suppose you tell me the whole story, from start to finish.”
She told him in a simple, methodical way that required very few questions.
“That solves one of our problems at least,” was his comment when she had finished. “Your aunt won’t be likely to push this match forward now.”
“No, and neither shall I,” she answered sharply. “I hope I am too discreet to ask where you spent the hours preceding midnight, but I hope for your sake they were in company that can be brought forward without blushing. You might quite possibly require an alibi.”
“Well, now, I promise you I shan’t blush, and as for you ladies, you may do as you wish. You always do. Shall we go down now?”
“You should go to see your mother. She was taken to her room when she fainted.”
“Ah, poor Bertie!” he said with the first show of genuine sorrow since his arrival.
Deirdre return
ed belowstairs to mingle and listen for what was being said, and Belami went to see his mother. She sat up when he entered, and directed a wild-eyed look at him, before bursting into tears. The wrinkles in her cherubic little face were concealed in shadows, giving her the look of a baby.
“We are ruined, Dickie! Utterly disgraced. The Duchess, of all people. How could you?”
“How could you?” Twice he had heard it within ten minutes. He had the sickening apprehension he would hear it many more times before this holiday was over. In three long strides, he was at her bedside, where she threw herself into his arms, all thoughts of hot knives and carving forgotten. He hugged her close against his chest, trying to soothe and comfort her.
“You know I didn’t do it, Mama. What a thing to say to your own son,” he replied in soft, injured tones that touched a responsive chord deep within her, but did not quite convince her.
“I know you got your freakish nature from me. There is no need to rub salt in the wound. Your papa would never do such things. Oh, why couldn’t you have been like him?”
“Because I preferred to be like you. Tell me all about it, everything you remember,” he urged, patting her shoulders gently.
“I didn’t see much. Fortunately, I fainted. It is all that saved my life. Someone—one of us, I mean, ought to go below and hear what is being said. Or maybe it would be best if you ran away somewhere and hid for a few weeks. If you turn up now, Dick, they are bound to know it was you.”
