by Joan Smith
“What the devil are you two doing out here?” Havergal demanded in surprised accents.
“Waiting for you. We’re leaving,” Cuttle replied,
“Leaving! What happened?” He laughed. “Did Miss Beddoes catch you pinching the maids?”
It was Havergal’s speaking her name that roused Lettie from her doze. She sat bolt upright and moved to the open window to listen from her place
“There’s none worth pinching,” Cuttle replied.
“Did you leave the door on the latch as I asked?” Havergal inquired.
“She locked and bolted it after us.”
Havergal felt the first spurt of alarm. “Who did?”
“Cook.”
“Ah, then you were pinching the servants. Never mind, I’ll cross Cook’s palm with silver in the morning. Come along. We’ll have to get in by a window somehow. And for God’s sake, be quiet. We don’t want to waken Miss Beddoes.”
Miss Beddoes was wide-awake and listening avidly. Bribing her own servants! Was nothing beneath this creature?
“Did you leave my bedroom window open?” Havergal asked.
“I closed it after you slipped out. I was to leave the front door on the latch for you.”
“Damn! I’ll have to slip around to the kitchen and rouse a servant. Crooks, get those rigs back in the stable, and be quiet about it.”
Cuttle rose on unsteady legs. “She said she wanted you out, bag and baggage. Miss Beddoes did.”
“Miss Beddoes!” Havergal exclaimed. An accomplished oath rent the air. Then he said more mildly, “Damn the woman. You’d best tell me exactly what happened.”
“She called me down. Asked where you was. I told her.”
“You told her! Cuttle, you mawworm!”
“She weaseled it out of me.”
“I wager your being three sheets to the wind made it easy. She knows I went to the inn, then. I’ll tell her I had an emergency message from Crymont. Say his groom delivered it to Crooks, and I didn’t mention it as I didn’t wish to disturb her. Yes, that’ll have to do, and count on an air of innocent bravado to carry it off. I’d best use the front door.”
He stepped forward without an instant’s hesitation and lifted the knocker. Lettie sat, dumbfounded at what she had just heard. Her first thought was to ignore his knocking and go up to bed. Before she had roused Violet, the knock came again more loudly. It continued, growing more forceful by the second. She pulled her shawl about her and stalked to the front door, poker in hand. She threw the door open wide and glared at him.
He essayed a conning smile and said, “Miss Beddoes. I am most dreadfully sorry to disturb you at this hour.”
“Well you might be, Lord Havergal.”
“An emergency arose. I had to dash to the inn to help Crymont—”
“I have already heard the explanation with which you mean to con me.”
He blinked and frowned, and finally continued uneasily with his explanation. “My groom brought me a message from Crymont’s groom....”
“No, milord. You arranged with the duke to steal out of my house for a clandestine meeting with lightskirts at the inn. I know this stunt would pass as a joke in London, another squib in the journals for the ton to snicker over, but this is not London. We have higher standards here. The behavior of a lady’s houseguest reflects on the hostess. I do not wish to have you under my roof, smuggling wine to my servants, lying, and making a scandal of yourself. To think, I invited the vicar to meet you!” she finished, aghast to think of it.
As the first shock subsided, Havergal began trying to think of a polite way out of this morass. As she had discovered about the lightskirts, there seemed little point denying it, so he tried to paint the meeting in less crimson hues. “It was just a friendly meeting. A few hands of cards.”
“I am, of course, not so well versed in debauchery as yourself, but I do not believe a gentleman has lightskirts delivered from London for the purpose of playing cards,” she said ironically. “You couldn’t do without them for one night! I was used to think the journals exaggerated about your carrying on, for I could not believe that anyone was as bad as they made you seem, but I realize now they showed the simple truth.”
Her haughty manner roused his anger, and he answered hotly. “The duke’s friends happened to be passing this way.”
“There was no need for you to bend the rules of hospitality so hard for the duke’s friends. You make the matter worse, not better, by trying to lay the blame in Crymont’s dish.”
“I am not trying—”
“You waste your breath, Lord Havergal. Any gentleman as indiscreet as yourself ought to hire discreet servants. But then I shouldn’t think any self-respecting valet or groom would wish to be in your employ. You are wasting my time and your own. Go back to your harlot. You aren’t spending another minute under my roof.”
She pushed the door closed. Havergal’s hand went out spontaneously to stop it. He had realized the first instant she opened her lips that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance of getting his money. It was merely his anger and frustration that he wished to vent now. “That, at least, is a relief,” he charged angrily. “I did not come here with any expectation of enjoying myself, but—”
“I know why you came! To try by lies and guile and deceit to extract money before it is due. To take what remains of your fortune and fritter it away on gambling and whoring and God knows what other depravities. Not one penny shall you have. If it were within my powers, I would deny you even your interest.”
“I know it very well!” His eyes smoldered, and his nostrils flared. “Any sort of pleasure is anathema to a woman like you. But for all your fine talk, you were not so immune to the flattery and flirtation of a duke. You would have liked well enough to strut into the assembly on his arm. You were eager to flaunt me before your friends this morning as well. I soon realized why you were determined to get me to the village.”
“And I realize why you were so eager to keep me out of it! I did not know then that your advantages are limited to a handsome face, sir. I’ll be the laughingstock of the village, for it would take more than a title to clothe you in respectability. I dislike your cousin’s decision to make me your testamentary guardian, but I see it was necessary he saddle someone with the unenviable task, for you are no more to be trusted than a monkey. My only regret is that I am the unfortunate victim.”
“We are both victims in the matter. It has been no pleasure for me, having my tail under your foot. My cousin’s choice could hardly have been worse. You don’t know how to enjoy life yourself and are determined that no one else shall.”
“You call what you do enjoying life? You don’t even know what life is all about, no matter if you have read a little philosophy. You aren’t enjoying life, Lord Havergal, you are avoiding it, trying to prolong your childhood into old age. No sense of responsibility, no thought for your future, your character, or your family. I would as lief be guardian to a moonling. In fact, I should prefer it, for at least a moonling has some excuse for his foolish behavior.”
“If it is odious to you, I suggest you assign the task of guardian to some objective party,” he retaliated, stinging at her attack.
“Someone you can bring around your thumb, you mean. No, Lord Havergal, you are stuck with me, and I am stuck with you, but there is no necessity for further meetings between us. You will receive your quarterly interest and not a penny more till you are thirty. Then you may squander it without bothering my conscience.”
Havergal was nearly beyond speech, but he gathered his wits for a last tirade. “You remind me forcibly of an unsavory schoolmaster I once had. How he enjoyed waving his ruler. Give a petty character a little power, and it goes to his head. Don’t worry, I shan’t trouble you again about this pittance of mine that is temporarily in your control.”
“If it is such a pittance, it is strange that you make regular attempts to get hold of it,” she retorted.
“As I said, I shan’t trouble you again.”<
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He stood back and made an elegant bow, his eyes just glancing off the poker in her hand. “That weapon is unnecessary, ma’am. I never strike a lady, however strong the temptation.”
“Something new for you to resist a temptation!” she said, and slammed the door in his face. She went on trembling knees back to the saloon. Violet slept soundly through it all. Lettie heard Havergal stride to the carriage. She heard him bark a few angry commands to his servants, heard the carriages roll down the drive, and sank onto the sofa, exhausted, still holding the poker. She didn’t light the lamps, as she wanted concealment. She wasn’t crying, but her eyes felt moist from the aftermath of the ordeal.
She was spent, but she had said what she wished to say and didn’t regret a word of it. This should put an end to Havergal’s importunities. She need not examine the mail for a franked letter every time it was handed to her. She need not go in fear that Havergal discover L. A. Beddoes was a lady. He knew it now, but she doubted he would try to put anything over on her again.
She jiggled Violet’s elbow and said, “He’s gone, Violet. We can retire now.”
Violet sat up, yawning. “Oh, did you speak to him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Just the sort of thing we expected, but I put him straight. We’ll discuss it in the morning. Let us go upstairs now.” She put away the poker and closed the window, all in the dark, then assisted Violet, who was still half-asleep, upstairs.
Lettie thought sleep would come easily now that she had settled the troublesome question of Lord Havergal. She regretted that her dinner party and the assembly would be without its two noble guests. A duke and a viscount would have added a certain dash to them. Havergal was right about one thing. She had enjoyed taking him on the strut. How her friends had stared! And how they would gossip when word of the lightskirts made the rounds.
As to the rest of his tirade, it was pure nonsense. Saying she didn’t know how to enjoy life. She took what enjoyment she could from the small society of the neighborhood. Not everyone had a fortune, a title, and all of London at her feet. She allowed that such perquisites might be enough to turn a young man’s head. But that was no excuse for profligacy on the scale practiced by Lord Havergal.
* * * *
Lord Havergal felt more shame than anger by the time he was in his carriage and on his way to the village. He decided not to put up at the Royal Oak with Crymont. No point adding to the gossip that was no doubt already in circulation. He could disassociate himself somewhat from Cherry and Iona if he at least put up at a different inn. He was the only one who was actually staying with the Beddoes and whose behavior reflected directly on the household.
It was three o’clock by the time he was in his room, but he knew there would be no sleep for him. Miss Beddoes’s insults were like thorns in his skin. The sting was sharper for the element of truth in them. Of course the woman was a shrew to be quizzing his servants, but still he regretted that he had left such a poor impression behind him. In her anger she might write to his papa. He was already in poor aroma in that quarter after blowing Uncle Eustace’s legacy.
A simple country lady was naturally scandalized at the carrying on of young bucks. He always made a point to behave when he visited his papa and meant to present an equally respectable face at Laurel Hall. Damn Crymont anyway. No one asked him to come along, bringing his wine and wenches and trouble with him. Crymont was half his trouble when you came down to it. He realized that for a childish excuse as soon as it entered his head. But he would definitely drop Crymont.
“... trying to prolong your Childhood into old age. No sense of responsibility, no thought for your future, your character, your family.” How often he had heard his papa deliver the same lecture, but this was the first time he had heard the words from a lady, and they troubled him. Damn, youth was the time for sowing wild oats. Everyone knew that. He was still young. He thought Miss Beddoes quite a middle-aged lady though, and she was approximately the same age as himself—twenty-seven. Perhaps he was getting a little old for these pranks. He was three years younger than Crymont in any case.
Crymont was an irreclaimable wastrel. Why did he choose to chum around with the duke? It displeased his father. And it got himself into more hot water than was comfortable. Yes, it was time to put some distance between Crymont and himself. This latest escapade made a good excuse. Crymont knew he was angry with him. He would not hasten to heal the breach. He would only run into greater debt if he kept associating with Crymont and his wild set.
In fact, he might bite the bullet and choose a wife this Season. Twenty-seven seemed a good time for it. He would not choose his bride from any of his current friends. Like all dashers, he preferred a lady of unsullied reputation for matrimony. Almack’s was the place to look—if they’d let him in, that is to say. There had been some unpleasantness with Mrs. Drummond Burrell last Season over a clandestine game of faro on the premises—again Crymont’s work—but Lady Jersey would vouch for him.
As to his gambling debts, he could not approach Papa at this time. He must sell off some of his horseflesh. A man didn’t need two teams for his carriage and could make do with one hunter and one hacker. His bloods would bring a good price at Tatt’s. If he stayed away from the gambling clubs and away from Crymont, he could see it through the Season without troubling his father for more money.
It might be rather amusing to try to skim along on less money. He didn’t require any additions to his wardrobe. Papa carried all the expenses of the house in Berkeley Square, including the annual ball that traditionally closed the Season. He also hired a box at Covent Garden, and for the rest of it—invitations to balls, routs, and assemblies were free for the accepting. Why, a man could live on next to nothing if he put his mind to it.
Yes, by Jove, he’d give it a try. He had felt good that morning when he woke early after an early and largely abstemious night. It would be pleasant not to wake with a fuzzy head, a dry throat, and a vague worry as to how he had misspent his night. He might start a whole new regime: morning rides in Rotten Row where he’d meet all the debs, afternoon drives in the park and social calls, polite parties at night. And it would keep him clear of Crymont.
The only pity of it was that Miss Beddoes would not hear of his having turned over a new leaf....
Chapter Nine
The last that was heard from the noble visitors to Ashford was a note from the Duke of Crymont, delivered at noon the following day by His Grace’s footman. The duke penned a pretty apology, taking blame for the whole imbroglio and begging Miss Beddoes’s pardon. He implored that she not blame Lord Havergal for anything but an excess of eagerness to oblige his friend. Lord Havergal, he stressed, was not aware that the females in question were coming to town and had tried to avoid meeting them. It was the duke himself who had left wine for the servants. No note was received from Lord Havergal.
“At least one of them is a gentleman,” Lettie sniffed, after scanning His Grace’s note. “Havergal has conned Crymont into taking all the blame. I think we might ask Tom to call on the duke without fear, Violet, when he goes to London.”
Violet read the note and agreed heartily. “Indeed, he might. The duke is very polite. And as you said, Lettie, why should he have come scrambling all the way to Ashford if Havergal had not asked him to? He could have consorted with those women in London. It was all Havergal’s doing, though I’m sure he meant no harm. Youthful enthusiasm, you know, and London habits,” she said forgivingly. Lettie just looked at her askance.
Such infamous carrying on as the noblemen had treated Ashford to was much discussed and analyzed. The gossip lent some liveliness to an otherwise uneventful dinner party the next evening. Mrs. Smallbone had learned from the proprietor of the Royal Oak what viands the party of four had consumed at their orgy, and what wines accompanied it. “Nothing but champagne, which the duke brought with him, and a good thing he did, too, for the Royal Oak would have nothing to equal it, I warrant.”<
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The absence of the duke and the viscount from the assembly was felt severely. The local ladies, in particular, were reduced to a pulp, for they had been looking forward to being seduced in such high style. It was whispered behind raised hands that Miss Beddoes was jealous as a green cow, and what did she expect? That she could bribe Lord Havergal into marrying her only because she held his purse strings? Mr. Norton’s sorrow was no less than the ladies’. “I think you were a bit hard on the lads, Miss Lettie” was his comment.
He was resplendent in a new evening suit for the assembly. A jacket of sapphire blue velvet set out a mile on his wadded shoulders. In his cravat a ruby twinkled, as like to Crymont’s as was available in Ashford.
“I wanted to discuss pig racing with Havergal,” he said disconsolately, “It sounded an excellent new notion to me. He was to call on me at the swinery. I would have taken him to Norton Knoll for dinner, of course,” he added. “I have even put in a bid on the Chester White. I shall write the viscount to learn the ins and outs of it all. With no jockeys, there must be some method of holding the swine at the starting gate and getting them started. Could you give me his address, Miss Lettie? I’ll invite him for a visit.”
After several efforts to dissuade him, Lettie could see no way out of it and gave him the address.
“If, by any chance, Lord Havergal accepts your invitation, I pray you will not bring him to call on me,” she said.
“You were too hard on the lad, Miss Lettie. The royals will have their fun.”
“Lord Havergal is not a member of the royal family,” she pointed out.
“Just so. I meant the nobility, of course. Samething, so far as social doings go. They all take theirlead from the prince. I heard the ladies in questionwere the height of fashion. A blonde and a redhead.”
“I have not heard of the prince racing pigs,” Lettie said dampingly.
