“If you care to join me in here, Aunt Euphemia, I believe we have things to discuss.”
“Bethia!” Lady Clovyle said, hastening back into the room where she had so recently spoken with the enigmatic Mr. Rendel. “Thank the dear Lord you are safe.”
But as soon as she shut the door and turned to face Bethia, her eyes widened in horror. “Dearest child, whatever can you be thinking of? That gown is quite outmoded and a most unbecoming color. I can only hope that no one has seen you dressed in such a ... a...”
The look of scorn on her niece’s face made the words of reproach die in her throat.
Feeling the tiniest bit guilty—although in truth it was not at all her fault that her niece had chosen to disappear without a word to anyone—Lady Clovyle pulled together the shreds of her composure and said, “You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady.”
Her voice was not so firm as she might have wished, but that was not to be wondered at. Her niece could not possibly understand how she had suffered, being left behind to try to stave off the gossips.
Feeling much put out, she continued, “While you have been out jaunting around the countryside doing heaven knows what, I have been in a veritable agony of nerves not knowing what to tell people. And here you return with that dreadful man, who told me such ridiculous stories, I cannot know what to believe. Never would I have suspected you had it in you to be that inconsiderate of me. Already I can feel palpitations coming on. Have you had no thought for the worries you have been causing me?” She tottered over to a chair and sank down in it.
Looking not the least bit repentant, Bethia said, “In the last few days I have been bound and gagged and lowered out my window on the end of a rope. I have had drugged wine poured down my throat, and then been cast into the sea to drown. I have also watched while the two men who were paid to kill me were themselves killed. Rather than to have wasted your time worrying about my reputation, you would have done better to have hired a Bow Street runner to try to find me. As it is, Mr. Rendel saved my life, and if he had not been there, you would never have seen me alive again.”
“I cannot believe,” Lady Clovyle said, her head now splitting from the pain, “that you—”
“I care not what you believe,” her niece said, looking mulishly stubborn. “Whether you wish to acknowledge it or not, one of my mother’s cousins is trying to kill me!” As if that statement were not preposterous enough, she added, “And whether he meets with your approval or not, Mr. Rendel is the man I am going to marry.” And with those astounding words, Bethia virtually ran out of the room.
Lady Clovyle sat where she was, too flabbergasted to move. Whatever had happened to her niece in the last week, it had wrought an unfortunate change in her personality. Not that she herself believed for a moment that Bethia had been kidnapped. Why, in all her years she had never even heard of a properly brought-up young lady being abducted, at least not against her will.
There was, unfortunately, no such problem with believing that Bethia had indeed eloped with the thoroughly unsuitable Mr. Rendel. Flighty young girls had been doing that for time out of mind. Fortunately, so long as she was safely home again, and provided no one had actually seen the two of them together, it would be possible to work around that problem.
An ill-advised marriage with a stranger was not, however, the desired solution, and so Lady Clovyle intended to inform Bethia—just as soon as the poor child recovered from her ordeal, of course. There was no point, after all, in trying to reason with someone whose nerves were clearly overset and whose wits were patently disordered.
Her headache quite diminished, Lady Clovyle rang for Uppleby and instructed him to have hot tea sent up to her niece. Then she mounted the stairs to her own room, where she instructed the maid to close the curtains. Then reclining on her chaise longue, she contemplated the immediate future.
In one respect Bethia was right—it was indeed high time she was married. And once she was in a calmer frame of mind, the two of them could sit down and decide which of her suitors—her acceptable suitors—it would be best to encourage.
It was indeed unfortunate that Bethia could not be brought to favor one of her cousins, but then young girls could often not see the advantages of taking a much older husband. She herself had married a man forty years older than she was, and consequently she had only had to endure seven years of marriage before she became a widow, which was without question the most desirable state a female could aspire to.
But as was so often the case, the younger generation did not wish to learn from the wisdom of their elders.
Bethia knew she should be overjoyed to be home again, safe in her own room, wearing her own clothes, and waited on by Mrs. Drake, the dresser whom Aunt Euphemia had insisted upon hiring for her.
But she had never felt so out of place in her life.
“If you have no objections, I shall have this ... this garment burned.” Using two fingers, Mrs. Drake held up the dress Bethia had been wearing when she had arrived home.
Bethia had always felt quite intimidated by Mrs. Drake. Only a few years older than Bethia, the dresser had lost her father at Trafalgar and her husband at the Battle of Corunna. Lacking any other close male relatives, she had been forced to go into service to support herself. More gently born than the other servants, she was treated with awe by the servants, and she was absolutely inflexible when it came to matters of style.
“I wish to keep it,” Bethia said flatly, amazed at her own temerity. “See that it is cleaned and then hang it in my wardrobe.”
Mrs. Drake looked at her for a long moment, and by screwing up all her courage, Bethia managed to meet her gaze squarely and without flinching. Finally, the dresser asked, “Do you intend to wear it again? For if you do, I shall be forced to seek employment elsewhere, else my reputation will be ruined.”
Although her mouth did not actually turn up at the corners, there was a smile in her voice and her eyes sparkled, and all at once Bethia felt the tension drain out of her. With a smile she said, “On the other hand, your consequence is so great, according to my aunt, we might instead set a new style. We could call it neoprovincial dowdy.”
This suggestion was too outrageous even for Mrs. Drake, and she could no longer keep a straight face.
“Tell Cook that I shall have supper on a tray in my room,” Bethia said.
Still chuckling, the no-longer-formidable dresser departed with the offending garment, and Bethia began to wander aimlessly around the room, which was large enough to contain Digory’s entire cottage—much too large, in fact, for one single, solitary, and incredibly lonely young lady.
All her anxieties about the future returned, and she found herself also biting her lip to keep from crying. She had never known it was possible to miss someone as much as she missed Digory—never known it would be this painful to be separated from him.
She wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers up around her chin. But what good would that do when there was no one to sit by her bed and hold her hand and tell her stories?
Alone ... alone ... alone ... she could not get past that thought. How would she ever survive without him? Thank goodness they would soon be married. That is, assuming she could obtain her aunt’s permission.
And if she could not?
Fear knotted her stomach and made her tremble all over. What would she do if Aunt Euphemia could not be talked around?
For a moment Bethia felt the same panic she had felt when the water had closed over her head, but then she remembered the wager: If her aunt did not agree to the marriage within one week, Digory had promised he would elope with her to the Continent.
One week, and then one way or another, the two of them would be man and wife—only one week, a mere seven days ... and seven nights...
Looking at the clock on the mantel, Bethia saw that barely an hour had passed since Digory had walked out the front door and vanished into the London crowds.
A most horrifying thought struck her. Suppose he
never returned? Suppose he had never intended to marry her? Perhaps he had felt obligated to see her safely home, but then nothing more. How could she ever find him in London?
Then she remembered Lady Letitia, but just as Bethia was taking a breath of relief, she realized she was clutching at straws. Lady Letitia was Digory’s friend, not hers. If he asked her to, she would doubtless lie through her teeth to protect him—to hide him.
The simple truth was that she had no way of finding Digory if he chose to hide himself from her. She had no idea where—other than somewhere in Cornwall—he lived. His cottage was close to the sea, but then her grandfather had once told her there was no place in Cornwall that was more than fifteen miles from the sea.
She did not even know which town or city he lived near, because they had wandered around on back lanes until they were well into Devon.
Had they really kept off the major post roads to avoid detection by her cousin? Or had Digory wanted her to be confused, unable under any circumstances to find her way back to that little cottage?
“You are being irrational,” she scolded herself.
But reason told her it was illogical to expect any man to agree on such a slight acquaintance to marry a woman he barely knew. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that she would never see him again.
Her aunt, of course, probably thought that Digory was a fortune hunter, out to marry an heiress. But Bethia could only wish such were the case. Then, at least, she would be assured that he would not jilt her.
A light tap came at the door, and Aunt Euphemia entered, a smile on her face. “Oh, good, you are looking quite pale and wan. How clever of you to manage it, my dear. Anyone seeing you like this will be quite willing to believe that you have spent the last week in bed.”
The mention of bed was unfortunate, since it brought to Bethia’s mind memories of Digory—memories that might be all she would ever have of him.
“I have been thinking about it, dearest Bethia, and I have decided that the best thing is for you to be seen in public again, but not doing anything so strenuous as shopping or being fitted for a new dress, although Madame Arnault did send word yesterday—or was it the day before yesterday?—well, it doesn’t matter precisely when—although now that I think about it, it must have been Friday, because Saturday all I got was a letter from my goddaughter—”
Bethia interrupted her aunt, who could prose on for hours. “I am not going out this afternoon or this evening. In fact, I intend to stay in this room until after I have married Mr. Rendel.”
Her aunt’s right eye twitched, but other than that, she gave no indication that she had heard a word Bethia said. “I think the card party at the Craigmont’s would be best for our purposes. Lady Craigmont has assured me that it will be quite an intimate gathering. You will not find any other young people there, which is a pity, because all those delightful young men you have cast your spell over will be much distressed that they cannot dance with you again, but I should not want you to overdo and have a relapse. And there is no point in rushing things. Tomorrow’s ball at the Feathergills’ will be soon enough. Although if your temperature becomes elevated by this evening’s entertainment, perhaps it would be best to postpone dancing until Wednesday evening at Almack’s, which is not to say that you would have to forgo the Feathergill’s ball entirely, just that you might wish to sit out the dancing.”
Aunt Euphemia was apparently determined to erase from her memory—and from Bethia’s memory—all the events that did not conform to her rules of proper behavior.
“No,” Bethia said tiredly. “No, I am not going to the card party. No, I am not going to the dance at the Feathergills’ house. No, I am not going to Almack’s.”
Her aunt opened her mouth to say something more, but I Bethia forestalled her. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Have I made myself perfectly clear? No, no, no! I can repeat it if you did not understand it. No, no, no, no—”
“That is quite enough,” Aunt Euphemia said, looking vexed. “One would think you did not even know the word ‘yes.’”
“Ask me if I intend to marry Mr. Rendel, and you will hear that word.”
“If you mention that man’s name again, I shall send for the doctor, for the only explanation that I can think of for such obstinate behavior is that you are suffering from a brain fever.”
“And if the doctor agrees with you, then I am sure he will insist that I stay in my room,” Bethia said with a smile.
Her aunt attempted to scowl back at her, but finally she too could not refrain from smiling. “Well, if you are absolutely positive that you wish to remain at home, then I shall send a note to Madame Amault, and she can do your fittings here.”
“That is a splendid idea,” Bethia said. “I believe with very few alterations, my new pale gold walking dress will be eminently suitable for a wedding dress.”
Before her aunt could reply—and from the expression on her face, it was obvious that she intended to protest vigorously—there was loud knocking at the door—not a scratching or a light tapping, but a pounding that made the door positively shake.
Hurrying across the room, Bethia opened the door and found herself face-to-face with Uppleby. Crowding close behind her butler was Little Davey, who smiled and winked at her.
Bethia’s relief was overwhelming. All the time she had been arguing with her aunt, a niggling little voice in the back of her mind had kept repeating, “How will you ever find Digory if he chooses not to be found?”
But surely Little Davey would not be here if Digory intended to vanish out of her life. So long as this overly large, genial young smuggler was here, Bethia could put aside her fears that she would never see her very own dearly beloved smuggler again.
Her butler, however, was looking neither relieved nor happy nor reassured. Instead he seemed to be quite offended. “I regret the need to bother you, miss, but this man barged right in without waiting for me to consult you. He is making some ridiculous claim that he has been instructed to change all the locks in the house—”
“Nay, I never said that,” Little Davey protested. “It is Mr. Donovan here who is the locksmith.”
A tiny man wearing eyeglasses poked his head around Little Davey and politely tipped his hat.
“As a matter of fact,” Little Davey said, clapping the butler on the shoulder, “I am here because I have always wanted to be a footman.”
Neither Uppleby nor her aunt, who appeared to be shocked into silence, seemed to find his statement amusing, but it was all Bethia could do not to laugh out loud. “I am not sure we have any livery large enough to fit you,” she said.
Hearing a moan behind her, Bethia turned to see that her aunt was now a sickly shade of green.
“Surely, my dearest Bethia, you do not seriously intend to employ this ... this person as a footman in this house?”
“Of course not, Aunt Euphemia. He was only joking.”
“Well, someone should tell him that his attempt at levity is sorely misplaced.”
“Shall I summon the watch to have him removed?” Uppleby said, his face all pinched up with distaste for the intruder.
“That will not be necessary,” Bethia said. “You see, I have hired this gentleman to be my personal bodyguard.” Now it was the butler who turned green.
Chapter Eight
Matthew, Viscount Edington, had already removed his jacket, and his valet was in the process of untying his neckcloth, when there was a light tapping at the door, followed after only a perfunctory pause by the butler, who entered the room rather nervously.
“Yes, what is it?” Matthew said crossly. The hour was far too advanced for him to wish to deal with any petty household affair. Moreover, on the way home from the opera, his wife had volunteered to rub his bad leg. Not only was her touch capable of soothing the pain of his old wounds, but more important, whenever she massaged his leg, it invariably led to other, even more enjoyable activities in bed.
“Beg pardon, m’lord, but the
re is a man below who wishes to speak with you.”
“At this hour? Why are you even bothering me with this? Tell him to come back in the morning—and not before eleven o’clock, either, if you please.”
“I suggested as much, m’lord, but—”
“But what?”
“He said he prefers to discuss his business—though he declined to state what that business might be—during the dark hours of the night, which sounds rather havey-cavey if you ask me.” The butler cleared his throat and glanced sideways, apparently realizing too late that Matthew had not asked for his opinion.
His tone once more properly deferential, the servant continued, “He instructed me to tell you his name is Rendel—Digory Rendel—and he insisted that you would see him no matter what the hour.”
“Good Lord, of course I’ll see him.” Matthew started toward the door, inadvertently dragging along the valet, who seemed in some way to be attached to his neckcloth. Impatiently shaking himself free, Matthew strode down the corridor. “Where have you put Mr. Rendel?”
“He is w-waiting outside the t-tradesmen’s entrance,” the butler said, and he got a black scowl for having failed to anticipate his master’s wishes better.
“Bring Mr. Rendel to my study at once, and then fetch us some brandy and glasses. And send up one of the footmen to build up the fire, and have Mrs. Wake fix a cold collation in case Mr. Rendel is hungry.”
Although six years had passed since Digory had seen the viscount, Lord Edington looked a good ten years younger than the last time they had been together. To be sure, on that occasion it had still been a toss-up as to whether or not the viscount would survive his wounds.
“Ah, my good friend Digory Rendel, smuggler of first-rate brandy and rescuer of second-rate spies.” With a smile, Lord Edington offered him his hand.
Digory shook the viscount’s hand, but did not return the other man’s smile. What he was doing now, he was forced to do for Miss Pepperell’s sake, but that did not make his task any easier.
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