The Counterfeit Gentleman

by Charlotte Louise Dolan

  “Yes, but who is he?” Vivian Werge was foolish enough to ask.

  Oliver raised his quizzing glass to his eye and inspected the corpulent young man from top to toe. Then his lip curled slightly. “He is my very dear friend. What else is there to know?”

  Brewster snickered self-consciously and earned for himself a turn under the glass, so to speak.

  After that everyone in the box displayed a passionate interest in what was transpiring on the stage, and nothing more was said about the mysterious Mr. Rendel.

  In constant pain and too weak even to raise his head from the pillow, Wilbur Harcourt realized he was now in danger of starving to death. As near as he could estimate, considering that he had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the whole time, it had been at least two and a half days since his brothers had attacked him, and about a day and a half since he had managed to drag himself to his bed.

  After calling for help until his throat was raw, he tried desperately to think of what he might be able to do to attract the attention of the tenants directly below him. He had still not come up with any plan when he heard someone unlocking his door. His life, he realized with relief, was going to be saved merely because he was in arrears with the rent.

  “In here, Mrs. Fettes,” he cried out weakly. “Help me, please, you must help me.”

  “It’s six weeks you owe me for,” she said from the doorway. “I’ll be having what’s due me, or I’ll be turning you out on the street.”

  “Have mercy, my dear woman, for the love of God, have mercy. I am desperately ill, and I have had nothing to eat for days.”

  She crossed her arms above her ample bosom and said, “Ill, is it? With those black eyes it looks to me more like you ran afoul of some debauched female’s cuckolded husband who gave you your just deserts.”

  “My dear woman, if you refuse to bring me food, I shall die in these rooms and then you shall have to testify at the inquest.”

  He could see from the expressions flitting across her face that she was weighing the advantages versus the disadvantages.

  “And then you would never be paid for the amount I am in arrears,” he added, hoping an appeal to her greed would tip the scales in his favor.

  “Very well,” she said, “I’ll go to the market, but first show me the color of your money.”

  “My money?”

  “You don’t think that I am going to charge your food on my accounts, do you?” She let out a cackle and slapped her leg in mirth.

  “Take one of my shirts—they each cost five guineas, so I am sure you can get enough by selling one to purchase a few days’ supply of food for me.” Actually, they had not cost him a farthing, because he had never settled up with his tailor.

  She came into the room and began to paw through his shirts, which were folded neatly and stacked on the shelves he was forced to use as a makeshift chest of drawers. Then having apparently made up her mind, she scooped up two piles, one under each arm.

  “Mrs. Fettes, I only want you to sell one shirt! All I need is some bread and cheese and a bottle or two of ale.”

  “I’ll be having my rent first, my bully boy. And if these shirts don’t bring enough, I’ll be back, you can count on that. Once I have what’s due me, then I may think about bringing you some food.”

  He started to protest, but she looked back at him and said, “That’s presuming, of course, that you can keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  In the end it cost him not only a dozen shirts but also two embroidered waistcoats. He suspected she was cheating him, but at least she did not stint on the food or the ale when she finally brought them to him.

  Indeed, she was quite pleasant when she assured him that she would also be willing to clean his rooms, which were disgustingly filthy, and do his laundry—all for a reasonable fee, of course.

  By the time they returned from the opera, Bethia had the beginnings of a headache. She had never realized how exhausting it was to be on display—to smile and talk and never give any indication that she noticed all the eyes staring at her, all the fingers pointing in her direction. It was indeed a blessing that she had not been able to hear what the gossips were saying, for that she could not have borne.

  But once she was safe in her own room, the tension slid away. Soon she would be in her husband’s arms, and no one could hurt her there.

  “A package came for you while you were out,” Mrs. Drake said as she began to help Bethia out of her dress. “I put it on the bed.”

  “Thank you,” Bethia said, wondering what it might be. She did not normally receive deliveries in the evening, and she knew of no reason why someone should have sent her a present.

  But then she remembered the nightgowns she had ordered, and her face grew warm. Would this be the night when the argument about an annulment was settled once and for all?

  It seemed as if everything her dresser did took twice as long as usual, but finally Mrs. Drake left the room.

  Hurrying to the bed, Bethia picked up the parcel, which was much too lightweight to contain even a shawl.

  Disappointed, she untied the string, unfolded the paper, and discovered she had erred. The package contained not one, but two gossamer creations. The first was palest ivory, as creamy as a baby’s cheek, and the second was the yellow of a sunbeam and just as ethereal.

  They were both the most exquisite examples of stitchery that Bethia had ever seen, as if fairies had done the embroidery. They were every bit as scandalously revealing as Adeline had promised.

  With a sinking heart, Bethia realized that she could not wear any of these garments—not because they were too revealing, but because it would be nothing more nor less than the most dishonorable sort of knavery.

  Perhaps knavery was not the right word to describe feminine wiles, but in any event, she knew she could not deliberately make it more difficult for her husband to spend the night in her bed.

  For a moment she wavered, aware that she possessed the power to bind him to her forever, and yet knowing it was wrong to trick him into consummating a marriage he did not want.

  On the other hand, there was no need to be precipitous about sending these garments to Adeline. As frustrating as her present situation was, things might change. There could come a day when she would be able to wear these lovely gowns with a clear conscience.

  Carefully folding the nightgowns, she consigned them to the very back of the bottom drawer of her chiffonier, where neither her husband nor Mrs. Drake would be apt to discover them.

  With one last sigh for what could not be, she climbed into bed and waited for Digory to join her.

  The following morning Digory rose early. Leaving a note on his pillow so that his wife would not worry, he went for a ride in Hyde Park, where Cavenaugh and Edington had arranged to meet him.

  Digory was a bit early, and he found the park deserted except for a few grooms exercising their master’s horses. He had not long to wait, however, before Edington appeared with Cavenaugh beside him in his curricle.

  They were laughing at something, and looked, in fact, as if this were nothing more than a game—a trifling amusement for whiling away a few idle hours.

  “I was just telling Matthew here about my cousin’s husband, the pompous Sir Percival Palk,” Cavenaugh said when they were close enough for conversation. “He accosted me during the second intermission and said in his usually booming voice, ‘My dear Oliver, pray tell me who this man Rendel is. Why, I have never even heard of him before this week, and one would presume that any friend of yours would be known to me.’ So I replied in an equal bellow, ‘Only if one were highly presumptuous.’ He was quite put to the blush by the amusement of the crowd, and if I am extremely lucky, he may feel constrained to retire to his country estate for a long repairing lease.”

  Digory did not even smile. “I have been thinking of doing that myself.”

  “No!” both his friends cried in unison.

  “Absolutely not,” Edington said.

  �
��The worst possible thing you could do,” Cavenaugh said. “If you vanish from London as abruptly as you appeared, the ton will never stop talking about you.”

  “If you think to persuade me to stay here until the end of the Season, then I must warn you that nothing you say will change my mind. It is too hard on my wife to be the target of such gossip.”

  “You will cease to be of interest just as soon as someone else does something scandalous. In fact, you will slide down into anonymity so quickly, you will be lucky if anyone even remembers your name. And do not attempt to convince me that everyone will be on their best behavior for the rest of the Season, for that horse won’t run.”

  “That is only half the problem,” Digory said. “The other half, as you have so determinedly pointed out to me, is the matter of the wicked cousin. Or have you already determined his identity and neglected to inform me?”

  “Actually Townsley, Nyesmith, and Fitzhugh have been busy little spies while we have been cavorting around town making merry,” Cavenaugh said. “They have discovered that the youngest Harcourt brother—Inigo I believe his name is—was seen on the road to Manchester, and the middle brother was spotted in Dover.”

  “And the oldest brother?” Digory asked.

  “No one has seen hide nor hair of him since the day before the wedding,” Edington said, “but he has doubtless only been more successful at sneaking out of town than the other two. He cannot have stayed, because the tipstaves have been set on him by his creditors—he owes money to half the tradesmen in London if rumors are to be believed.”

  “Which means that as soon as some bored matron runs off with her groom, your problems will all be over,” Cavenaugh said. “Perhaps you could persuade your wife to oblige us, Matthew. If none of your grooms are adequate to the task, I can loan you one of mine. He is a handsome brute, and would be positively irresistible to the ladies if he were decked out in evening wear.”

  With a laugh Edington cuffed him on the shoulder and threatened to make him walk home.

  Digory did not laugh. Cavenaugh’s words had come too near to the truth. What difference was there, after all, between a groom who aped his betters and a bastard ex-smuggler who passed himself off as a gentleman?

  The answer was quite obvious: There was no difference.

  “You are a fool, Digory,” Lady Letitia said. They were sitting together at Almack’s, watching Bethia, who was dancing with Roger Nyesmith. “Your wife has more courage than you give her credit for.”

  “My wife is afraid to be alone at night,” Digory replied. “Without me beside her in bed, she cannot sleep.”

  “Did you hear what you just said?” Lady Letitia asked. “You have just admitted that your wife needs you, and yet you still insist that the marriage must be annulled. I repeat, you are a fool. And you are breaking her heart the same way your father broke your mother’s heart.”

  “The situations are not the same,” Digory said. “By her birthday, if not before, I am sure that Bethia will have found someone else to marry. Nyesmith, or perhaps Cavenaugh—she seems fond of them both. Even Townsley can give her a better life than I ever could.”

  “So you think her that fickle? That having given her heart to you, she should simply take it back and bestow it upon another man? There are women who can do that, but your wife is not one of them.”

  “She may think she loves me, but it is merely gratitude. She feels safe when she is with me; she has told me as much. Beyond that, I suppose she finds it intriguing that I am so different from the other men in her life.”

  “Bah,” Lady Letitia said rudely. “I do not know why I bother with you. I had thought you had at least a modicum of intelligence, but now I begin to think you are as close-minded and stubborn as my first husband.”

  Before he could reply, he heard a commotion coming from the doorway. A crowd was gathering around a newcomer, and with a sinking heart Digory realized that the moment he had been dreading was at hand. The only thing to do was remove Bethia before the crowd became ugly.

  He started to get up, but Lady Letitia caught his arm. “Stay right where you are,” she said sternly.

  He could have shaken her off without difficulty, but he did not find it easy to show disrespect for the old lady who had given him true friendship. On the other hand, his wife now had the right to his first loyalty.

  “I am not going to sit here and allow Bethia to be pilloried for the crowd’s amusement,” he said.

  “The more she hears the offensive remarks people are bound to say, the harder it will be for her to forget.”

  Lady Letitia chuckled. “Such egotism. Do you think you are the only one in London with a secret? Wait until you hear what scandal is brewing before you decide that you must flee the scene.”

  “By then it will be too late.”

  “If I laid you even odds, I could still make a fortune betting that you are not the subject of this latest gossip.” Watching the people by the door, Digory realized that Lady Letitia was undoubtedly correct. Not a single head was turned in his direction.

  Still a bit tense, he settled back into his seat, and a remarkably few minutes later one of Lady Letitia’s cronies hurried over with the news..

  “Lady Hester Hugford has run off to Gretna Green with Captain Trowbridge.”

  “Indeed?” Lady Letitia said mildly.

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Creighton saw them changing horses at the Green Man in Barnet, so there can be no doubt. They say her father and brothers are in hot pursuit, but the lovers have a full four hours head start, so it is quite possible that they will make it. Oh, but there is Mrs. Orlebar signaling to me. I must tell her the news.”

  As soon as her friend was out of earshot, Lady Letitia turned to him and said, “You must not feel bad, my dear boy, for while I freely admit that in matters of smuggling and sailing you are the expert, I will not yield the premier position to anyone when it concerns the follies of society. Therefore, you must believe me when I say you are not to worry. This mad gallop to Scotland will keep idle tongues wagging for at least a sennight, and by the time the elopement is resolved, someone else will have done something to attract the attention of the gossips. In short, my boy, you have just become yesterday’s news.”

  “I bow to your superior wisdom,” Digory said, feeling a vast measure of relief. For the first time since he had come to London, he began to think that this unlikely charade might actually succeed.

  Listlessly Bethia looked at the bronze silk being displayed for her approval by Madame Verseau. “You decide,” she said to Mrs. Drake, who gave her an odd look before beginning to discuss with the modiste the pattern and trimming that might be used to best advantage.

  Bethia wished she had never agreed to this shopping expedition, which she suspected had been suggested by her husband, who could not understand her recurring bouts of apathy.

  When Digory had done so much for her, how could she explain to him that she cared nothing for social acceptance? That with each passing day, she felt more and more estranged from “her world” as he persisted in calling it.

  She had even gone to Lady Letitia for advice, but all her elderly friend had said was that men are different from women—that what is perfectly obvious to a woman is frequently incomprehensible to a man.

  While Bethia could not dispute the truth of that statement, it still left her with no way to change her current situation.

  “Mrs. Rendel?”

  Bethia glanced up to find both Mrs. Drake and the modiste looking at her. “Excuse me, I am afraid I did not hear what you said.”

  “I was telling Madame about the sprigged muslin we purchased last week, and I was sure I had brought along a snippet to show her. But I cannot seem to find it. Did I perchance give it to you?”

  “I do not think so, but I will check.” Opening her reticule, Bethia looked inside. The scrap of fabric was not there—what was there was much worse. Instead of a handkerchief and a few copper coins, her purse now held a folded piece of paper on which
her name was inscribed with bold strokes.

  For a moment she could not move—could not think. Then she heard herself say calmly, “No, I do not seem to have the sample either. I am afraid we must leave it for another day.” With shaking hands she pulled tight the strings of her bag and tried to think what to do.

  Without even reading what was written on the note, she knew it was something wicked—something from the shadowy world where Digory had lived before he married her. The underhanded way the message had been delivered automatically precluded an innocuous note from one of her friends.

  “Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Rendel?” Madame Verseau now inquired solicitously. “You are looking a bit pale.”

  Without hesitation Bethia lied. “I fear I have had too much sun.”

  “Or too many nights dancing until the sun comes up,” Madame said with an approving smile.

  “Well, we have done enough for today,” Mrs. Drake decreed, assisting her to her feet. “I shall instruct Little Davey to fetch a hackney for us, since I can see that you are not up to walking.”

  Bethia wanted to protest—to delay in any way she could the awful moment when she would have to unfold the note and read it. But at the same time, every minute she was forced to remain in ignorance was an eternity of unbearable suspense.

  Silently, she allowed herself to be driven home and helped up to her room, where her dresser soon settled her on the chaise longue, pulling the curtains closed so that the light would not hurt her eyes. Then, just when Bethia thought she must surely be left alone, Mrs. Drake insisted upon laying a handkerchief dampened with lavender water across her forehead. Only then was the dresser willing to leave her alone.

  No sooner did the door close behind her, than Bethia cast off the sweetly scented handkerchief and hurried to her dressing table. Opening her reticule, she removed the note and quickly unfolded it.