by Vanessa Gray
“Penelope Freeland,” said Nell, somewhat stiffly, “has nothing to do with dear Rowland.”
“To think,” mused Lady Sanford, unfortunately aloud, “that he would offer in the end for you!”
Nell was stung. “And why not?” She bristled. “Surely he has a right to make his own choice, and it was not Miss Freeland. He — he has a tendre for me,” said Nell, demurely. “And he is so handsome!”
Nell slipped easily into the dream that had kept her company since she had first seen Lord Foxhall at her aunt’s ball, given in her honor when she first came to London last April. That first glimpse of dear Rowland, coming up the stairs to meet his hostess, had struck her as though with an arrow, and she still marveled at it. Her impression had been then that the god Apollo, the embodiment of physical beauty, had suddenly donned elegant evening clothes and arrived in some inexplicable fashion on her aunt’s staircase.
Stunned by such masculine beauty, she had found in him the substance of secret dreams, both waking and sleeping. Nell’s clear adoration of him, while not obvious to her aunt, was apparent to Lord Foxhall himself. He had to that moment expected to offer for Penelope Freeland, comfortable in the persuasion that she was more than willing to accept him. His certainty that she looked upon him with favor, coupled with her regrettable tendency toward tactless instruction, led him into dilatory ways, and he had not yet declared himself when he saw a pair of speaking gray eyes, fringed with long dark lashes, looking at him with adoration.
Lord Foxhall had moved slowly, but with deliberate intention, to make further acquaintance of this discerning miss, so different from Penelope, who was prone to point out to him his failings.
Nell’s simple worship came as welcome balm to him.
“But you hardly know him!” objected Lady Sanford now.
Under judicious questioning, Nell, with faltering shyness recounted snatches of conversation held with Foxhall over the past weeks. Lady Sanford, past mistress in the interpretation of nuances, at length admitted that Nell, if mistaken, nonetheless had a reason to expect his offer — this very morning!
Now, Nell’s dream had, quite miraculously, come true. The handsome Nonpareil was to be her very own!
“My goodness!” cried Lady Sanford, once more able to speak. “I must say you’ve done well.”
Nell was suddenly practical. “Dear Aunt, pray find a gown more suitable. He may be here any minute!”
Lady Sanford glanced down at her simple poplin morning gown. “Very well,” she agreed, “though it is not I he is concerned with. It will not matter what I wear.” She considered the Incomparable Foxhall for a moment, then added, “A pity, of course.”
“Aunt!”
“All right, child. I shall endeavor not to embarrass you. Though I will admit he is quite the handsomest man I ever saw. But handsome, Nell, is not all there is to be desired in a husband. Sanford was far from a Greek god, you know.”
Nell was not interested in the uncle she had never met. “Do hurry, Aunt!”
Phrynie was caught up in Nell’s impatience. She did re-fleet, as she hurried up the stairs to change, that she would not be in the least surprised if Nell had been enchanted by moonbeams and simply misunderstood Foxhall. It was quite beyond anything that a prime catch could be interested in a modest heiress like Nell.
Loyalty chided Lady Sanford. Nell was quite as well born as, for instance, Penelope Freeland, and there was no reason on earth why Nell did not deserve to become a countess, one day. Phrynie was a woman of the world, however, and she was aware of a lingering element of strong disbelief, not to say cynicism, in her apparent acceptance of the prospective betrothal.
Nonetheless, obedient to Nell’s sensibilities, she changed into a gown of gray India muslin with pale green satin stripes, primly suitable for the occasion of speaking to a niece’s prospective betrothed. She had just reached the entrance hall when Foxhall arrived.
Nell, peeping from the breakfast room, was gratified to see that Whitcomb, who had not turned a hair when announcing the flamboyant figure of the Prince Regent, was stunned by the exalted personage who was just now arriving.
Lord Foxhall illuminated the foyer. Handing his damp hat and gloves to a footman summoned by Whitcomb, he stood at his ease, his golden hair forming a kind of halo around his head. He was knowledgeable in the manner of presenting himself — not for the Foreign Office was the exotic cravat, the extreme cut of a coat lapel, the adaptation of the newest fashions.
Instead, Lord Foxhall appeared in public in the most costly but exceedingly conservative coat that Weston could prove. His neckcloth of superfine linen fell in simple folds, and Hoby’s boots wore a mirror-like polish.
“Is Lady Sanford at home?” he asked.
“I will inquire, my lord.”
As Lady Sanford crossed the black-and-white-tiled foyer, she shot a conspiratorial glance at her niece, smoothed her own still beautiful features into a suitable expression, and passed through into the green salon to greet her guest.
After an agony of waiting, Nell was rewarded by seeing the salon door open and her aunt emerge. Lady Sanford’s expression was unreadable, but her gesture was imperative. Nell hurried to her.
“Go in,” said Lady Sanford. “Lord Foxhall —” She drew a deep breath, rallying from the interview just past. “He wishes to speak with you.”
Nell floated through the salon door, Whitcomb closed the door softly behind her and, with the privilege of an old and valued servant, joined his mistress to wait the outcome in the breakfast room.
Nell was alone for the second time with her beloved Rowland.
“My dear Miss Aspinall. May I dare — Elinor?” said the golden Lord Foxhall.
Golden was the right word, she thought once more. His hair was the color of liquid sunshine poured down upon a nobly shaped head.
The Paragon took her cold hand in his. “Dear Elinor,” he repeated, “I have sought your aunt’s permission to make my offer to you.”
When he did not continue, she looked at him with dismay.
Her mouth was suddenly dry. “Surely my aunt did not disapprove?”
“Not at all,” said Lord Foxhall, secure in the conviction that any mother or chaperone would not dare to refuse him. “But of course you realize that before I speak to you I must speak to the head of your family.”
Her wits scattered down the wind. “Head? Surely you cannot mean Tom?” She had for so long not considered Tom seriously that it required a swift mental readjustment. “Of course, Tom.”
She loved her older brother dearly, but she was fully aware that he failed in many ways to behave in a satisfactory manner. For instance, just now, of all times! She did not know precisely where he was.
This was not an extraordinary circumstance. More often than not, she did not know his whereabouts, nor when he would reappear with an insouciant smile and a regrettable lack of explanation.
“But Tom has nothing to say to the purpose,” she said, just short of a wail. “It is my aunt —”
“Of course,” said Lord Foxhall, gently chiding. “But we must do all in the most proper way, don’t you know. I should not like to chance your good opinion of me by speaking to you prematurely. I am persuaded that any impetuosity on my part would lower me in your estimation.”
She could not find words to protest. It is doubtful whether he would have heeded her, for he bored ahead. “I should not wish you to consider me as prone to follow my own wishes to the detriment of the respect I shall hope you have for me. If I am to prove worthy of the great privilege I dare to aspire to — at the proper time, of course — I must convince you that I am worthy of your regard.” He smiled gently and added, “I am sure I do not have to tell you that I must speak to your brother. When may I call upon him?”
“B-but I don’t know where he is!”
A flicker of an undefined emotion could be discerned on Lord Foxhall’s features. Probably, thought Nell with a sinking feeling, it was disapproval of such havey-cavey manage
ment of family affairs.
“Oh,” said the diplomatist. “I regret that his absence must of necessity postpone any formal offer on my part, for I must depart for Vienna at once. Tomorrow, in point of fact. But I am sure you are aware of my deep regard for you, and we must trust that my position may be regularized as soon as possible.”
“Your position?” echoed Nell. “Soon?”
She wished that her voice had not given her the appearance of pleading with him.
“As soon as I return from Vienna. That should not be above two months. We must get Europe settled, you know,” he added with kindly condescension, “before we can pursue our own happiness.”
He bestowed one of his more brilliant smiles on her, kissed her fingers, and was gone. She watched his elegant figure as far as his carriage standing before the door.
Only then did she allow the pent-up strain of the last hours to overwhelm her, and she collapsed into a chair and abandoned herself to the racking sobs of disappointment.
Her aunt, rushing into the salon almost before the outer door closed on Foxhall’s back, was stunned. “You didn’t refuse him, Nell? He did offer, didn’t he? Nell, what happened?”
Finally, Nell recovered sufficiently to speak, not entirely coherently. “No, Aunt, I didn’t refuse. In truth, he didn’t precisely offer.”
“He didn’t? But he told me —”
“He told me too. He said — he said I was sure of his regard. He said that his position would be regularized when he got back from — from Vienna! But he didn’t offer because he didn’t have Tom’s permission!”
“He’s been too long in the Foreign Office. I vow they wrap themselves in red tape before they go to bed.”
“He is so entirely proper, you know.”
Lady Sanford struggled with disbelief. “Tom?”
“Of course not. Rowland. He does not wish to lose my regard.”
Lady Sanford thought that she could detect the slightest hint of irritation in Nell’s voice, with reason. It would be most unsettling to have one’s expectations raised to the highest pitch and then see them thwarted over a trivial point of civility.
“Where is Tom?” wondered his aunt. “We must send for him at once!”
Nell could not agree more strongly.
Where, when she needed him most, was Tom?
Chapter Four
On that same rainy forenoon, John Darcy, Duke of Whern, stood at a window overlooking the miniscule back garden of his town house on Duke Street. The house had not been opened since his grandfather’s day, not even when the present duke made his unobtrusive return from the Peninsular Wars at least three months ago.
Whernwas a stranger to London society. He had not always been so, but what was correctly rumored as a broken romance, five years before, had driven him into the army, where Wellington found him an invaluable member of his staff, particularly in connection with ascertaining, by means that no one questioned, the intentions of the enemy.
At first, he had plunged into battle in the forefront of his regiment, expecting, even hoping to be killed. Daily he summoned to his mind’s eye the features of the faithless belle who gave him every encouragement until a suitor more eligible came upon the scene.
Clearly, the prospect of an earldom once removed was more enticing to her than a thrice-removed dukedom.
Wellington had plucked him from the line to form a badly needed intelligence service. It was at that time that he learned of the unexpected demise of the two kinfolk standing between him and the dukedom, followed swiftly by the death of the duke himself.
Upon thoughtful consideration of whether he should by letter renew his suit of the lady in his dreams, he found he no longer experienced the slightest feeling for her. In fact, where his love and bitterness had mingled in him, there was left only an echoing emptiness.
Grateful for an exacting job, he plunged into the world of intelligence — also called spying — with renewed diligence.
Now, back in London, his devious habits of secrecy, acquired under stress, held him captive. He could not contemplate with anything approaching equanimity a return to what he considered a frivolous way of life. After all, when one frequently faces the strong probability of being blown apart in the next moment by Napoleonic grapeshot, one discovers a wonderfully altered philosophy of what is important.
On his return to London, therefore, he had not even called on the Duchess of Netwick. He knew where his duty lay, but he was reluctant to face his godmother’s ungentle quizzing. Perhaps, when he finished this last chore handed him by his government, he would make his way to Gloucester Place, with the news that he was leaving the intelligence service and retiring to his Cumberland estate.
But not quite yet. There was the parcel on the table behind him to be dealt with first.
As he looked out at the silver rain slanting down on the gray and brown of the dead winter garden the duke appeared to be an unremarkable man. His stature was not above the average, nor was his figure unusually graceful. In fact, an observer might call him stocky and even recognize the great strength that lay in him.
His hair was light brown, his nose somewhat out of the straight thanks to a mischancy rifle blow somewhere near Salamanca. His eyes were his best feature. Humor lurked in their hazel depths more often than not.
This day, the first of November, his thoughts were as leaden as the sky. His hearing was acute, and his reflexes extraordinarily swift. The slight sound behind him caused him to whirl and drop his hand to his hip, glaring at the man who had just entered. Then, recognizing him, the duke visibly relaxed.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Arthur, not to steal in like that? Had I had my pistol…” He forced a laugh. “You are perfectly safe, you know. I do not intend to carry a pistol again no matter what the provocation.”
Arthur Haveney, the duke’s aide and friend, murmured shakily, “I suppose you’ll never need to arm yourself again, now that the little emperor of the French is safely away on Elba. Although I must say I would rather see you armed to the teeth than take my chances with our county militia.” He shuddered. “I understand from my father that Wolcott had the men from your estate marching up and down the green, shouldering their pikes and scythes in a most belligerent manner. I vow they would be more menace than Bony himself.”
Whern laughed. “Just the same, they would have done the French a good deal of mischief, had it come to invasion.”
Arthur Haveney looked at the other with concealed affection. Whern had saved his life, more than once, and Arthur had pulled him away from the battle lines when the duke was bleeding from nose and mouth and had lost his senses. But those events were the result, rather than the cause, of the bond that secured the two. Brought up together on the Whern estate, Haveney, the son of the vicar, and the heir to the dukedom took their studies together, and their pleasures as well.
Arthur, close as a shadow, had gone with John Darcy to the peninsula as though following his leader to a self-imposed exile. Their thoughts now running, as often they did, along the same road, Whern said, “Arthur, do you feel as sadly dislodged from society as I do?”
“I never was a member of the ton, you know.”
“More fool the ton. But I meant civilization as a whole. Do you think we can ever fit in again?”
“We must, John, or remove ourselves to one of Captain Cook’s islands.”
“I believe they are quite attractive,” mused the duke.
It was unthinkable, thought Haveney, that he would ever feel in the least censorious of John Darcy, who was closer than a brother to him. But just now it did cross his mind that his friend’s exalted title meant duties that must not be shirked.
As though Whern read his mind, he said, “How much am I worth, Arthur?”
“W-worth?”
“I mean in income, idiot. Enough to snare some lady willing to wed me?”
“I should think so,” said Arthur stoutly, mentally adding that any woman who did not leap at the duke’s offer
was more than a little pea-witted.
Whern turned from the window. His speaking eyes held a light that his friend deplored. Apparently the defection five years before of Miss Penelope Freeland had left a mark that would never be erased.
Arthur, standing by helplessly at that time, had all but sickened of worry over his friend’s rejection. If Miss Freeland had known that the two hitherto husky males who stood squarely between Lord John Darcy and the dukedom would succumb, one after the other, perhaps she would not have turned his offer down. Arthur would not be at all surprised if the lady tried her hand with the duke again.
“There you are, Arthur. Title and wealth — that’s what it takes. Do you suppose that…” He was clearly going to utter that certain name, but altered his direction in midsentence. “That any society miss would fetch water and powder to the guns?”
“The way they did at Valladolid?”
Silence fell, while both contemplated the subject of women. The duke in his cynical way allowed his lip to curl, while Arthur, remembering a smiling pair of liquid brown eyes in the face of a volunteer gun server, smiled in reminiscence.
Whern shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, well, not likely that a duchess will find much reason to slog powder to the guns in Cumberland, eh, Arthur? Enough of this at any rate. We’ve got to do this one last errand for the cause of freedom, and then we can retire to Cumberland.”
“Retire, John? And then?”
“Don’t tell me you will miss this — this hole in the corner of London?” He waved his hand, indicating the confined quarters that had been, in the ordinary way, merely a sitting room for his grandfather’s servants.
“No, I shan’t.” Arthur chose his words carefully. “Shall you be content to settle down and breed Herdwick sheep on the fells?”
Whern laughed in genuine amusement. “As well as you, my friend. And it’s time, you know, to put away this skulking business. While Wellington was carrying on, it was worthwhile. Our information saved the lives of our men many times over. And the opportunities for travel, Arthur! Although the next time I venture into France and Germany it will not be, God willing, in the guise of a skulking rogue following the Emperor’s armies.”
