Lysander's Lady

by Patricia Ormsby

  ‘Your horses?’ she suggested. ‘The bays are so renowned that—’

  ‘I wasn’t driving my bays. At least, they were bay horses, but youngsters I had bought lately.’

  ‘Would anyone know the difference in the half-light?’

  He stared at her. ‘Jane, you may well have the answer. But no, I’ll not believe it.’

  ‘Your race against Lord Wayleigh?’

  He grimaced. ‘Jack’s told you, then? No matter, it will be generally known before long. But for Wayleigh to do such a thing—no, even for him it would go against the pluck.’

  ‘And then send his brother to follow upon the deed and ensure you were not mortally hurt?’

  ‘For if I died the race must be declared void? Again, no. I’ll swear young Trennick was innocent of any implication. He knew nothing of the matter until I told him.’

  ‘What was he doing on that road?’

  ‘Taking a short cut, he told me.’ Mr. Derwent held his much abused head in both hands and tried to think coherently.

  ‘Do not trouble yourself about it now,’ she advised him. ‘In any case, there will be many others who will have an interest in your race besides the principals.’

  ‘You mean those who have laid heavy bets on its outcome? True enough,’ he sighed.

  ‘You did say last night before you—you succumbed, that one of your assailants had a stammer and you fancied you recognised his voice.’

  ‘Yes, but I cannot recall who it might be.’

  ‘I wonder if Miss Honeywell could,’ mused Lady Glendower. ‘She was quick to suggest that you must be all about in your head, but I thought her expression somewhat troubled.’ At mention of the lady’s name, Mr. Derwent’s expression also became somewhat troubled and, seeing his kindling eye, she gently removed the empty gruel cup from his grasp. ‘Try fora little sleep,’ she urged him. ‘It will do you more good than anything.’

  But he lay awake long after she had left him, and to judge by the cast of his countenance, his thoughts were not pleasant ones.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Lady Sophia Trennick stood by a window of the saloon in her father’s London house, playing nervously with the fringe of her shawl and watching some children bowling their hoops in the square outside. The door to the hall opened a few cautious inches then, having satisfied himself that she was alone, Lord Francis entered quickly.

  ‘They’re being an immensurable time, ain’t they?’ he complained. ‘What can be the delay, I wonder? Surely Derwent’s not being difficult about the settlements!’

  ‘Why should he not?’ Her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible.

  ‘Oh, he’s so full of juice it can’t signify—that ain’t why he’s offering for you. Come to think on’t, why is he offering for you? Hasn’t a tendre for you, has he? Can’t conceive of it,’ he added with brotherly candour. ‘When all’s said, he has the pick of the ton to choose from. Still, there’s no accounting for tastes, and at least you don’t squint like a bag of nails.’ This qualified encomium drew an unwilling smile from his sister and he swept on. ‘Tell you one thing, Sophy, you’d best smarten up your dress if he takes you—that washed-out blue don’t help you at all!’

  ‘Aunt Mary thought it suitable,’ she said doubtfully, smoothing down her discreet muslin gown.

  ‘What does she know of pleasing a man?’ he asked scornfully. ‘She’s never had one.’

  Sophia was tempted to speak out in defence of the spinster aunt who had cared for her since her own gentle mother had loosed her tenuous hold on life and slipped away, almost without her robust family noticing her going. But the self-effacing habit of years asserted itself and she said nothing.

  Tall and willowy, with fine narrow hands and feet and delicately patrician features, the Duke of Edmonton’s youngest daughter looked every inch the well-bred lady she was. Her silver-gilt hair was drawn severely back from a countenance which, though classically perfect, was almost totally lacking in animation, and her clear hazel eyes were as often as not veiled by downcast lids.

  Accustomed from childhood to being overruled by two domineering elder sisters and ignored by her father and brothers, she had learned to seek refuge in silent submission, rarely venturing to express an opinion that had not first been approved by her seniors. The one member of her family who occasionally treated her other than as a piece of unobtrusive furniture now regarded her with a slight frown on his face.

  ‘What troubles you, Sophy? Don’t you care for the match?’ She shook her head wordlessly, unable to explain to him why the whole conception of such a marriage was abhorrent to her. ‘Then send Derwent about his business.’

  She shuddered at the very idea. ‘If not he, then it may be some other perhaps less agreeable gentleman. Besides, Francis, think of His Grace’s fury!’

  ‘Most like he’d have an apoplexy,’ agreed His Grace’s younger son without much feeling. ‘You’re not likely to get a better offer—though if our sire fancies that Derwent is going to do the handsome for any member of the family other than you, I’d say he’s far and wide. Derwent’s a deep file, he’ll not be had on that suit.’ Her acute misery pierced even his armour of masculine indifference. ‘If you can’t stomach him, Sophy, you’ve but to say so! Father can’t force you to it.’

  ‘He’d very likely beat me,’ she whispered. Her brother regarded her with all the astonishment natural to a young gentleman who, while at Eton, had spent one-half of his days being flogged for his misdeeds during the other half, and had accepted such treatment as one of the inescapable hazards of life. He dimly comprehended, however, that things could be different for a girl, and sought to comfort her.

  ‘Gammon! He’d not lay finger on you. Only thing is, Wayleigh’s a bit concerned that you should wed Derwent.’

  ‘Wayleigh? What has he got to say to anything?’ There was a high note, bordering on hysteria, in her voice. ‘Hasn’t he done enough to ruin my chances of happiness?’

  ‘Oh, come now,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘Eldest brother and all that. Wants the best for you, no doubt.’ Then, seeing her look of scorn, his eyebrows went up in question. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still hankering after Bredon? Well, I must say, Sophy, I think it poor-spirited of you! Why the fellow’s no better than a murderer!’

  ‘He is not!’ she blazed at him, and he blinked in amazement at such a display of feeling from his placid sister. ‘Had not our brother chosen to testify against him, no one need ever have known he had followed Cantwell—and when he swore he did not kill him I, for one, believed him!’

  ‘Then you were alone in your touching faith, dear Sophy!’ The hard, mocking voice caused her to cry out in alarm, and she took an involuntary step back into the window embrasure as the Marquis of Wayleigh, idly swinging his quizzing-glass to and fro upon its silken cord, strolled in from the anteroom. As he approached her he raised the glass to his eye and looked her up and down in so deprecating a manner as to bring the blood to her colourless cheeks in very shame at his open contempt.

  ‘So you fancied yourself in love with Bredon?’ He put out a hand and, pinching her chin cruelly between finger and thumb, forced her to look at him. ‘What do you know of love, you little ninny?’

  ‘More than you, I dare swear!’ she retorted, goaded beyond discretion. ‘For you have never loved anyone but yourself!’

  For an instant the pale cold eyes, common to all the Trennick men, gleamed with a rare emotion, then very deliberately he released her chin and slapped her across the face.

  ‘Hey, steady, Way!’ Lord Francis’s protest died in his throat as his brother, without turning his head or taking his eyes off his sister, said between his teeth:

  ‘Stay out of this, Francis, unless you’d care for a facer. As for you, my girl, you’ll marry Derwent, or at least engage to do so. After that, he can wed you or not as he pleases. If you don’t oblige me in this, be very sure you’ll be sorry for it. Now, dry your eyes, my pretty, and be glad I only struck you hard enou
gh to bring a flush to your cheek, for by the sounds on’t, here comes your ardent suitor.’

  Taking his brother by the arm, he led him through the anteroom and was gone before His Grace of Edmonton, followed by Mr. Derwent, entered by the door from the hall.

  The Duke, a toady of the Prince Regent, while favouring his royal master in size and adiposity, yet lacked his saving grace of charm. As he moved his ponderous bulk across the room to where his daughter stood, his eyes, sunk to slits between their layers of wrinkled flesh, glittered with complacent satisfaction.

  ‘Ah, there you are, m’dear,’ he wheezed with the greatest affability. ‘I have no need, I believe, to present Mr. Derwent to you?’

  ‘How d’you do, sir,’ she managed to get out in a small, choked voice.

  Her perceptive admirer, gallantly kissing her hand, was not slow to assess the situation. He hardly recognised the composed young lady of his acquaintance in this terrified, shrinking girl. If she was being bullocked into accepting him against her will, he would have none of it, but he had best see how the cat jumped before throwing in his hand. In spite of—or perhaps because of—his family’s opposition, Mr. Derwent had a mind to wed her. The notion of moulding so pliable an intelligence to his liking had taken hold of his imagination, and, being a gentleman who held his own capabilities in justifiable esteem, he had no doubt that in time, under his careful guidance, she would make him an excellent wife.

  ‘Well!’ The Duke was all hearty condescension. ‘This is one occasion on which a man and a maid may be left private together!’ He dealt Mr. Derwent a resounding buffet upon the shoulder. ‘It’s up to you to show your paces now, m’boy! I commend my little Sophy to you. She’s a pretty-behaved lass enough, no odd kicks in her gallop that such a first-rate fiddler as yourself cannot overcome!’

  Chuckling immoderately at his own wit, he lumbered out of the room, shutting the door with ostentatious emphasis behind him. Sophia, left solitary save for her future fate standing a few feet away from her, knew not where to turn. Never before had she been quite alone with a gentleman and, though her aunt had told her just how she should receive an offer of marriage, she suspected that a text-book response might not answer in this case.

  ‘Lady Sophia,’ began Mr. Derwent tentatively then, as she remained obdurately silent, he went on gently, ‘won’t you even look at me? This is not very easy for me either!’

  That brought her head up with a jerk, and he was able to read in her wide startled gaze much that her pale, controlled countenance would not betray. She found him to be smiling at her, and, unquestionably, he had a very engaging smile.

  ‘Won’t you be seated, sir?’ she murmured, feeling that something was expected of her, but he ignored the invitation and, stepping forward, took her hands in a light clasp.

  ‘I have His Grace’s permission to pay my addresses to you, ma’am,’ he said formally, ‘but if you have no mind to receive them then there is an end of the matter.’

  ‘I am vastly obliged, sir, and—and deeply sensible of the honour you do me.’ Frantically, she tried to recall what her aunt had schooled her to say, but her brain was so addled by reason of his close proximity and the remembrance of Wayleigh’s parting injunction that the pre-arranged speech became a confused jumble of words. ‘I will do my best to—no, I mean, I had not expected—that is ‘ She floundered into silence and Mr. Derwent, touched by her distress, handed her to the sofa and stood waiting until she should be more in command of herself.

  ‘Will you marry me, Sophia?’ he asked.

  At that all semblance of composure left her. ‘I don’t know, sir! I—I daresay you must think me very foolish, but I cannot give you an answer—not now, not at once!’

  ‘That is very reasonable,’ he allowed. ‘After all, it is a decision that will affect the rest of your life. In time you will know your own mind and, I hope, will tell me when you do. Meanwhile, I promise not to tease you by repeated solicitations.’

  The hint of laughter in his voice brought her head up again, to discover him watching her as if mildly amused by her alarm.

  ‘You—you are very good, sir,’ she faltered. ‘This—this hesitancy is enough to put you out of all patience with me.’

  ‘It is the accepted thing, is it not, for ladies to put their suitors to the test by withholding their verdict?’ he suggested and was surprised by her spirited response.

  ‘Of all things I deplore such caprice! To hold back one’s answer of deliberate intent when a gentleman has declared himself is beyond anything despicable!’

  ‘Then why are you doing so?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘Because I—because—’ Once again her resolution failed her and her voice faded away. Seating himself beside her, he pursued his intention with kindly insistence.

  ‘Is the thought of marrying me so repugnant to you?’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that!’ To her dismay, the tears began to flow and, next thing she knew, her head was on his shoulder and she was sobbing into his handkerchief.

  The devil! thought the startled Mr. Derwent. Was there ever such an odd climax to an offer of marriage? Aloud, he said in a joking sort of way: ‘So you don’t hate me but you won’t marry me?’

  ‘Of course I don’t hate you! I th-think you’re the kindest gentleman of my acquaintance!’

  Suspecting that she numbered few kind gentlemen among her acquaintance, he was not over-impressed by this testimonial.

  ‘But you wish to be sure you are making the right choice?’ he persisted, soothing her in the same way that he would any other nervous, shy young creature. ‘That is perfectly understandable, and I am persuaded His Grace will support your decision.’ A convulsive sob shook her slight frame and his arm tightened about her shoulders. ‘Would you prefer that I explained the matter to him?’

  ‘Oh, if you would!’ she breathed gratefully.

  Mr. Derwent reflecting that, had he known she was going to behave like a watering-pot, he would not have worn the coat received only that morning from Weston’s own hands, rose and smiled reassuringly upon her.

  ‘Nothing could be more simple,’ he said. ‘No, keep my handkerchief, you have more need of it than I. I’ll call tomorrow morning to take you driving, if that pleases you.’

  ‘I thank you, sir, but we are removing to Mount Trennick tomorrow. Papa wishes us all to be there for the first Open Day of the year.’

  ‘Then must I contain myself until your return.’ The understanding twinkle in his eye gave her courage.

  ‘You—you are not angry with me?’

  ‘My poor child!’ Lightly he touched her shining hair. ‘Don’t distress yourself! I promise to do nothing you don’t care for.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’ she sobbed, snatching at his hand and pressing it to her tear-stained cheek.

  Perceiving that he was in a fair way to being set upon a pedestal by reason of his forbearance and secretly being not displeased at the prospect, he left her to seek out the Duke, while she fled upstairs to her bedchamber, there to throw herself upon her bed and cry out her misery upon her pillow.

  His Grace was not too happy at the turn things had taken but, by the time Lysander had finished talking to him, he was restored to good humour and much inclined to think that Sophia had played her cards well. Sly little puss! Her holding off would make the fellow all the more hot for her, and so he would inform Wayleigh if he got on his high ropes. There were times when his eldest son’s autocratic behaviour rather irked the Duke; and he had a fondness for Sophy, so like as she was to her mother.

  The memory of his late wife induced in him an unwontedly sentimental mood, and when the Marquis sauntered in a little later to enquire how things stood, he was curtly informed that his sister had, very properly, deferred her answer until she was sure of her own mind. His lordship seemed unconcerned.

  ‘So long as she keeps him dangling, that will suffice. By-the-by, he’s chosen the longer race, from Newport to Newmarket.’

  ‘You didn’t thi
nk to gull him into a sprint, did you? Those bays of his are stayers.’

  ‘Ah, yes, those bays,’ murmured Wayleigh.

  ‘If I was you I’d try no tricks with him, he’s awake upon every suit.’ The Duke snorted truculently. ‘And don’t expect me to haul you out of the River Tick if you lose, for I tell you to your face that I can’t and won’t!’

  Whereupon, having expressed himself just as he felt a parent should, His Grace called for his carriage to take him to White’s, there to play whist until the small hours and put from his mind all thought of family matters.

  Mr. Derwent, having first paid a visit to Long Acre, where he discussed to their mutual satisfaction the building of his new curricle with Mr. Adams as recommended by Lord Francis, then directed his tilbury in the direction of Charles Street.

  He was still looking faintly amused at the recollection of the morning’s events when he stepped into the hall, but the smile was quickly wiped off his face when he perceived the place to be in utter confusion, trunks and valises piled high on the floor, and servants scurrying hither and thither.

  Bates came hastening towards him, disapproval oozing from every pore of his ample person.

  ‘Mr. Lysander, sir, I must inform you ‘

  ‘Thank you, Bates, I know very well what it is you wish to tell me.’ A gentle cough from above drew his eyes to where Miss Honeywell leaned gracefully over the landing balustrade. ‘Good-day, ma’am,’ he said, bowing with frigid courtesy. The Dowager, emerging from her boudoir to stand beside Miss Honeywell, beamed down upon him.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Lysander! Have you—but of course, you two have met! Dear Katherine has come to stay with us—Glendower sent her in his own chaise.’