by Beth Bryan
“Believe me, Miss Neville, no one could possibly describe you as insipid.”
Lucinda blushed and looked away. Then a thought struck her and the great brown eyes flew to his face. “Oh, sir, I did not mean, that is, I was not...”
“Angling for compliments, do you mean? Again, Miss Neville, no one who knew you could suppose for a minute that you were.”
Lucinda smiled uncertainly. Was he quizzing her? Or even, unlikely as it seemed, flirting with her?
Devereux watched the emotions play across her face with amusement. Then, telling himself sternly that he must not take undue advantage of her inexperience, he said kindly, “Are you wondering what brings me back to the ’Change so soon after our visit?”
“Well, er, yes.” Lucinda had been so surprised to see him at all that she had not thought to question his appearance.
“I saw your carriage outside and I took the opportunity to apologize.”
“Apologize, sir? I do not understand.”
Mr. Devereux was not sure he himself understood the impulse that had made him stop at the sight of the Neville carriage and had brought him into an establishment he would normally have passed in total indifference. However, he offered an explanation as much to himself as to Lucinda.
“I have not forgotten my promise to show you Castor and Pollux, but we have both been much occupied. I have thought of that promise and of you often, Miss Neville.”
Lucinda blushed again at the thought she had been in Beau Devereux’s thoughts. Somehow, it made her feel happy but at the same time a little nervous.
“Is Mrs. Cleeson with you?”
“She’s much occupied this afternoon. Albert, my footman, is with me.”
Devereux looked at that long-suffering man. “Let me make it up to you for my neglect, Miss Neville. Send Albert home with the packages. He may inform Mrs. Cleeson I have taken you for a drive and will bring you home later.” He saw the hesitation and also the eagerness in Lucinda’s eyes. “It is quite proper, Miss Neville. My tiger will be present and we shall be in an open vehicle.”
“I should like to,” said Lucinda, telling herself that it was obviously her duty to see how Castor and Pollux did.
“Then come,” said Mr. Devereux.
And Lucinda did. She sent the grateful Albert and her purchases home and followed Mr. Devereux through the crowded gallery. At one stall, he stopped so suddenly that she almost bumped into him.
He held out an arm to steady her. “Miss Neville, do I understand you to be tired of the pale colours young ladies are obliged to wear?”
“I don’t feel that they quite suit,” Lucinda confessed rather hesitantly, uncertain whether this was the sort of topic one discussed with gentlemen.
“I’ve told you what I think of that. But you are wanting something out of the ordinary, are you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Then, look here.”
“Gold lace,” Lucinda breathed. “Gold Brussels lace—but, do you think it quite the thing, sir?”
Devereux’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I would not suggest it otherwise.” Then his tone softened. “It will certainly be quite the thing with your hair.” And with those extraordinary eyes, he added to himself.
Lucinda touched the cobwebby fabric. “It is so fragile.”
Mr. Devereux’s next remark surprised even himself. “And you must be sure to wear those gold stars in your hair.”
Lucinda smiled radiantly at him. “Did you like them, sir? They were my mother’s, you know, but cousin Ethelreda thought they might perhaps be somewhat de mode.”
“Certainly not,” said Beau Devereux.
So Lucinda bought the requisite amount of gold lace and soon afterwards found herself bowling northwards in Mr. Devereux’s perfectly sprung vehicle.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“How splendidly they run,” said Lucinda, as the bays strode effortlessly out along the Highgate Road. “They are in plump currant indeed.”
“We are making for Hampstead Heath,” Mr. Devereux told her. “There they, as well as I, shall be able to show you our paces.”
He was as good as his word, and Lucinda enjoyed herself enormously. The wind blew her bonnet backwards and she laughed as her curls streamed behind her. Most of all, Mr. Devereux’s light but masterful control of the reins impressed her mightily.
They did not speak much, but rather enjoyed the fresh air, the swift horses and, though each had different reasons for not admitting it, each other’s company.
“Come,” said Richard at last, “I must get you home. Your cousin will be worried if you do not appear soon and you will be late for your afternoon tea.”
“I suppose so.” Reluctantly, Lucinda straightened her bonnet. “But it is such a relief to know Castor and Pollux are so well taken care of.”
She had quite revised her opinion of Mr. Devereux. He was no longer a proud, overbearing care-for-nought. He was charming, thoughtful, the most obliging of companions. Not once did the memory of Lady Chloris dePoer or a certain piece of jewellery cloud her mind.
Nothing on the homeward journey challenged Lucinda’s new conviction. She was in perfect charity with him as they turned into the crowded streets about the Kentish Town market.
Suddenly a shout rang out. A small boy darted out between the fruit and vegetable carts. Mr. Devereux cursed once and pulled on the ribbons. Castor neighed shrilly, reared, and as he came down, one flailing hoof caught the boy on the side of his head. The small figure fell and lay still.
Mr. Devereux cursed again and, tossing the reins to his tiger, leapt down. He was scarcely quicker than Lucinda, however. She reached the boy before he did and, heedless of the dust, knelt beside the child.
“Miss Neville,” began Richard, “do you not think that you would be advised to retire to...”
Lucinda loosened the boy’s grubby jerkin and then took up one small, limp hand. She did not look up as she replied, “Of course not. How should I be when I am needed here?” She laid the little hand back on the boy’s chest. “I don’t believe he has been seriously hurt, but one cannot be too careful with injuries to the head.”
Mr. Devereux watched her with an unreadable expression in his grey eyes. Then he said, “What do you wish done, Miss Neville?”
Lucinda looked anxiously at the boy, then at the crowd of onlookers. “Ordinarily, I should not care to move him, but we can scarcely let him lie in the middle of the thoroughfare.”
“Where shall we take him, then?” If Mr. Devereux thought it odd that he should leave the resolution of this affair to a “schoolroom chit,” he gave no sign.
“To the Isle of Dogs,” Lucinda said decisively. “I know the warden of the hospice there.”
“Of course! I should have thought of that myself.”
Lucinda found this response odd, but before she could speak, Richard continued, “Return to the phaeton, Miss Neville. I shall carry the child up to you. It will be best if you hold him as we drive.”
“But of course I shall, the poor mite,” Lucinda said as she climbed back into her seat.
Mr. Devereux spoke briefly to certain members of the crowd and some coins changed hands. Then he carefully lifted the small figure and placed him on Lucinda’s lap.
He noted that Miss Neville paid no more attention to the stains from the boy’s boots than she had to those from the dust of the road. Rather to Lucinda’s surprise, Mr. Devereux asked for no directions. Manoeuvring skilfully through the heavy traffic, he brought them south to the river and at last to the wide black gates of the hospice.
It was a low, sprawling whitewashed building, set amid green fields inclining down to the river. A blue-clad attendant met them and, quickly grasping the situation, summoned two more blue-clad helpers, who bore the boy away on a litter. Lucinda and Devereux were shown into a small office where the warden joined them. A kindly man with thick grey hair, Mr. Bunthorpe was clearly delighted to see Lucinda.
“Miss Neville, we heard that you were in London and knew that
it could not be long before you visited us.”
“I wish it had been sooner,” Lucinda said. “But may I present...”
“Bless you, Miss Neville, don’t you know? There is no need to introduce Mr. Devereux to us. He’s our new governor.”
“You!” Lucinda gaped at him. “You! I did not know you were interested in such things.”
Mr. Devereux’s smile went slightly awry. “How should you, Miss Neville? I did not know you shared so fully in your father’s concerns.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mr. Bunthorpe beamed. “Miss Neville is one of our strongest supporters. She has helped us in so many ways. What we should have done without her in our early days I dare not think.”
“My own association is not so longstanding,” Mr. Devereux told her. “Nor can I hope to be so invaluable. Your father recruited me only recently, and he is to inform me more fully of my duties when he comes up to Town. It seems to me to be a most necessary work.”
“Necessary, indeed,” Mr. Bunthorpe echoed, nodding vigorously. “How can the poor improve their circumstances, unless they first improve their health?” He twinkled reprovingly. “But you must not be too modest, Mr. Devereux, we have heard of your ground-breaking work in other areas.”
Lucinda looked from one to the other in surprise. Devereux looked as nearly embarrassed as she’d ever seen him. “What other...”
Dev rose hastily. “I am sure Miss Neville would like to see your establishment here,” he said to the warden, “but we are already long overdue and must not agitate Mrs. Cleeson further.”
“And you will be sure to let us know how the poor little boy does?” Lucinda said anxiously.
“Dear me!” Mr. Bunthorpe looked comically dismayed. “I have a head like a sieve. He was coming round when I left. The doctor feels that he will sustain no lasting hurt, but we shall keep him here for a few days just to make sure. I understand that you have already sent word to the parents. We shall be in touch with them also.”
“Let me know before you send him back to them,” said Mr. Devereux. “He does not look as though his family’s circumstances are prosperous. We must see what can be done for them.”
They took leave of Mr. Bunthorpe and returned to the phaeton. Lucinda waited until they were moving again, then she said firmly, “Pray, sir, what is the other work that Mr. Bunthorpe says you do?”
“Shall I puff off my poor efforts to you, Miss Neville? They are a mere nothing compared to the achievements of you and your father.”
“My papa says that any effort is praiseworthy,” said Lucinda seriously. “And I should so very much like to know.”
Mr. Devereux looked at her and his clear gaze softened. “Your father is far more perceptive than my aunt,” he said. “I have tried to alleviate a little, a very little, the plight of the widows and orphans in the slums around the docks here.”
Lucinda’s eyes shone. “Oh, sir,” she cried, “I thought you were just a heartless Town beau. I have misjudged you terribly.”
There was a light in Mr. Devereux’s eyes that had not been there before. “I think you are not the only one who has made a misjudgement, Miss Neville.”
“Please, sir, will you not tell me all about your work?”
“I will, Miss Neville, I promise you. But now I wish you will tell me how you and your father conceived the idea of the hospices.”
The news that Mr. Devereux was interested in the work that was so dear to her completed the evolution of Lucinda’s feelings. She felt she had been guilty of assuming much too quickly that he could have no interests beyond Town amusements. Now she talked freely.
“It began with an accident. One of our farm workers injured himself with a scythe: a very bad cut, almost severing his arm. Papa saw he was not getting better; he was not getting the proper care. I went to see him myself and the arm was dreadfully infected. His wound was not being properly cleaned and he was not being fed the proper food, either. And he was not the only one in such a situation.”
Lucinda went on to explain how they had set up the Nether Wilden Hospice for the Sick and Injured and how, after one patient had spoken of the conditions of his brother in London, they had established the second hospice in the Isle of Dogs.
Mr. Devereux asked an occasional question, but mostly he was content to listen, to watch her constantly changing face and to think. Her gown was creased and stained, her bonnet askew. A mass of thick, glossy curls had escaped confinement and cascaded down one cheek. There was a tiny smudge on the end of her nose.
Catching one of his intent glances, Lucinda suddenly became aware of her disheveled state. She put up a hand to push back the errant locks.
“No.” Mr. Devereux raised his own hand as though to stop her. “Pray do not. They look charmingly.”
All at once, Lucinda felt shy. She turned her eyes towards the horses. As she sensed his continuing gaze, her constraint grew, her flow of conversation dried up and she began to wish for home.
At length they drew up in Agincourt Circle. Mr. Devereux came round to help Lucinda down. As he stretched his arms up to her, Lucinda’s eyes met his and a spark seemed to fly between them.
His arms went round her waist. He lifted her, not to the ground, but towards him. Lucinda felt the strength in his arms, saw his lips come closer, was burnt by that fiery stare. She raised her face, felt the world swim about her, then...
Into her mind there flashed the memory of a pretty little trinket, citrines and diamonds, C and R interlinked. “No,” she cried, “no, no!”
For a long moment he held her, suspended, before him. Then, slowly, he lowered her to the ground, his arms falling away to his sides. Lucinda ducked her head, muttered a few incoherent words and fled up the steps.
Mr. Devereux stared after her. Then, turning swiftly, he leapt into the phaeton. With a savage tug on the reins that made his tiger cry out in protest, he urged the bays into a gallop.
And that, he told himself, is that. A fine display from a man who is supposed to know women.
He did not stop at Agincourt Crescent. Instead he made straight for St. James’s and the clubs. There he spent the night becoming efficiently and thoroughly drunk.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lucinda did not see Mr. Devereux for the next few days. That, she told herself, was a piece of great good fortune. It was, naturally, only a desire to avoid an uncomfortable scene that made her scan the crowds for his tall languid figure. And of course it was only relief she felt when she failed to see him.
Fortunately, her cousin was much too preoccupied to take much notice of Lucinda’s moods. Mrs. Cleeson was in the final stages of refurbishing the house. A steady stream of tradesmen had visited Agincourt Circle. Lucinda had been shown endless samples of paint, cloth and wallpapers and miniatures of furniture.
Matters at Gedge’s and Chippendale’s and a dozen other establishments had all been settled. Mrs. Cleeson had driven to Mr. Wedgewood’s extensive showroom in Grosvenor Square and ordered new china.
That very morning, the last vase and mirror had been delivered. Now Lucinda stood in the window of the newly resplendent front salon. She was fidgeting with the purple tassels on the new violet draperies.
Behind her, seated beside Ivor Devereux on the equally new red morocco sofa, Mrs. Cleeson triumphantly drew a large X through her list and tucked it away in her reticule.
“Now at last I may begin a new list, one that has nothing whatever to do with refurbishing.”
“And dare I hope that you will place the matter of which we spoke near the top of any such list?” Ivor asked softly.
“Oh, hush, Ivor.” Mrs. Cleeson cast a quick glance at Lucinda. “Shall we see you at the Vernissage this afternoon?” she asked, raising her voice in exaggerated cheerfulness.
“What? At the Royal Academy? No, my dear. Not my choice at all. You keen on pictures, then?” This last was addressed to Lucinda.
She turned with a start. “I have never attended such an event, Mr. Devereux.”
�
��Ah, well, best to go and see for yourself, then.” Ivor stood. “I hope you enjoy the crush.”
Mrs. Cleeson rose as well and escorted him to the door. Her colour was high when she returned, but Lucinda was still staring out at the empty street.
“Mercy, child!” Ethelreda shrieked. “Don’t twist the tassel off before it’s been in the house a week.”
“Sorry, cousin.” Lucinda dropped the silk bundle but remained standing in the same listless way.
Mrs. Cleeson looked narrowly at her. “Are you sure you’re feeling quite the thing, Lucinda?”
“Yes, cousin.”
Mrs. Cleeson frowned. “You haven’t quarrelled with Will, have you?”
“Will? Of course not. He’s coming to the Royal Academy with us.”
“In that case...” Cousin Ethelreda’s voice trailed off. If it wasn’t a lovers’ quarrel that was ailing the girl, what could it be? Lucinda had been uncharacteristically on edge these past few days.
Later that afternoon, however, Mrs. Cleeson had to admit that her charge had apparently recovered! from the mopes. She seemed in merry pin as they met , Belle, Patience, Sir Charles and Lady Grantham.
In fact, Lucinda had decided she was making too much of the scene with Mr. Devereux. He was a Town beau, after all, and she, she had to admit, was a green girl. She had talked to him with too much familiarity and she had always heard that gentlemen were prone to misinterpret such forwardness. She was refining too much upon it.
So Lucinda laughed and chatted as animatedly as Belle as they drove up to the door of Somerset House. There were many other vehicles crowding the street and a throng of elegantly dressed persons milling about on the pavement.
Lucinda saw clearly what Ivor had meant about the crowd. But once they were inside the famous Great Room, the press abated not one whit.
The girls stared wide-eyed about them. Vernissage, Lucinda knew, meant varnishing. She had half expected to see artists and easels, but all the works were elaborately framed and hung.
“What a number of pictures!” Patience exclaimed.
