by Beth Bryan
“Lucinda, whatever is the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” It was Belle, back with a small etui in her hand.
Lucinda pulled herself together. “Shall I pin the hem for you? You may stand on this footstool.”
Belle looked closely at her friend as she handed over the needle-case. But Lucinda kept her head bent as she worked. She made herself concentrate on the simple manual task and gradually her breathing slowed and her colour grew more normal. By the time the hem was finished, she had achieved tolerable control over her face and feelings.
“Thank you,” Belle said as she jumped down and slid her feet back into her Denmark satin slippers. “Though, if I dance with Charles again I daresay it will all be for naught.”
“Really, Belle, you are lucky that anyone at all will dance with you. Consider what would have happened if anyone had seen you at that dreadful place.”
“Pooh! No one even looked at me—except, of course, Mr. Devereux and he won’t tell.”
“And what do you think Sir Charles would say if he knew?”
“Charles? I can manage Charles. Naturally he would fly into the most terrible rage and make the most monstrous scene, too, I shouldn’t wonder. He does look so handsome when he’s angry, don’t you think? But he’d forgive me. He always will.”
“What odious self-satisfaction, Belle. It gives me quite a disgust of you, to hear you say such things. You are very lucky you came out of such a disgraceful escapade so easily.”
Belle threw her arms around Lucinda. “Pray don’t be angry with me, there’s a dear. Lady Grantham has already raked me down most severely and Mr. Devereux gave me the most tremendous scold on the way home.”
“None of it seems to have done the least good.”
“Oh, it has, it has. And you must know, Cinda, that I had already been punished most thoroughly. For despite what I thought, and what Mr. Stratton said, it was the most boring place. All anyone did was sit and play cards! No one paid the slightest heed to me at all. And nothing scandalous was going on. Why, Mama might have accompanied me and not been shocked. The whole thing was just a take-in!”
Lucinda laughed at her friend’s air of righteous indignation. It was impossible to remain angry with Belle. “And Mr. Stratton was not an attentive companion?”
“What! Has Mr. Devereux been tattling on me?”
“He merely mentioned Mr. Stratton’s interest in cards.”
“Interest? Passion, more likely! And,” Belle went on in the same injured tone, “I had thought it would be so exotic, for gentlemen go there all the time and one would think it was something quite out of the usual. But it wasn’t. Not a sign of an opera-dancer anywhere. It was dull and even rather sordid. I think,” she concluded profoundly, “that gentlemen have the oddest tastes.”
“Yes,” Lucinda agreed sadly. She was thinking that at least two men seemed to find Chloris dePoer irresistible, and even if she were a lady, Chloris was behaving more like one of Belle’s opera-dancers.
“But, Lucinda, it was so clever of you to send Mr. Devereux. It was the greatest thing. He brought his phaeton, too, and we had such a ride. How came you to think of him of all people?”
“I was at my wits’ end,” Lucinda confessed. “You are aware that Lady Grantham was away and Will and Sir Charles were at their sport. And I hope,” she added astringently, “that you don’t think I should have told my cousin and sent her to fetch you back?”
Belle giggled. “Can you imagine Mrs. Cleeson at Lucy Caldeane’s?” But she won no answering smile from her friend. “Are you quite sure you’re well, Cinda? You are so pale now and you seem distraught. Shall I send Will or Mrs. Cleeson to you?”
“Will? No, no thank you. I shall be better directly.”
Covertly, Belle studied her friend. She had been pleased to see Mr. Devereux earlier that evening, but surprised, too. She understood that Will, Lady Grantham and Charles were away. She utterly agreed that Mrs. Cleeson could not have been involved. But why, out of all their acquaintance, had Lucinda called on Beau Devereux?
In fact, now she came to consider, the impropriety of upsetting Miss Neville had figured largely in Mr. Devereux’s lecture. I wonder, Miss Ryland said to herself, I very much wonder. “I had no idea,” she said aloud in elaborately casual tones, “that you I and Beau Devereux were such friends.”
Lucinda flushed painfully. “We are not, indeed. How can you think so? I have already explained how I came to call upon him.”
“Yes, yes,” Belle said soothingly, hiding her satisfaction. “I see exactly how you were placed.”
“I should hope so,” Lucinda declared hotly. “Mr. Devereux was most obliging. He is the kindest person and I hope you do not mean to cast aspersions on so good-hearted a response.”
“Oh, I shall not, Lucinda, I assure you. I know exactly how to interpret his actions.”
“Good.” Lucinda stood up. “And now I think we had better return to the others.”
“Yes,” agreed Belle rather absently. She followed Lucinda but fell behind a little, an unaccustomed furrow in her smooth forehead. Into her huge blue eyes there crept a look, a look her friends and family had learned to mistrust: Belle Ryland was thinking.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Next morning, Mr. Devereux rose early and less than rested. He curtly refused all suggestions of breakfast, except for a tankard of ale, which he rapidly tossed off. Now he was dressing, but the process was not proceeding in its usual unharried way.
He stood, glowering, before the mirror in his dressing-room. On the floor beside him lay a growing pile of creased neckcloths. Impassively, Dowsett handed him another.
“And you need not,” Mr. Devereux said quite unfairly, “scowl at me like that, Dowsett. A man on his way to propose is entitled to a little nervousness.”
The valet’s expression did not change. Not by the faintest flicker of an eyelid did Dowsett betray his interest in that pretty little trinket leaning against the studbox. “R and C” it said, didn’t it?
With a muttered imprecation, Richard flung away another spoiled cravat. “It is an important decision, after all,” he said through gritted teeth. “The French look upon these things more correctly. We are too romantical, too apt to be carried away by our emotions.”
Stolidly, the valet passed over another rectangle of starched muslin.
“Yes, we should look at marriage more rationally, as an alliance of families, and not clutter up matters with nonsense about love. I, after all, have firsthand experience of how easily such illusions vanish.” He made the final knot and stood back, frowning at himself in the looking-glass. “It will suffice,” he said shortly.
Dowsett reached for the waistcoat.
“It cannot be doubted,” Dev went on rather emphatically, “that Lady Chloris will always conduct herself with propriety and discretion. A man must be exceptionally finicking in his demands not to be pleased with her.”
In silence Dowsett began to ease him into his coat.
“I’m glad you agree.” The Beau picked up his lemon-coloured gloves and his Malacca cane. “It is, after all, more than time that the whole affair was settled.”
Dowsett watched him stride downstairs and heard the front door bang behind him. He came back into the room and stared intently at the twinkling brooch and then at the rejected neckcloths. “Argh,” said Dowsett thoughtfully. “Aarrgh.”
By the time he had reached Eaton Square, where the dePoers lived, Dev had somewhat regained his equanimity. He squared his shoulders and asked for Lady dePoer with a strong air of resolution. The butler, he thought as he was shown into the front saloon, had a dashed knowing look.
He had barely seated himself when the door opened and Chloris burst in. She was breathless and she leaned back against the door in a way that made Devereux raise his straight black brows. A ribbon untied here, a lace trailing there suggested that she had not quite finished dressing.
“Richard,” she whispered urgently, “Richard, I must speak
with you.”
“Certainly,” he replied, resisting the impulse to whisper also. Chloris’s breast heaved and there were bright spots of colour in her cheeks. He thought she looked more attractive and vivacious than he had ever seen her. “I am at your service, Chloris.”
“Mama must not know I am here,” she hissed, sending his brows higher. She raised a hand and placed it over her heart. “I know why you have come!”
Her air of mystery was beginning to annoy Richard. “I should think you might, Chloris,” he said with some asperity. “The whole ton must...”
“I beg that you will not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No, no! It is I who beg, beg upon my knees that you will not offer for me.”
“No, really, Chloris!” Richard grasped her hands and held her upright. “This is not a Cheltenham tragedy. You may tell me perfectly well what you mean sitting down, or standing up if we must.”
Chloris looked fearfully over her shoulder. “Mama must not find me here. Promise me, Richard, that you will not offer for me.”
“Certainly,” said Dev promptly. “Entirely as you wish. But don’t you think, Chloris, that you perhaps owe me an explanation?”
Chloris’s voice dropped. “I dare not—not yet.” She clasped his hands. “I shall reveal all to you—soon, I promise. But till then, believe me, dear Richard, I am forever in your debt.” She squeezed his hands, gave him a look of great significance and vanished.
Richard stared at the shut door and slowly shook his head. Had the whole world gone mad?
Lady dePoer came in shortly thereafter, and inventing some flummery on which to consult her, Mr. Devereux was aware that he had once again dashed that good lady’s hopes. He took his leave and came thoughtfully out into the morning sun.
To his surprise, he found he was puzzled, but not at all dismayed. In fact, as he walked on, his step was positively jaunty and his demeanour in no way suggested a man who had just been disappointed in love.
If Mr. Devereux had found his morning surprising, in Cavendish Square, Patience Grantham was finding hers equally astounding. She sat on Belle’s bed, her soft brown eyes wide, and repeated, for the third time, “But, are you sure, Belle?”
Despite the early hour, that young lady was nibbling sweetmeats from a silver-paper-covered box, just delivered that morning by one of her admirers. “Of course I’m sure,” she replied, her attention on the box. “I wish you will try some of this marchpane, Patience. I have not tasted any quite like it. And see how cunningly it has been shaped. Is this not the perfect likeness of a peach?”
“Never mind the marchpane,” said Patience firmly. “It’s just that ... well, I always thought that she and Will...”
“Certainly not! Don’t be such a gudgeon!”
“But if what you say is true, why should we interfere? Why don’t we leave it to Lucinda and—”
“Haven’t you been listening to what I’ve been telling you? We can’t possibly do that.”
“Why not?” asked Patience reasonably.
Less intrepid conspirators than Miss Ryland might have described this as a leveller, but Belle was not at a loss for long. “Pride,” she asserted triumphantly, her mouth full of almond paste.
“Pride?”
“Pride. You know, Patience, that we women would rather die than admit our affection, if we do not know that we are loved in return. We keep such things secret till we are sure.” She bit into another sweetmeat, pleased by her own perception.
Whether she was also struck by Belle’s insight, or whether by some thought of her own, Patience coloured a little and looked away.
“So, you see, that is all we are doing; giving them an opportunity to see that their feelings are wholly reciprocated. It’s a noble task.” Belle selected a piece of marchpane in the form of a pineapple.
“We-e-ell...” said Patience doubtfully.
“Patience! You are not going to be an addle-plot, are you?”
“I just do not see how telling Lucinda a great number of lies is going to make her any happier.”
Belle swallowed indignantly. “I never imagined you could be so prosy. They’re not precisely lies, just a way of setting the scene. Don’t you care what happens to Lucinda, or Will for that matter?”
“Of course I care! But how does this plan of yours...”
“Haven’t you heard the on-dits? Everyone expects a betrothal. Lady Borely practically held on to me, demanding to be told the wedding date. But if Lucinda cares for someone else, how happy could Will be in such an engagement?”
“Not, not at all,” Patience said in a constricted voice. “That would be dreadful.”
“Then remember we’re doing this to bring Lucinda and Mr. Devereux together and also to save my brother from a loveless marriage.”
“But Belle, if Lucinda does not love Will, why would...” She faltered at Belle’s furious glance. “Oh, very well. I shall try to do as you say, though I don’t think I shall make a very convincing actress.”
“You will manage. Just remember that you must make her believe that you are quite distraught.”
“I shall be that indeed,” said Patience dryly. “She must realize that it is imperative for you to make such a trip.” Reluctantly Belle replaced the lid of the sweetmeat box, now much depleted. “You’d better go and get ready. Lucinda will need time to arrange to be free tonight.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I,” said Belle grandly, “must consider my strategy—and my disguise.”
“Are you sure Lucinda won’t recognize you?”
“I shall wear a hat and a mask, and anyhow, she won’t be expecting to see me there.”
“That’s true, but do you not think she might be unduly frightened, accosted in the dark while she is alone?”
“She will be rescued directly and I shall run off just as soon as he arrives.”
Patience frowned. “There are so many things that could go wrong. To get the timing right...”
Belle sighed. “Patience, are you trying to throw a damp on me? Just make sure that you get Lucinda there. I shall take care of everything else.”
“I wish I could be sure that this is the right thing to do.”
Again Belle sighed dramatically, but Patience just shook her head and took her leave without another word.
Miss Ryland’s next proceedings were remarkable, to say the least. Very quietly, she opened her bedroom door and peered up and down the hall. Then she ran lightly over to Will’s door. She let herself in and went straight to the big carved wardrobe.
She rifled through the garments hanging there, till she came upon a long black travelling cloak with a hood attached. She tossed it onto the bed. Then she chose a pair of black Hessians with spotless white tops. She sighed as she put them by the cloak. She would have to stuff the toes with tissue, for they were far too large.
Finally, she took a shirt and a dark, swallow-tailed coat and breeches. Wrapping everything in the cloak, Belle stole back to her own room. Pleased not to have been seen, she stowed her bundle on the dusty top of her wardrobe. After washing her hands she went downstairs.
In Sir Charles’s study, she seated herself at his huge oak desk. She tugged open drawers till she found his supply of writing paper. From the sheets, she chose only those without a crest; then she picked up the long quill-pen.
She chewed meditatively on the end and then began to write. But the result did not please her. She tossed the sheet into the waste-paper basket and began again. She had scrunched up several sheets before she was satisfied with the wording.
After rereading it, she dropped a few more blots of ink over the criss-crossed page. She searched through her host’s seals, and after finding a plain one, she put the letter in an envelope and stamped the wet wax.
Next, she scrawled the address and again decorated it with more artistically placed blots and smudges. Finally she rang for a footman and handed over the letter.
Smiling to herself,
Belle went back upstairs. During the morning and afternoon, she behaved with such charming agreeableness that Lady Grantham was moved to describe her as “a very prettily behaved child, after all.”
“But you, Patience,” she said, turning to her daughter, “you have been so quiet. Are you not well?”
“She looks very pale,” Belle put in solicitously.
“She does, she does.” Lady Grantham looked worried. “Perhaps we have been overdoing it of late.”
“She looks exhausted,” Belle intoned so sepulchrally that Patience responded indignantly.
“Don’t talk about me as if I were burnt to the socket!”
“Nevertheless,” said her mother, “it may be as well if we have a restful evening for a change. There is only Mrs. Manley-Smythe’s rout and that is always such a dreadful squeeze that we shall not be missed. Yes, the more I think of it, the more I consider we shall do well to be quiet tonight.”
“And you will be able to visit your aunt again, Godmama.”
“You are a thoughtful girl, Belle. Though, truth to tell, Dorcas is like to outlive us all. But I shall take your suggestion. I may be easy in mind if you girls are safe at home.”
“We shall be safe and cosy,” Belle assured her, but behind her ladyship’s back, she risked a wink at Patience.
But Miss Grantham only sighed and shook her head. She had not enjoyed her interview with Lucinda, and even now, she could scarcely repress a shudder as she remembered that harrowing morning visit...
“Mrs. Cleeson will not be anxious if you say you are coming to us this evening, will she?” Patience had faltered, unable to meet Lucinda’s wondering eyes.
“No, naturally not.” Lucinda had looked closely at the other girl. Patience was clearly distraught, staring miserably at the carpet and picking constantly at the fringe of her reticule. “But is this secrecy really necessary? Cannot you tell me a little more about why we must go to Vauxhall Gardens tonight and why we must tell no one?”
“No, no I can’t!” Patience looked as though she might burst into tears. How she wished she had never agreed to Belle’s hare-brained scheme. But she had promised to do her best and there was ... well, there was that other matter...
