by Beth Bryan
Most peculiar indeed, thought Mr. Devereux as he stood by the classical ruins, watching the crowd. He was not at the moment referring to Belle’s gait. Rather he was considering the letter he had received that morning. His finger tapped against the pocket where he had stowed it.
Expensive notepaper ... illiterate spelling. Well-formed writing ... yet covered in blots. Unsigned ...yet delivered by a uniformed footman. If only the maid who received it had recognized the livery!
And the reference to Miss Neville: what could that mean and how could she require his help? Dev shook his head. There was a havy-cavy air to the whole business. He was probably making a prize cake of himself.
“At ten o’clock,” it had said. It must be getting close on ten now. The second promenade, wasn’t it, and the first alcove? Just as likely he’d find only a moon-struck couple there—and much they’d thank him for intruding!
Mr. Devereux eyed the lively crowd with disfavour. He’d never greatly cared for Vauxhall; not good ton, not at all.
“Good Lord, Dev! What on earth are you doing here? I thought you loathed the place.”
Dev swung round to greet Captain Rupert Brookefield, one of his closest friends. “Rupert! I thought you were in Belgium.”
“Just got back, my dear boy. Enjoying a long’s delayed and, may I say, well-deserved furlough. But I hear I am to wish you happy?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t be coy, my boy. The fair Chloris. I hear she is soon to become Mrs. Devereux.”
“I congratulate you, Rupert. If you’ve just got back, you seem remarkably well informed on the latest gossip. But this particular on-dit is wrong. I am not going to marry Lady Chloris.”
“You’re not? If that don’t beat all! I bet Farquhar at White’s this morning that you’d be married before the Season’s out.”
Mr. Devereux regarded his friend, his smile carving his lips and warming his eyes. “Did you indeed? Well, don’t despair. You may yet win your wager.”
“Oho! Now what’s to—” Captain Brookefield broke off and raised his monocle. “Look at that over there, Dev. Demme if I don’t think you’re right. Vauxhall ain’t the thing. You know, I breakfasted with young Bertram this morning and for a moment I thought he was wearing an army tent instead of breeches. Now there’s another sprig in the same rig-out.”
“I take it the Petersham trousers do not meet with your approval?”
“They do not! I tell you, Dev, I don’t know what the younger generation’s coming to. Take that young chap over there, now.” He pointed to a young man crossing the grassy square in front of them.
“I shouldn’t care to patronize his bootmaker,” Richard agreed.
“And that cloak—he might be goin’ to a costume ball. I shouldn’t wonder he’s wearing a mask—I should myself if I went about got up like that. Tell you what it is, Ricky, the country’s gone to the dogs since I left.”
Dev laughed, but his gaze followed that absurd figure. Surely there was something familiar about...
A raucous group of revellers suddenly caught up with the object of their interest, singing boisterously and linking arms as they dragged him along with them.
“I’m desolate to have to leave you, Rupert, but I have an appointment.”
“A mysterious assignation, eh? Who is she, my boy?”
“Come and dine tomorrow. I cannot stay now.”
“I certainly shall. Off you go now, my boy. After all, I must protect my bet.”
Dev grasped his friend’s hand and set off for the rendezvous.
If Mr. Devereux was less than enthusiastic about Vauxhall, there was one visitor that evening who took an even more jaundiced view of the amusement park. Unexpectedly released from the duties of escorting either his sister or Miss Neville, Will Ryland had accepted a friend’s invitation and joined a party bound for Vauxhall. Once there, however, he had discovered he was not at all in the mood for frivolity.
Absorbed in his own reflections, he had wandered away from the crowds. But an hour of walking and thinking had brought him no solace and he was now seeking to rejoin his companions. He had spent a tedious half hour wandering byways and dark paths and upsetting a surprising number of courting couples.
Now, however, he could see brighter lights and catch snatches of music. That must be the main promenade at last, he thought, hastening his steps. He would take leave of his friends and go home.
Then he froze. He had heard a scream, a woman’s scream. Mr. Ryland raced down the lane towards the sound.
“No, no!” Lucinda cried, pushing the man back.
“What is a pretty li’l ladybird like you doin’ all alone, eh? That’s what I’d like to know.” The fellow leered at her, bringing his red face close to hers and choking her with his brandy-soaked breath. “Poor li’l ladybird,” he hiccupped.
Lucinda slipped off the bench and backed away. Where was Patience?
“Naughty, naughty!” The red-faced man attempted to wag a finger at her and stumbled forward.
Lucinda backed away again, but he lurched towards her and grasped her round the waist.
“Let me go! Let me go!” Lucinda struggled, half in anger, half in fear.
“You heard the lady,” said a grim voice.
“Will!” gasped Lucinda.
“No fair,” declared the red-faced man, pulling Lucinda closer. “No fair, I saw the li’l ladybird first.”
Will drew back one arm, and with a powerful crack, his fist contacted the red-faced man’s chin. Lucinda’s tormentor sank silently to the ground.
Miss Grantham, Miss Ryland and Mr. Richard Devereux turned the corner just in time to hear Lucinda cry, “Will, thank heavens!” and to see her throw her arms about his neck before sinking into a dead faint in Will Ryland’s arms.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Early next morning, Will made his way quietly down to the library in Cavendish Square. He stood before the fireplace, kicking the brass fender and moodily staring at the pair of crossed swords over the mantelpiece. His face was clouded and his shoulders drooped.
“Will!” The soft voice broke his reverie.
“Patience! I hardly dared to hope ... after last night...”
“Hush, Will.” Patience drew him down beside her on the sofa, but he was not comforted.
“I have no right to ask anything of you, no right at all.”
“No right?” Patience asked almost inaudibly. “No right, Will?”
Will uttered a sound halfway between a moan and a groan. He drove his fingers through his blond curls. “But don’t you see? That only makes it worse. As long as I thought I was the only one ... but now I know that you must suffer, too, how much more difficult it is to bear that!”
Patience said, “You are sure there is no hope? No possibility that there is, well, someone else?”
Will’s fingers tore at his hair. “I wish there were. But you saw how it was last night. You saw how she threw herself into my arms.”
A tear trickled down Patience’s cheek. “Yes,” she choked out, “I saw.”
“And I have told you how generously she behaved, how loyally, thinking only how to help me and my family. It is due entirely to her father’s efforts that we have come even this far out of dun territory. I shudder to think what would have happened if the Nevilles had not come to our aid. How despicable it would be in me to cast her off now.”
“No, no, of course you cannot do anything of the sort.”
Will passed a hand over his brow. “That is why I dared to ask for this meeting—” his voice trembled “—this last meeting.”
Patience sobbed convulsively. Will leaned towards her. She raised her tear-drenched face to his. In a moment he gathered her to him and kissed her despairingly.
“Aha!” Sir Charles Grantham flung the library door wide and stood glaring at his sister and Will.
Sir Charles was not in the best of tempers and he had been prowling the house since early morning, looking for an opportunity to vent hi
s anger and frustration.
The previous night he had looked forward to a cosy evening at home with Belle and had refused Will’s invitation to Vauxhall, only to be informed by his butler that Belle was spending the evening with Miss Neville. Sir Charles had prepared an elaborately casual reason for calling on the Nevilles, only to be obliged to endure a long chat with Mrs. Cleeson, who commiserated with him on not going home first and finding Lucinda spending the evening at his own house. Sir Charles had not given Belle away to Mrs. Cleeson, but he was seething with rage when he finally escaped.
He had a strong suspicion that Belle was up to one of her tricks again, but he could find no trace of her at any of the tonnish engagements he had dropped in upon; nor to his chagrin, had he seen Miles Stratton. He had gone home in the worst temper ever and spent an endless evening pacing his study and planning ways to bring Belle to a full realization of her iniquity.
That mood had not improved when Belle and Patience at last appeared. Belle had been clearly upset: she had dashed past him, refusing to speak. She had been dressed in the most extraordinary fashion, too. Sir Charles could not be sure, but he thought he had actually glimpsed breeches beneath that ridiculous cape.
Baulked of his prey in Belle, Charles had cornered his sister and demanded she explain. But Patience had been uncharacteristically terse, saying only that they had been hearing about Will Ryland’s engagement to Miss Neville, before she too fled upstairs.
And now, here was Ryland embracing her in the library, the very morning after he had become engaged to someone else. Sir Charles’s desire for a scene had been thwarted last night; now he perceived that he had a glorious opportunity.
“Aha!” he repeated, pleased with the menacing tone he had achieved. The effect on the others was no less pleasing. The guilty pair whirled round and jumped apart.
“Charles!” gasped Patience.
“Well might you stare, my girl!” Sir Charles was getting into his stride. “I wonder you dare look me in the face.”
“Now, see here, Grantham—”
“No, you see here, Ryland. Are you or are you not engaged to Lucinda Neville?”
Will exchanged glances with Patience. “Well...” he began.
“Well me no wells,” commanded Sir Charles, his hand raised in a haughty gesture of rejection. “Yes or no?”
Will looked again at Patience. “Yes,” he admitted slowly.
“And I find you making love to my sister! By God! ” Charles remembered a line from the last play he’d seen and happily made use of it. “By God, sir, you’ll answer to me for this.”
Patience grasped at the edge of the desk. “Wh-what do you mean?” she faltered.
“This!” Sir Charles vaulted onto a fireside chair and reached for the swords over the mantelpiece.
“Grantham,” Will cried, gaping at him, “you can’t be serious!”
“Can I not?” Sir Charles leapt to the floor. “This, sir—” he presented the hilt of the sword to Will “—is a matter of honour.”
“Hono—No, dash it all, Grantham, your sister’s honour is perfectly untouched. I hold her in the greatest esteem, I—”
“You do, do you?”
“Yes, yes, Charles, he has never—”
“Madam,” said Sir Charles, making a sweeping gesture with the sword and beheading several of the roses in a silver bowl on the side table. “Madam, this is no matter for females.”
“It’s no matter for swords,” said Will. “Good God, Grantham, do you think I’m going to fight a duel with you in your own library, with your sister present?”
“So,” sneered Sir Charles, availing himself of yet another line from the performance, “so you are a coward as well as a rake?”
Will flushed. “Just who are you calling a coward?”
Sir Charles smiled loftily and held out the sword. Will grasped it. “I’ll not take that from you or anyone else.”
“Will,” cried Patience, “you cannot be so foolish!”
But Will had begun the salute with Charles. With a snap he brought the sword down and the two of them sprang into the en garde position.
Both young gentlemen had been expensively tutored in the art of the duello. But it is doubtful if either of their erstwhile masters would have been gratified by his pupil’s present performance. They lurched and lumbered about, lunging vainly at each other and dodging pieces of furniture.
Her knuckles pressed to her lips, Patience watched them, and even to her inexperienced eyes, it began to appear that they were not in immediate danger of killing each other.
“Grantham,” Will panted, edging behind an armchair, “hadn’t we better call this whole thing off?”
“Damn you, Ryland!” Sir Charles attempted to lunge around a huge Chinese vase. “Stand still and fight!”
That, of course, was the last thing Will intended doing. Standing away from the vase, he let Charles’s attack fall short. Then he hopped nimbly behind the sofa.
With a roar, Charles raced after him. Raising his sword, he aimed straight for Will’s chest, but instead stumbled over a rug and plunged his blade deep into the sofa cushions. A cloud of white feathers instantly enveloped his head.
“Really, my dear fellow—” Beau Devereux walked around the transfixed Patience and lifted his monocle “—if you don’t care for the colour, surely it would be tidier to send for the upholsterer?”
“Dash it, Dev, what are you doing here?”
“I came to see if you had all recovered from the events of last night. But I perceive,” he remarked, as he watched Charles tug his sword out, releasing another gush of feathers, “that your energies are quite unimpaired.”
“What on earth are you doing with all those feathers?” It was Belle, who was now gazing into the room. She wore a pelisse and gloves, as though she had just come in. “Have I been missing all the fun?”
“Fun!” Sir Charles resumed his role. “Your brother, madam, has been making love to my sister, if you call that fun.”
“Will and Patience?” Belle looked from one to the other. “Now I see.”
Mr. Devereux was not at all sure that he did, but he too stared thoughtfully at Will and Patience.
Will flushed under all this scrutiny. “I was not making love to Miss Grantham,” he said with dignity. “I was saying goodbye to her.”
“Goodbye?” echoed Charles and Belle in unison. Dev said nothing, but his expression of interest deepened.
Patience sank down on the sofa, causing another eruption of feathers, and said, “Mr. Ryland is betrothed to Miss Neville.”
“Is he indeed?” murmured Dev.
Sir Charles’s attention had been increasingly focussed on Belle, who looked provokingly fresh and carefree. Regarding her, he felt his grievances of the night before return in full. “Miss Ryland,” he ground out, “have the goodness to retire to the back salon with me. There are certain matters I wish to discuss with you.”
At the moment, however, Belle was concentrating on her brother. “Do you mean to say,” she said, as though trying to understand some abstruse philosophical point, “that you don’t wish to be engaged to Lucinda, and that it is Patience you prefer?”
“I shall not discuss either Miss Grantham or Miss Neville,” said Will stiffly. He did not look at Patience, who sat twisting her handkerchief and gazing at the floor.
“Very proper,” approved Mr. Devereux. “But, do you know, I believe that you may have been somewhat beforehand in your farewells to Miss Grantham?”
Will and Patience blinked at him, but Belle began to smile. Sir Charles ignored the others and glared steadily at her.
“What ...what do you mean, sir?” Patience asked tentatively, scarcely daring to hope.
“Do you mean, sir—” understanding was dawning in Will’s eyes “—do you mean that Lucinda—”
“I mean that Charles should be grateful he eviscerated his mother’s sofa and not his future brother-in-law.”
Will and Patience turned joyfully to ea
ch other. But Sir Charles snapped, “Miss Ryland, I am waiting.”
A quick glance at his face told Belle it was time to be conciliating. “I am coming, Sir Charles, pray excuse me,” she murmured submissively, “but first I must deliver a message to Mr. Devereux.”
Dev’s eyebrows rose.
“I have just returned from Miss Neville’s,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “She asked me to relay a message to you. She begs you will call in Agincourt Circle at your earliest convenience.”
“How very prescient of Miss Neville to know that you would find me here. And, do you know, Miss Ryland, is it not odd that since I met you I find the number of unusual messages I receive has increased alarmingly?”
“What can you mean, sir?” Belle returned his gaze with one of limpid incomprehension.
“Madam,” said Sir Charles through gritted teeth, “I am still waiting.”
As Belle passed Mr. Devereux, her guileless expression did not change, but she paused for a moment and just before she followed Charles out of the room, she closed one blue eye at Richard.
Dev picked up his cane. “Pray convey my regrets to your mother, Miss Grantham. I find I am called away.”
Neither Patience nor Will paid him the slightest heed. They sat side by side on the wounded sofa, their gazes and hands locked, while feathers settled unnoticed on their hair and shoulders.
“Your servant, Miss Grantham, Ryland.” The Beau executed one of his flawless bows and, brushing a few stray feathers from his coat, set out for his second call of the morning.
He had gone about halfway to his destination when he heard running feet behind him. On turning, he beheld Sidney, the youngest of his footmen, pounding towards him.
Panting, Sidney drew level with him and held out a letter.
“Thank you.” Mr. Devereux took the envelope. He raised his eyebrows as he recognized the crest. “When did this arrive, Sidney?”
