by Beth Bryan
The footman took a deep breath. “About an hour ago, sir. Mr. Dowsett said it was important. He promised me a sovereign if I found you, sir.”
“How loquacious of him.” murmured Mr. Devereux, as he slit the envelope with his thumb and extracted a single sheet of heavily criss-crossed and underlined script. His brows rose higher as he read. Then, carefully and slowly, he read it again.
“Mr. Dowsett was right,” he told Sidney, pocketing it. “It is a most important letter.”
Sidney looked pleased. “He gave me a list of places to try, sir. Lady Grantham’s was first and they told me I’d just missed you. The blond young lady told me your direction and I ran as fast as I could.”
“A Trojan effort, Sidney.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sidney beamed. “Oh, and one other thing, Mr. Devereux. The coachman gave this to Mr. Dowsett this morning. It was found when they were cleaning the grey curricle.” He retrieved another piece of paper from his pocket.
Dev took the rather crumpled sheet and glanced quickly at it. “Not my handwriting. Looks like some sort of list. Must have been dropped yesterday.” He pushed it into his own pocket. “I’m obliged to you, Sidney.” He tossed a coin into the footman’s hand, and with a friendly nod, continued on his way.
Sidney glanced down and then his mouth fell open. In his palm lay a bright golden guinea.
The morning, reflected Mr. Devereux, was decidedly improving. He suppressed an urge to drag his cane along the iron railings in front of the houses. How shocked the ton would be to behold one of its most prominent members capering down the street, cold sober and in broad daylight, too! Therefore, he proceeded sedately, though he did, however, permit himself to whistle under his breath.
Then suddenly he stopped. His hand went to his side and he took out the list and smoothed it out. This time he studied it carefully and it was one item in particular which caused his straight brows to meet.
“Is it possible that, after all this, I have been mistaken?” In a considerably more chastened mood he continued on his way.
He did not wish to jump to conclusions, but only one lady of his acquaintance was addicted to list-making and she had been in his phaeton yesterday. He had thought he now understood the situation, but again he had clearly underestimated Miss Neville. After all, how else could one interpret that very unambiguous notation: “Celie’s—wedding clothes”?
When he reached Agincourt Circle, signs of unusual activity greeted him. A travelling chaise had drawn up in front of number twenty-five; liveried footmen were busily unloading a series of boxes and baggages.
The front door stood open, but there was no sign of the butler or of other servants. Mr. Devereux stepped into the hall. Still no one appeared. He could hear raised voices from the interior of the house. With a slight shrug he made for them.
The noise led him to the morning room. Dev paused on the threshold and stared within. Slowly he raised his monocle.
Mrs. Cleeson lay back in a chintz-covered armchair. Beside her stood Ivor Devereux, alternatively fanning her and administering sal volatile. Before them, weeping copiously into her apron, huddled Emmie, Lucinda’s maid. Next to her, staring rigidly ahead, his whole bearing registering deep affront, was the Neville butler. A little removed from this group, leaning on the mantelpiece with one booted foot resting on the new, polished steel fender, Jasper Neville sardonically surveyed his cousin and retainers.
Richard was slightly acquainted with Jasper and it was to him that he spoke. “Your pardon, sir. I would not intrude, but...”
Mrs. Cleeson sat up and shrieked at the sound of his voice. She clutched convulsively at Ivor’s sleeve. “Mr. Devereux! He can tell you, Jasper, that we none of us had the slightest idea that any such action was—”
“Pray calm yourself, Ethelreda,” Jasper replied. “No reproach whatever is due you, I am sure of that.”
At this response, Dev’s mouth tightened. “If it is not too great an impertinence, may I enquire—”
“Eloped!” Mrs. Cleeson released Ivor’s coat and pressed a hand to her heart. “This very morning. Who could have guessed it?”
Dev’s mouth became a thin, hard line. Here was the obvious explanation of the note in his pocket. “In that case I am decidedly de trop. I must—”
Jasper raised his hand. “If we may detain you, Mr. Devereux. I believe that you were present during these rather melodramatic events at Vauxhall last night?”
“Some of them.” Dev’s expression did not change.
“And you saw them.” Mrs. Cleeson moaned and fell back farther into her chair. “But why? Why should they take this way? Why Gretna Green? Who could have objected to this match?”
“Dash it all, Ethelreda,” Ivor complained as he applied the smelling salts. “So the gel faints. She seems to make a habit of it, don’t she? But anyhow this time she chooses young Ryland to catch her, not Ricky. But it don’t mean she has to elope with him, do it?”
“Precisely.” Jasper took out his snuffbox. “There is no need for Lucinda to elope. I am trying to discover just why such a notion should enter my cousin’s head.”
“What else should I think?” demanded Mrs. Cleeson. “I have suspected a growing tendre, for they were much in each other’s company.” She inhaled deeply of the salts. “But, you know, I had begun to think that after all...” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes, Ethelreda?” Jasper prompted patiently, “you had begun to think...”
Mrs. Cleeson cast a quick glance up at Richard and then looked away. “But that can scarcely signify now, for I am obviously proved wrong. They met clandestinely last night to plan the elopement. I had no idea till I learned that she had vanished without a word to anyone.”
“If I may be allowed to speak, madam,” said the butler, coming reluctantly to life, “Miss Neville ordered her coach and footman to be brought round shortly before eleven this morning.”
“An unusual proceeding for an elopement,” Jasper commented, opening his snuffbox.
“If I might put a question...” Mr. Devereux’s face had been losing its set look and a certain suspicion was beginning to take shape in his mind. “Did Miss Neville receive any callers this morning?”
“No, sir,” the butler replied. “That is to say, there was a caller, but she was not received. She was in haste, so she said, and merely left a letter for Miss Neville. I gave it—” he sniffed audibly “—to that young person over there.” He nodded at Emmie.
Emmie’s first response was to howl louder than ever, but for a moment, no one paid any attention to her.
“Was this caller,” Mr. Devereux asked, raising his voice, “by any chance Miss Belle Ryland?”
“It was, sir.”
“Now, see here, gel,” Ivor said sharply to Emmie, “stop this infernal snivelling and tell us about this dashed letter.”
“I don’t know what it was, sir. Miss didn’t show it to me, or tell me what it said. She just put it in her reticule and told me to have the carriage brought round.”
“And it was after she read this letter that she ordered the carriage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dashed if I see how that helps, anyway,” said Ivor, dissatisfied. “Gels elopin’ leave letters. They don’t get ’em.”
“Absolutely correct, my dear uncle.” Richard smiled at him. “As usual, you have hit it in the ring.”
“Aha, Ricky, my boy. Do you see something in all this?”
“What I see,” said Jasper tartly, “is that girls eloping do not commonly do so in their chaise, attended by their own footman and without a single piece of luggage.”
“But if she is not eloping, what is she doing?” Mrs. Cleeson demanded distractedly. “Where is she now?”
Jasper tranquilly took snuff. “Lucinda is not a fool, though,” he remarked meditatively, his eyes meeting Dev’s, “that is not to say that she does not, like the rest of us, occasionally behave foolishly.”
Dev held Jasper’s gaze. “Sir, I assure you
this question is not mere vulgar curiosity, but is your daughter engaged?”
Jasper looked thoughtfully into his snuffbox. He snapped it shut. “No,” he said.
“Then I must take my leave of you all.” The Beau made his famous bow. “This has been a most instructive morning.”
Jasper spoke to the butler, “Have a horse saddled and brought round for Mr. Devereux.”
“But, Ricky, how the deuce will you find her?”
“I suspect there has been, shall we say, a hitch in the arrangements. An elopement was the intended impression, all right.”
“I knew it! I knew it!” Mrs. Cleeson moaned again and Emmie’s sobs increased in volume.
“The Great North Road,” Jasper muttered, with a nod at Dev. “It will have taken them some time to cross London. You will be quicker on horseback.”
“I’m desolate to leave you, Ivor, in such demanding circumstances.” Mr. Devereux looked mischievously at Mrs. Cleeson and Emmie. “But I am sure you will contrive. Incidentally—” his smile grew and he took out the fatal list “—I believe this concerns you rather more than me.” Picking up his gloves, he turned to Jasper, saying, “I trust we shall presently better our acquaintanceship, sir.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Jasper replied.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The coach bounced and jolted. Lucinda closed her eyes and held firmly to the straps. “I shall not be sick,” she muttered to herself, “I shall not.”
But she had scarcely slept the previous night and she had left without breakfast that morning. A throbbing pain cut through her head and waves of nausea swept over her. Despite her hold, she swayed sickeningly with every movement of the coach.
She tried to fix her mind on the object of this terrible journey. Belle and Miles Stratton? She had thought that affair ended at Lucy Caldeane’s. She should have told someone she had seen them at the balloon ascent. There must have been something she could have done to avert this outcome.
Belle must be truly bewitched to elope in such a way. Nothing could lessen such a scandal. Even if my own life is irretrievably ruined, thought Lucinda, I must stop Belle from ruining hers.
And what about Sir Charles? Under all his posturing, he loved Belle and she had thought Belle loved him. How would he feel when the news of this flight burst upon him?
Just as I felt, Lucinda answered her own question. Just as I felt when I found that brooch. A tear trickled down her cheek and she brushed it impatiently away. She must stop thinking of Richard Devereux. He was going to marry Lady Chloris dePoer and she—she was going to marry Will Ryland.
With a sob, Lucinda recalled that morning in the orchard—so long ago now it seemed. What was it she had said then? “Everything will be the same.” More tears ran down her face, but she did not heed them.
Now, nothing could ever be the same. Now she had come to London and met Richard Devereux. Too late she had learned that Papa was right. Love was more than the kindly affection she felt for Will.
But, Lucinda thought, she was glad to have known the other kind, however briefly, however much pain it brought. That was the kind of love Papa had meant, that was the enduring joy and consolation he had mentioned.
A lump rose in her throat as she thought of Papa; Papa who had fixed so many things before, healed so many hurts. But she was grown up now. Papa could not mend a broken heart.
She groped blindly for the handkerchief. In the driver’s seat, Albert shouted and the coach lurched forward. Lucinda uttered a little shriek and grasped the strap again. Then she heard hoof-beats racing towards them.
She felt a stab of fear. Could it be highwaymen? But surely not on an open highway, in full daylight?
The hoof-beats thundered closer as the rider gained on them. A streak of black flashed past the window. Albert was shouting again. The coach swung to one side and bounced to a stop.
Lucinda heard running footsteps, the door was wrenched open and then—
“Mr. Devereux!” Lucinda gasped, rising to her feet. “Richard,” she called, stretching her hands out to him, “Richard!”
“Lucinda, watch out!” But his warning came too late. Lucinda’s forehead sharply contacted the top of the door. A shower of coloured lights burst before her eyes, and for the second time in their acquaintance, she fainted in Beau Devereux’s arms.
She awakened to the sound of bird-song. A gentle breeze cooled her cheeks and stirred her curls. She was comfortably lying down and she could smell briar-roses.
She opened her eyes to stare up at a lacy panoply of green leaves and then, directly above her, into a pair of clear grey eyes. Her head was in Mr. Devereux’s lap.
“No, don’t get up,” he ordered gently. “We’ve pulled off, down a side lane. You gave yourself quite a knock, you know. I’m afraid you will have rather a bruise and you may still be feeling somewhat unwell from carriage sickness.”
“I overheard you in Hatchard’s. You didn’t believe that I had carriage sickness then.”
“You overheard me, did you? So that accounts for your freezing me out at Lady Grantham’s. I didn’t thaw for three days.”
There was a look in those grey eyes that made Lucinda’s pulse race. She glanced away and suddenly cried out. “Good heavens! Belle! I had forgot Belle!” She struggled to rise.
“Rest easy, my dear.” Dev pushed her gently back.
“But you don’t understand! Belle—”
“I understand perfectly and I urge you to go on forgetting your troublesome friend. Belle is not eloping.”
“But she wrote to me. She and Miles Stratton, early this morning...”
“I thought it must be something like that,” said Mr. Devereux with satisfaction. “I am becoming rather an expert on Miss Ryland’s machinations. I can assure you that she is safely at home. When I last saw her, scarce three hours ago, she and Charles were planning a cosy tête-à-tête. If he’s got any sense, he’ll take a horsewhip to her, but I suspect he’s doing something quite different.”
His calm tones carried conviction, and Lucinda allowed herself to relax again. It was all so deliciously comfortable. Like a dream, really, or like coming home after a long journey. “But if Belle is really going to marry Charles, why should she send me such a letter?”
“That, my love, was her second line of defence, as it were.”
It added enormously to Lucinda’s well-being to hear him say “my love” and her flush deepened at his caressing tone.
“What I should like to know,” he continued, “is how I was to be informed where you were, so that I might gallantly ride after you. What exactly did Miss Ryland tell you to do?”
“Tell no one but Emmie.”
“She knew you would try to go after her but what she didn’t know was that you, ever the soul of discretion, decided not to risk telling even your maid. Off you went then, as she had planned, but without leaving the clue she was depending on. Fortunately, my understanding of Miss Ryland has progressed considerably since I first met her.”
Lucinda thought she could lie forever in that sunlit glade, listening to that beloved voice. “What did you mean, her second line?”
“Vauxhall was her first. I suspect I was to rescue you from her attentions as that singularly unconvincing young man. She would run away, boots permitting, of course. You would fall gratefully into my arms and we would admit our mutual passion. Young Ryland was the joker in that pack.”
“Will!” Lucinda sat bolt upright. “I can’t! I mustn’t! I’m to marry Will!”
“You must please yourself, my love. But I fancy Ryland will draw the line at bigamy.”
“Bi-bigamy?”
“How pleased Lady Grantham must be to have both her children turned off in the same Season—and to members of the same family, too.”
“Do you mean Will and Patience?”
Dev lifted a mahogany curl and twisted it round his finger. His touch electrified her, as did his words. “You know, Lucinda, I cannot decide whether you are more beautiful, in
sunlight or candlelight. However, I intend to take a whole lifetime to study the question. Now let us clear away all misunderstandings.”
Lucinda’s heart was doing very strange things, but she was still astonished by Dev’s revelation. “Patience and Will! I cannot...” She paused and then said, “But no. Now that you point it out, it seems very clear. And I never had the least inkling.”
“Didn’t you?” Richard gave her one of those deep, disturbing glances.
Her eyes dropped and she looked up at him through those long, dark lashes. “Do you mean I was too preoccupied with ... with you?”
“Deplorably conceited as I am, I do.”
“I was ... worried about Lady Chloris.” Lucinda spoke with a touch of constraint, but in this golden glade, with that light in Richard’s eyes, Lady Chloris seemed very insubstantial.
“Ah, yes, Chloris. I must have been mad. I actually considered following my Aunt Melpond’s advice. But then, one evening, a huge-eyed chit with chestnut hair fainted in my arms and nothing was ever the same again.”
“Nothing was the same,” Lucinda sighed in deepest satisfaction. “And the brooch?”
“Nothing to do with me. I had never seen it till you pushed it dramatically into my hand. I knew it wasn’t mine, but I didn’t know whose it was, and since you had told me you were promised to another, it didn’t seem to matter.”
Lucinda’s hand stole out and tentatively touched one of Richard’s. He captured it and held it firmly. “Did you ever discover to whom it did belong?”
“Not till this morning. Not Chloris and Richard, but Chloris and Rollo.”
“Rollo? Who is that?”
“A prize young hothead, who also happens to be the Earl of Cranford.”
“Cranford? But Papa said he was not in England.”
“No one knew he was here. According to Chloris’s rather incoherent note, he has been here in secret for some time.”
“In secret? But why?”
Dev shrugged. “Three years ago there were rumours he and Chloris were a match. Then their fathers quarrelled. Rollo was only a younger son at the time. He went off to Italy and I should suppose they found some way to correspond. There was no enquiry about the brooch because no one was to know he had come back to England. He’s the earl now and why they should choose to behave in such a havy-cavy—but then all the Cranfords have temperaments to match their hair.”
