Deception (Daughters of Mannerling 3)

by M C Beaton

  He continued to attack. ‘You cannot accuse me of flirting when you were romancing that army captain.’

  ‘He was pleasant, he was very pleasant, but then he told me that you had intended to marry Prudence and had even invited her to your home. Besides, my captain is young.’

  ‘I being in my dotage?’

  ‘Not yet, but close, very close, quite like little Miss Prudence.’

  ‘Bitch!’

  Her hand seemed to move of its own volition. She slapped him full across the face and then stared up at him in horror.

  He put his hands on either side of her face and, pulling her towards him, he kissed her full on the mouth. Abigail began to struggle but he held her close. That clever sensuous mouth moved against her own, softening from a punishing kiss into a long, languorous one. The surge of emotion, of passion, that gripped her stopped her struggles. Her hands, which had been beating on his shoulders, stole up round his neck instead. The military band outside was playing a waltz, the library smelt of leather, beeswax, and roses. He smelt of cologne and soap.

  He drew back a little and looked down at her anxiously, remembering how terrified she had been of Harry’s love-making. ‘I am sorry,’ he began, but she gazed up at him with a drowned look and drew his mouth down to hers.

  At last he said huskily, ‘What a hell-cat you are! Your hair is all tangled and there are bits of grass on your gown.’

  ‘What should I do now?’ asked Abigail. ‘Should I apologize?’

  ‘I think that would be wise. Was the provocation great?’

  ‘Very great. She said you were being forced to marry me.’

  ‘Love is a very great force, I have just discovered. That is why I must marry you.’

  ‘Oh, Rupert, kiss me again!’

  SIX

  Romances paint at full length people’s wooings,

  But only give a bust of marriages:

  For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,

  There’s nothing wrong in a connubial kiss:

  Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch’s wife,

  He would have written sonnets all his life?

  LORD BYRON

  The news of the fight between Abigail and Prudence spread through polite society the next day like wildfire. It came eventually to the ears of Harry Devers, who was dreading every day that his parents, having learned of his latest disgrace, would arrive to send him back to the army.

  Obsessively curious now about anything to do with the Beverleys, he made inquiries about this Prudence Makepeace and learned quickly that she had entertained hopes of wedding Burfield herself and considered Abigail had tricked him into marriage. He felt very alone. This Prudence could make a good ally. But he was not invited anywhere he might meet her. He secured her address and learned that she often walked with her maid to the shops in Pall Mall in the morning. He positioned himself outside her house until, three mornings after the breakfast, he saw her emerge. Hoping it was Prudence and not some guest of the Makepeaces, he began to follow, wondering how to approach her. As luck would have it, she stumbled over a loose paving stone, and as he was right behind her, he was able to grasp her elbow and support her.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Prudence, dimpling prettily.

  He swept off his hat and made his best bow, one leg well back, his nose almost touching the knee of the other. He straightened up and said, ‘I consider myself honoured to be of assistance to such a beautiful lady, Miss Makepeace.’

  ‘You know me?’ Prudence looked at him doubtfully.

  ‘We have not been introduced. I am Devers of Mannerling.’

  Her face hardened and she drew her skirts about her as if to avoid contamination. ‘Ah, you shrink from me!’ he cried as she would have walked on. ‘And yet I am the only person who feels for you, who could help you.’

  Had Prudence not still been burning up with rage against Abigail, she would have gone on her way, for she had heard of Harry Devers’s scandalous scene with the opera singer. But she wanted to talk about Lord Burfield to someone, anyone. Her parents had forbidden her to mention his name, saying that she must accept the fact that he was going to marry Abigail, and that was that. They had told Mrs Brochard the same thing, for that lady still entertained hopes of ‘saving’ her nephew.

  ‘How can you help me?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘If we could talk without your maid hearing us . . .’

  Prudence turned round. ‘Betty,’ she said to the maid, ‘take yourself a few paces off, and do not tell Mama of this or you will be dismissed.’

  They waited until the maid had backed away out of earshot. ‘How can you help me?’ demanded Prudence again.

  ‘There must be some way to stop that wedding from taking place,’ said Harry. He saw the look of distaste on her face and added quickly, ‘Ah, no, I am not revenging myself on the Beverleys. I am thinking of saving a decent man from being entrapped into a disastrous marriage. You have heard the scandal? Of course you have! But can you imagine how these Beverleys have nearly driven me to ruin?’

  He proceeded to tell her a highly sanitized tale of how first Jessica had broken his heart and then Rachel. She believed him, because she wanted to. Her thirst for revenge matched his own.

  ‘But what can we do?’ she asked, and Harry suppressed a satisfied little smile. That ‘we’ meant Prudence had decided to become his ally.

  But his next statement shocked her. ‘We could make sure the wedding never takes place.’

  ‘How?’ she asked faintly.

  ‘All we have to do is keep Abigail Beverley out of the way on the day of the wedding. With the Beverleys’ reputation, Burfield will assume she has stood him up.’

  ‘That is abduction you are suggesting. We could hang.’

  ‘This is my idea. I wish you to befriend Abigail Beverley.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Only to find out her movements, get her confidence.’

  Prudence shook her head so vehemently that the feathers on her poke-bonnet looked as if they were about to take flight.

  ‘I would be suspected.’

  ‘No, I do not think so. And who would suspect an eminently respectable young lady like you?’ His mind worked rapidly. ‘I have a cottage on the outskirts of the village of Kensington. All I need to do is get her there the day of the wedding. Some ruse.’

  ‘But you can do that without my help!’

  ‘Abigail attacked you at that breakfast because Burfield was flirting with you and she was jealous. Jealousy unsettles the mind,’ said Harry sententiously. ‘Your part would be merely to sow seeds of doubt in Abigail’s mind about the faithfulness of Burfield. I have been busy and I have a little tidbit of information.

  ‘At the Duchess of Hadshire’s ball, one of the footmen, who had been hired especially for the evening to augment the staff, was about to enter the refreshment room when he saw Burfield with a certain Lady Tarrant.’

  ‘That disgraceful lady he was driving in the Park!’

  ‘The same,’ said Harry, who had heard that piece of gossip as well. ‘Burfield kissed her full on the mouth and she kissed him back. The footman quickly withdrew and they did not see him.’

  ‘Are you sure of this?’

  ‘This footman fell into the company of my man in a tavern and imparted the news. Now it could be that Abigail learned of this, hence the drama in the Park when she appeared driving his curricle. But if she were to be reminded of it, if you were to suggest that he had been seen in Lady Tarrant’s company, something like that. Then, before the wedding, I will send her an anonymous note to say that Burfield is to be found at this cottage in Kensington with Lady Tarrant. She will go to confront them. Then we will have her.’

  ‘This is all too Gothic, too frightening,’ said Prudence, backing away. ‘Why should Abigail believe Burfield to be unfaithful to her? And all she has to do is ask him. Let me think about it.’

  ‘We must meet again,’ urged Harry.

  ‘I will be here tomorrow,’ said Prudence
slowly. She knew she should have nothing to do with him or his disgraceful scheme, but the thought of stopping that wedding was too tempting.

  Prudence returned home and, once there, studied again a letter of apology she had received from Abigail Beverley. Abigail had not wanted to apologize, but had done so on the advice of Miss Trumble. Miss Trumble had pointed out that no insult or goading on the part of Prudence Makepeace justified tearing off that young lady’s head-dress.

  It was a pretty apology, in which Abigail said she had been overset.

  Prudence wondered whether to call on Abigail. This letter gave her a good excuse. But away from Harry Devers, she felt she could not get embroiled in such a scheme.

  But as ill luck would have it, that very afternoon Lord Burfield was walking back to his home from his club when he was hailed by Lady Tarrant, who was driving herself in an open carriage with her groom on the backstrap.

  She hailed him and he climbed up into her carriage beside her. ‘I am not such a champion whip as your Abigail,’ said Lady Tarrant gaily. ‘Were you in the suds? And what is this I hear of hair-pulling at the Dunwoodys’ breakfast? What an exciting life you do lead.’

  ‘I am forgiven for the one and the other matter has settled down,’ said Lord Burfield. ‘I am the luckiest of men.’

  She laughed. ‘I see the love-light in your eyes and it is not for me.’

  ‘Will you dance at my wedding?’

  ‘Gladly.’

  He climbed down from the carriage and smiled up at her. She held out her hand and he kissed it. ‘I hope you are as fortunate as I,’ he said.

  Prudence, passing with her mother in their carriage, saw that kiss and her heart beat hard. Why should that slut, Abigail, go proudly to her wedding, believing Burfield to be faithful?

  She surprised her mother by saying, ‘I think, before we return home, we should call on the Beverleys.’

  ‘Never! After that disgraceful behaviour at the Dunwoodys!’

  ‘Abigail Beverley wrote me the most charming letter of apology. It would be churlish not to accept that apology. Besides, if we are seen to be friends, then that gossip will die. I fear I was as much to blame as Miss Beverley,’ said Prudence piously.

  Mrs Makepeace was always easily swayed by her daughter. Prudence always managed to make all her actions seem right. So Mrs Makepeace weakly told the driver to take them to Lord Burfield’s home.

  Now it was unfortunate that Miss Trumble had been sent back to the country by Lady Beverley on an errand. Lady Beverley had found she had left her best stole back at Brookfield House and she enjoyed the idea of making this uppity governess run errands for her.

  So there was only Abigail, who was only too delighted to receive Prudence and her mother. Abigail was so much in love that she felt she could love everyone else in the whole wide world. Lady Beverley was having one of her ‘good’ days and regaled Mrs Makepeace with tales of the former glories of life at Mannerling, which gave Prudence the chance for a private little talk with Abigail.

  ‘I thought Burfield was much to be pitied,’ she said in a low voice, ‘and that he was sacrificing himself. But it is you, not he, who are making the best of a bad situation.’

  ‘What can you mean?’

  ‘I feel we have both been tricked by him. Firstly, he is seen kissing that shameless woman, Lady Tarrant, at the Hadshires’ ball and then he takes her driving in the Park.’

  ‘She is an old friend,’ said Abigail stiffly.

  ‘Of yours?’

  ‘Of his.’

  ‘Oh, so you do understand. When I saw him kissing her again just before we got here, and in the middle of Hanover Square, too, I thought that perhaps you did not know.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ cried Abigail.

  ‘Shhh! Mama will hear us, and you do not want to suffer any more scandal.’

  ‘I do not believe you,’ said Abigail again, while jealousy like bile rose up in her.

  ‘All you have to do is ask Burfield if it is true,’ pointed out Prudence, and Abigail’s heart sank.

  Feeling she had dropped enough poison in Abigail’s ear for the moment, Prudence, seeing her mother was ready to leave, rose as well.

  Abigail paced the room after Prudence and her mother had left and her mother had retired. It could not be true. Prudence was a jealous cat and she had only called to make trouble.

  When Lord Burfield returned, it was to be met by a steely-eyed fiancée. He would have been in time to meet the Makepeaces had he not met an old army friend immediately after leaving Lady Tarrant.

  He made to kiss her, but Abigail drew back. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she hissed.

  ‘What is all this about?’ He eyed her narrowly. ‘I hear the Makepeaces called. What did they want?’

  ‘Oh, dear, dear Prudence called to tell me that you have just been seen kissing Lady Tarrant in the middle of Hanover Square.’

  Now all Lord Burfield had to do was to tell the enraged Abigail that he had only kissed Lady Tarrant’s hand, but he felt that as she was to be his wife, she should trust him. Had he not kissed her and said he loved her?

  ‘I have no intention of explaining any of my actions to you,’ he said.

  He saw the horror in Abigail’s eyes and added quickly, ‘Come, my love, if we are going to deal well together as a married couple, you must trust me.’

  Abigail simply turned on her heel and walked from the room. Pride kept him where he was. That Abigail should listen to spiteful gossip from such as Prudence Makepeace and believe it meant she had to be taught a lesson. Had Miss Trumble been present, the matter would have resolved itself very quickly. Abigail would have confided in her and Miss Trumble would have pointed out to Lord Burfield that it was he, not Abigail, who needed to be taught a lesson, that a man who kissed a lady who was not his fiancée was a man to be easily distrusted.

  But blissfully unaware of the gathering stormclouds, Miss Trumble and Barry were travelling in the comfort of Lord Burfield’s travelling-carriage, but not side by side, Barry being on the box with the coachman while Miss Trumble travelled inside. But when they stopped at a posting-house for the night, Miss Trumble asked Barry to join her for dinner in her private parlour. Barry knew it would be useless to ask the governess where she got the money for such luxuries as a private parlour in a posting-house.

  ‘Well, Barry,’ said Miss Trumble with a smile, ‘all’s well that ends well. Another love match.’

  ‘Let us hope t’other three will be as lucky,’ commented Barry.

  ‘I do not think I will ever be easy in my mind while the Deverses are still at Mannerling.’

  Barry raised his thick grey eyebrows. ‘Don’t think, miss that any of them will look on that Mr Harry with anything more than a shudder.’

  ‘It’s that wretched house,’ said Miss Trumble, dissecting a whiting with surgical precision. ‘I have half a mind to set fire to the place.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about that.’

  ‘Perhaps I will use this visit home to good use,’ said Miss Trumble thoughtfully.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ said the governess obscurely.

  Two days later, Mrs Devers was at first haughtily amazed to learn that the governess from Brookfield House had called. She was about to refuse her an audience, but she had recently learned the news of Harry’s latest disgrace and suddenly thought that Miss Trumble might have called with some awful new scandal. She asked the butler to show Miss Trumble up.

  As Miss Trumble walked up the stairs to the drawing room, the great chandelier in the hall began to tinkle. She stood on the first landing and stared at it. It was swinging in one half-circle and then slowly in another.

  ‘Why is that chandelier swinging?’ she said sharply to the butler’s liveried back. ‘There is no wind.’

  He did not turn round. ‘I am sure you are mistaken,’ he said, walking forward and opening the double doors of the drawing room.

  Mrs Devers rose and held out two fin
gers for Miss Trumble to shake. Miss Trumble appeared not to notice. She seized her hostess’s whole hand and pumped it vigorously.

  ‘Pray be seated,’ said Mrs Devers. ‘Pray, what may we do for you?’

  Miss Trumble looked about the room. She was alone with Mrs Devers. The ‘we’ had been royal. ‘I am come to offer you some advice,’ said the governess.

  Now Mrs Devers’s face was rigid with hauteur.

  ‘Indeed! I trust you are not going to deliver yourself of some impertinence, Miss Trumble.’

  ‘I trust not,’ said Miss Trumble equably. ‘You have no doubt heard of your son’s latest . . . er . . . escapade.’

  Mrs Devers reached a hand for the bell-rope. ‘No, stay, hear me out,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘I assure you I have only your welfare at heart.’

  Mrs Devers dropped her hand.

  Miss Trumble leaned forward, an earnest expression on her face. ‘I firmly believe,’ she said, ‘that all poor Mr Harry’s troubles have been caused by this house.’

  The look of hauteur left Mrs Devers’s face, to be replaced with one of fear. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘There is something about Mannerling which begets obsession in the finest of people,’ said Miss Trumble, relying heavily on her belief that this doting mother would forget all Harry’s bad behaviour before he ever set foot in Mannerling.

  ‘I believe you have the right of it,’ said Mrs Devers. ‘Harry was always a sweet boy and then a fine soldier. I believe this place to be haunted.’

  ‘I think it is.’ Miss Trumble lowered her voice. ‘I think it is possessed by a malign spirit. For the sake of your son’s reputation, nay, his very sanity, I beg you to sell this place.’

  ‘I have wanted to this age,’ said Mrs Devers. ‘But poor Harry is so devoted to the house . . .’

  ‘A devotion which will lead to ruin.’ The wind had risen and howled round the house. Somewhere a door banged, and from the stable block came the howl of a dog.

  ‘I believe you have hit on the one solution,’ said Mrs Devers slowly. ‘We can never be happy here. I will speak to Mr Devers when he returns from the estate.’