Ravenwood’s Lady, Lady Brittany’s Choice

by Amanda Scott

  “What goes on here?” Cicely demanded, hurrying to Meg’s side. “Meg, what is it?”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady, but the wench ’as been ordered not t’ speak, just as we hopes ’is lordship were kind enough t’ honor ’is word. You will oblige us, howsomever, if y’ll deign t’ answer a question or two.”

  “What question?” Thoroughly alarmed now, she glanced anxiously from the Runner to the viscount, standing against the doorjamb with his hands gripping his lapels. “Ravenwood, what is this?”

  “Just answer Mr. Fowler’s questions as well as you can, my dear.”

  “Very good advice, sir, and more ’n’ what we bargained fer, I don’t mind tellin’ ye. Nobbut what John Townsend said ye was a man of sense.” Fowler turned back to Cicely. “Now, then, me lady, just ye mind yer lord and answer me proper.”

  Cicely stiffened at his patronizing tone, and his expression promptly grew a trifle meeker. “Ask your questions,” she said icily.

  “Very well, me lady, and I’m sure no offense was meant. Did ye not call upon m’ Lady Jersey in Berkeley Square this very afternoon?”

  “I did.”

  He nodded, withdrawing a well-worn black leather occurrence book from an inside coat pocket and scribbling rapidly with a stub of pencil. “And did ye not be accompanied by yon wench?”

  “Miss Hardy did accompany me, as she generally does. My sister the Lady Brittany Leighton and her maid, Sarah Basehart, also accompanied us. Whatever is all this in aid of, if I may ask?”

  “Was the wench … ah, Miss Hardy, that is,” he added with near sarcasm, “left alone in that house at any time?”

  “No, of course she was not!” But then she remembered, and it required an enormous effort and all her experience as the so-called Ice Princess to school her features, but it was no use.

  “Ain’t the way I heard tell,” Fowler said simply. “Ye’ll understand, me lord. Consequent of our findings here, the wench’ll ’ave t’ come along o’ us” To Cicely’s astonishment, the viscount only nodded.

  “Ravenwood!”

  “They can do nothing else, my dear. Sally Jersey’s house was robbed this afternoon, apparently at the very time you were present. And some of the missing jewelry, as well as several trinkets missing from your own mother’s dressing table, were found among Meg’s effects upstairs.”

  “No! I won’t believe it. Meg wouldn’t!” She turned, meaning to fling herself between the patrolman and Meg, to protect her from the consequences of this dreadful mistake.

  “Cicely.” Ravenwood’s low tone stopped her in her tracks. “I am persuaded that you ought to retire to your sitting room, my dear. These proceedings can only distress you.”

  She turned to face him. “Distress me? Indeed, they distress me! You must do something, my lord. She is innocent.”

  “I can do nothing at the moment, my dear. Nevertheless, I shall see to it she lacks for nothing.”

  “They will put her in prison!”

  “Go upstairs, Cicely. There is nothing you can accomplish here.”

  She glared at him, then looked back to see the burly patrolman grasp Meg’s arm in an ungentle grip. Angrily she swept from the room, but not without first favoring her husband with a devastating look of contempt.

  Upstairs, Betty practically came running in answer to her summons. “Oh, m’lady, ain’t it awful! They looked ever’wheres, and then they come across them jewels in Miss Hardy’s own portmanteau, the one at the foot o’ her bed. Ain’t it dreadful? It was pretty stuff, too, ma’am. I seen it. Chains and baubles and one bracelet as looked like real diamonds, too. Least, I thought they was real.”

  But Cicely was no longer listening. She had remembered something she ought to have remembered earlier. “Never mind, Betty. I don’t need you, after all. I am going back downstairs.”

  Hastily she ran back down to the saloon, but it was empty. The library was likewise empty. Finally she found the young footman generally on duty in the front hall.

  “Michael, where is the master?”

  “Gone to White’s, I expect, m’lady. At least, he said a message sent there would fetch him.”

  “Then I must send a message at once,” she declared. “You shall take it yourself, Michael. ’Tis exceedingly important.”

  She scribbled a brief note, sealed it, and watched him run off with it. Then her temper began to rise. How dared Ravenwood just wander off to his club as if nothing of consequence had occurred? Angrily she paced back and forth for some two or three minutes, then, recognizing the futility of such an expenditure of energy, she went back upstairs to her sitting room and rang for a pot of tea.

  It was nearly two hours before Ravenwood returned. By then she was furious, ready to flay him no matter what he might say to her. He was smiling when he entered the sitting room.

  “I had your message, my dear. Poor Michael has been all over Town, I fear. How may I serve you?”

  “Ravenwood, how could you leave at a time like this?” she demanded. “How could you?”

  “My dear, I protest. I fail to see what I might have achieved by remaining here.”

  She stared at him but willed the pain she felt at his words not to show in her eyes. That he could ever ask such a question astonished her, particularly after his tenderness the previous night and his concern for her well-being earlier. Surely he must realize that Meg’s arrest would be a shock to her, that she would need his support in order to bear such a crisis. And that was only if he believed Meg to be a criminal. That he could care for her and think such dreadful things about someone she loved was reprehensible. But that he could think such things and still go off, leaving her to cope by herself, was monstrous. This was a side of modern marriage she had not foreseen and one, moreover, that she did not like at all.

  She felt a calmness creeping over her. She no longer cared what he thought. She must help Meg. “Ravenwood, listen to me. Meg is innocent.”

  “She was alone in that house long enough to take the jewels, Cicely. I could see that by your own reaction to the Runner’s questions. And they caught her red-handed with the stolen goods.”

  “But they found Mama’s trinkets as well,” Cicely said desperately. “Don’t you see, Ravenwood? Meg was nowhere near Malmesbury House last night. She was right here, and there is no way by which she might have got into Papa’s house without being seen and recognized. How could she possibly have got her hands on Mama’s jewels?”

  “If she is in league with the thief or with the receiver, she could easily have the jewels,” he answered calmly.

  “But she had only baubles, Betty said! Why only those and not more expensive stuff?”

  “There was a diamond bracelet,” he reminded her.

  “I don’t care! She didn’t take anything. I know her. Meg would never do such a thing. Oh, why won’t you listen?”

  “I think you are overwrought, my dear,” he said gently. “Perhaps a nap before dinner would—”

  “I don’t want a nap! I want Meg. Only you are too cork-brained to see what is before your very face. I shall go. myself to Bow Street and tell the magistrate she is no common criminal. I shall—”

  “You shall do no such thing,” he interrupted, still calm. “It does not suit my dignity to have my wife creating a public display. I fear you are rapidly becoming hysterical, and as I’ve no wish to cope with a fit of the vapors, I shall ring for Betty to attend you. If you are wise, Cicely, you will collect yourself before you come downstairs for dinner.”

  He spoke blandly enough, but there was a note of finality that told her as well as words would have done that he would prevent her from leaving the house if necessary. No doubt he meant to intercept Betty to give orders that she not leave her room. Silently vowing that she would starve before she had dinner with him, she watched helplessly as he turned on his heel and left.

  What manner of man was he, that he could behave so callously? He had always seemed to like Meg Hardy. Surely he could not mean to abandon her to
her fate. But, no, she corrected herself, he would not do that. He had promised to see she lacked for nothing. Nothing but freedom, anyway. She turned to stare out the window at the back garden. Perhaps he merely preferred to take the line of least resistance. Certainly he had done so with regard to her upon more than one occasion. Whenever she had really taken a stand for something, until now, he had given in. He seemed to balk only when his consequence was threatened. She sighed again. She had really thought he would help her, but once again he had proved to be too lethargic to exert himself. She would have to help Meg herself somehow. Perhaps Sir Conrad would have a notion.

  Betty did stay in the room with her, but Cicely quickly decided that sulking would gain little for herself or for Meg, so she dressed carefully, did the best she could with her hair, and went down to have dinner with her husband.

  She found him in the library, and when she entered he got to his feet with a smile of approval. She returned a chilly look, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. “I believe Wigan is about to announce dinner, my lord.”

  “Then shall we adjourn to the dining room, my lady?” he answered with exaggerated formality. She could discover no hint of mockery in his attitude, however. It was more as though he were metaphorically walking on eggshells instead. Dinner was an extremely polite exercise. Topics for conversation were limited to the weather and the delicacies placed before them, and Cicely was exceedingly relieved to see Wigan enter with the viscount’s port.

  “I shall leave you now, sir,” she said with great dignity, letting Michael assist her with her chair. Ravenwood made no protest, merely getting to his feet until she had gone.

  Cicely wished now that she had not canceled her engagements, for this would have been a perfect night to forget her troubles in a whirl of social pleasures. But it could not be. Depressed, she turned toward the drawing room. She had no particular wish for the solitude of her own company, but it was entirely too early to go to bed, and she had no wish to stare at the walls of her sitting room. She had had enough of that already today. Even the slight change of scenery would be better than nothing.

  There was a copy of the latest Monthly Museum on the table in the drawing room. She picked it up and sat down to leaf aimlessly through it, wondering if Ravenwood would dare to join her when he finished his port. He could simply decide to return to his club, after all. The canceling of engagements meant little to gentlemen. They could always find entertainment of one sort or another. She sighed.

  “Sir David and Lady Lynsted, my lady.” Wigan stood upon the threshold, a grinning Sally moving swiftly past him. Cicely’s eyes brightened considerably.

  “Sally!”

  “The very same, and don’t say you aren’t overjoyed to see us, or Davy will wring my neck.”

  “Of course I’m overjoyed. You’ve no notion how dull I was feeling just now.”

  “Well, of course I know. Didn’t I tell you, Davy? He saw Ravenwood this afternoon and heard how you had determined to spend an evening at home, and he seemed to think you would like the change of pace. But I knew better. I was sure that after all that has passed today, you would want company. So here we are!”

  “I am delighted to see you, but I hope you do not expect me to be very good company, Sally. Just the thought of poor Meg languishing at Bow Street makes my blood run cold.”

  “What on earth do you mean, ‘languishing’? Surely you heard what happened after she left here!”

  Cicely stared at her. “After she left? Whatever do you mean? The Bow Street people had her in custody. What could have happened other than that they carried her to Bow Street and cast her into one of those dreadful cells one hears so much about?”

  “Why, my dear, I was certain you would have heard. Six masked men on horseback stormed the coach at the bottom of Longacre Street and rescued your Meg from the very clutches of those dreadful Bow Street men!”

  14

  CICELY STARED AT HER friend. “You cannot mean it,” she whispered. “Who on earth would do such a thing?”

  Sally came quickly to sit beside her, taking the magazine gently from between limp fingers. “Cicely, it may be nothing—only a jest. Please, dearest, I never meant to distress you so.”

  “A jest! How could such a thing be done in jest?”

  “Sal means it may have been some young jackanapes, enjoying a lark,” explained Sir David, moving to warm his hands at the fire. “’Tis a practice in similar favor with ‘boxing the watch.’ Surely you’re acquainted with that charming game?”

  She nodded, collecting herself with difficulty. “That is when young gentlemen tip over the night watchmen’s shelters with the watchmen trapped inside, is it not?”

  “Aye. They pull the guard hut over face first, and most of the Charlies are so old they cannot lift the boxes to free themselves.”

  “I wouldn’t call the men who do such disgraceful things ‘gentlemen,’ myself,” Sally said tartly. “Some of those poor old men have been grievously injured in such frolics, and one or two have even died.”

  “Be that as it may,” interposed her spouse, “robbing the Bow Street coach provides some rascals with the same sort of low thrill as boxing the watch provides. “Ah, Ravenwood, good evening,” he added as the viscount strolled in. “You behold in us a leavening to the unalleviated boredom Sal is persuaded you would suffer with only each other for company. A sad commentary upon her opinion of your poor servant as a boon companion,” he concluded morosely.

  Sally grinned. “Pay him no need, if you please. He often pities himself this way, and I have discovered it does no good to show sympathy for him when he is in such a state. Come and join us, Ravenwood.”

  “Were you planning an evening out?” Ravenwood inquired smoothly. “I heard a reference to ‘boxing the watch’ as I came in. Low sport, I always thought it.”

  “We were telling Cicely about the men who abducted poor Meg Hardy,” Sally explained with dignity. “Davy suggested they might have done it for sport.”

  “’Tis possible, I suppose.”

  “You knew of this, Ravenwood?” Cicely shot him another icy glare, but he met it calmly.

  “I did. The news was brought to me just before we dined, but as I thought it would do little to lift your spirits, I thought it best not to mention it immediately.”

  Though Sir David seemed to find something fascinating in the crackling fire, Sally glanced uncertainly from Cicely to the viscount. “But I thought Cicely would be grateful to know Meg is not stuck in that awful place. And if some young bucks did it for sport, surely they will have set her free. Well,” she demanded when no one spoke, “will they not?”

  “If she had been freed, she would have come home,” Cicely said dully.

  “Home is the last place she would come, I’m afraid,” Ravenwood said. His tone was gentler now than it had been.

  “But why?”

  He was not required to answer, however, for at that moment Wigan entered and spoke to him in an undertone.

  “Show them in, Wigan,” the viscount said wearily. He gazed at his wife, his expression enigmatic. Not a moment later the door opened again, to admit the Bow Street Runner and his patrolman. Both looked considerably the worse for wear.

  “M’lord,” Mr. Fowler said brusquely, “we come on a bad business.”

  “Well, out with it, man! Have you found Miss Hardy yet?”

  “Ye ’eard about the incident, then?”

  “Of course we’ve heard. And I might add,” Ravenwood continued sardonically, “that I expected to find you on my doorstep before now.”

  The Runner’s face reddened, and his henchman looked studiously at his own boots. “We … ah, that is, m’lord, we were detained on business at Bow Street,” the former said stiffly.

  Sir David regarded them searchingly. “I am acquainted with Sir Nathaniel Conant’s temper, gentlemen,” he said Wryly. “I daresay he would have had a thing or two to say about your mishandling of a rather simple business before he sent you out
again to pursue your inquiries.”

  The patrolman grimaced, showing that Lynsted had touched a nerve, but the Runner was made of sterner stuff. “Have y’ seen the young woman in question, m’lord? I remind ye that it is yer duty to give ’er into our custody if ye ’ave knowledge of ’er whereabouts.”

  “I know my duty, man,” Ravenwood replied calmly. “She is nowhere on the premises.”

  “I believe ’e, m’lord, and it don’t surprise me. No, sir, it don’t surprise me at all. That ’ere wench be long gone b’ now, I’m afeared.”

  “Why does it not surprise you?” Cicely asked, controlling her temper with difficulty. They were discussing Meg as though she had no meaning to anyone but Bow Street. “I assure you, if Miss Hardy were able to do so, she would come home.”

  “Now, that she wouldn’t, me lady. Not if ’twas ’er own ’enchmen what sprung ’er.”

  Cicely gasped, but before she could dispute the matter with them, Ravenwood cut in suavely to ask if there would be anything else.

  “Nothing, m’lord,” replied Fowler. “’Cept, o’ course, in the unlikely event ye ’ave word from the wench. Like as not, she could lead us t’ the rest o’ them villains. Don’t mind tellin’ ’e, we’d like t’ lay ’em by their ’eels. Been calls fer an arrest from the ’ighest quarter. Mr. Conant be losin’ ’is patience, as I’m sure ye’ll understand.”

  “Quite right, too,” put in Sir David. “Disgraceful how long this business has been let to go on.”

  Wigan entered just then in answer to Ravenwood’s summons, and the viscount requested that he show the men to the door. There was silence in the room when they had gone. Then Cicely looked at Ravenwood, her gaze accusing.