Tuesday's Child (Heroines Born on Each Day of the Week Book 3)

by Rosemary Morris

  He sipped more brandy. No, those plans were too complicated. Besides, the Rectory was too close to Clarencieux for Fred not to arouse suspicion in either Pennington’s stables or in the tap room.

  Bow Street runners. Dominic cradled the empty crystal glass in his hands. Too early in the day to drink more brandy. Besides, strong drink will not help me to discover the truth. Bow Street runners could.

  Dominic decided to report the suspected crime and hire runners, who would investigate in return for expenses and a substantial reward for accurate information. He returned the glass to the silver tray on the pier table.

  Suppose someone made another attempt on Arthur’s life? This time a successful one.

  Shocked by the thought, although he was usually abstemious, Dominic changed his mind and poured another glass of brandy. He must protect the boy. Perhaps he could also employ Bow Street runners to keep watch over Arthur.

  * * *

  In Harriet’s r parlour at Mivart’s hotel, while Arthur sat on the floor and aligned his toy soldiers in squares, Harriet dipped a sharpened goose quill into ink.

  “My Dear Mrs Tarrant, she wrote,

  I pray this letter finds you, Major Tarrant and your son in the best of health.

  You already know you are my only close acquaintance in England, other than my late husband’s friends, who served in his regiment, The Glory Boys.

  I am pleased to inform you I shall soon meet my cousin, Sir Percival, the head of my branch of the Loxbeare family. I am sure you can imagine, I am delighted. Also, I am delighted by my good fortune. I have come into an inheritance from Sir Percival’s father, which is more than ample for my needs and those of my son.”

  Harriet held the pen poised in mid-air and mulled over what to write next.

  “Charge!” Arthur’s shout startled her when he advanced his miniature enemy cavalry towards the square of tiny redcoats.

  Harriet bent her head over the letter, and wrote for several minutes. Satisfied with her description of the part Mister Markham played in helping her to trace her cousin, and his attempt to find her father’s bank, her hand stilled. Now, to compose the most difficult part, her reason for writing to Mrs Tarrant.

  “Mister Markham is an honourable gentleman so, when my father-in-law, you and Major Tarrant, saw me in his arms at Clarencieux Abbey, he announced we were betrothed. To preserve my reputation for Arthur’s sake, I did not deny it.

  After we left the abbey with Arthur, Mister Markham brought me to Mivart’s Hotel with my son, where he rented a suite for us before he went to stay at his father’s London house.

  Mister Markham intends to marry me by special license to avoid waiting three weeks for the banns to be read.

  Not sure whether or not she could succeed in winning the rector’s love, she continued.

  I hope you are able to understand the most painful part of this letter, which I shall express. In spite of all the difficulties I encountered when I followed the drum, my marriage was happy. So I am reluctant to make one of convenience to a gentleman, who is all goodness and deserves a wife whom he loves.”

  She blinked her moist eyes several times in order to see what she had written.

  “I never aspired to become a member of the ton, although, as the mother of the Earl of Pennington’s heir, I am entitled to be one. A quiet life in the country within easy reach of a large market town would be agreeable to me. Please advise me, for Mister Markham’s sake, do you think I should cry off from our betrothal?”

  Harriet put the pen down. She read the letter, added a few polite words, signed and sealed it.

  Harriet hoped Mrs Tarrant would not advise her to live with Arthur and servants instead of marrying her clergyman.

  Repeatedly, she tapped her finger nails on the top of the escritoire. Indecisive, the arguments for and against marrying a gentleman, who did not love her for convenience, repeated themselves. If she married him and did not win his love the marriage would be intolerable.

  * * *

  In her luxurious bedroom at Calcutta Place, Georgianne sat in her bed, and alternated between sipping her morning chocolate and reading Harriet’s letter. Unsure of how to reply, the contents sent her in search of her husband, whom she found in his dressing room. For a moment, she paused to admire him, appreciative of his splendid crimson bunyan embroidered with gold and silver thread.

  At first sight of her, Rupert gestured to his valet to withdraw to the bedroom.

  Her husband raised his eyebrows. “Mrs Tarrant, may a gentleman not have privacy in his sanctum?”

  “No!” she exclaimed, aware that he teased her. “I am not rude enough to invade it without permission,” she joked. “I knocked before the door opened, and I requested permission to enter.”

  Rupert picked up his gold signet ring from the dressing table and slipped it onto the forefinger of his right hand. “To what do I owe the honour of your visit? No, don’t tell me, yet another one of your destitute protégés needs urgent assistance. Is it not enough to suffer the services of several half-trained maids, and a housekeeper, who is on the verge of bursting into tears if I dare to look at her, and-”

  “Do be quiet. I know how soft-hearted you are, and how much you sympathise with the unfortunate widows and orphans of soldiers whom we employ. If you did not, I could not love you so much.”

  “Heaven forbid my sinking beyond recall in your opinion.”

  “Do be serious,” Harriet chided him.

  “Heart of my heart, am I not, in earnest? What could be more unfortunate than losing even a fraction of your love?” He asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  “Tarrant, you are impossible! You know you could never forfeit it.”

  Georgianne sank onto a chair upholstered in chintz with a pattern of exotic flowers on a pale yellow background - the fabric one of the many items imported by the nabob from whom Rupert inherited a large fortune.

  With practiced ease Georgianne widened her eyes and fluttered her eyelashes, an artifice which always gained her husband’s attention. “A letter from Lady Castleton has impelled me to seek your advice.”

  Alertness replaced the lazy expression in her husband’s grey eyes. “Not another attempt on young Arthur’s life?”

  Shocked, she stared at him. “No! Why did you ask? Surely you don’t think -. Oh, no, the idea is too dreadful to contemplate. Whenever I think of our son, safe in his nursery, I cannot bear the thought of someone wicked enough to murder a child.”

  Rupert bent over her and traced the line of her cheekbone with a gentle finger. “Shush. Don’t alarm yourself, Georgie. Lady Castleton has Mister Markham to protect her.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Rupert sat on the chair opposite her, left leg, amputated below the knee, stretched out.

  She handed him the letter. Her lower lip caught between her teeth, she waited until he finished it before she spoke. “Well,” she began, “I am delighted by Harriet’s inheritance, which, whatever happens will make her independent of Pennington. I am also pleased because her cousin wishes to meet her. As for the rest of it, what do you think?”

  “First, she is blind.”

  “Blind?”

  Rupert nodded. “Yes, first because it is obvious Mister Markham is in love with Lady Castleton. Second, to judge by the expression in her eyes when she looks at him, she is equally love-struck.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she must not be allowed to cry off from her engagement. With your permission, and if you have no objection, I shall invite Harriet, her son and Mister Markham to visit us. It will give me an opportunity to mend matters.”

  Rupert smiled at her. “You are not only the mistress of my heart, you are also the mistress of this house. Provided you never invite a gentleman, who has replaced me in your affections, you may fill Calcutta Place with innumerable guests.”

  She sprang to her feet. “How dare you infer I would ever-?”

&nbs
p; Rupert interrupted. “You have been patient with a cripple but-”

  “Silence!” Before he could say more she sat on his lap, one hand at the back of his head, her fingers threaded through his guinea gold hair. “You foolish man, don’t you know I cannot find sufficient words to describe how much I adore you?” Without giving him time to reply she kissed him.

  “Lud,” her husband drawled, when she drew back to gaze into his eyes. “I am shocked because my lady wants to ravish me.”

  Not fooled by his raillery, Georgianne stared into his eyes darkened by passion. Not only had she given herself to him body and soul, she knew he treasured her.

  The clock chimed ten. “Are you hungry? What a bad wife I am to keep you from your breakfast.”

  “A shocking wife,” Rupert agreed, obviously on the verge of laughter, “and I am a gentleman with many appetites.”

  Georgianne stood up and faced him. “I am ready to partake of breakfast even if you are not. Afterwards, I shall reply to Harriet’s letter, and to those from my Cousin Sarah, both of my sisters and your step-mamma.” She scrutinised his handsome face. “Do you really believe Arthur is still in danger of another attack on his life?” she faltered.

  Rupert nodded. “Perhaps. Yet, although I believe someone may be plotting to do so, I think Mister Markham is capable of preventing it.”

  “I feel responsible because I introduced Harriet to her father-in-law. If I had not –”

  “Put that nonsensical thought out of your mind. Even if you did not, it would have become known Arthur is Pennington’s heir, and undoubtedly the would be murderer would have tried to kill him.”

  “Yes, you are right, though-”

  Rupert picked up his cane and stood. He put his free arm around her waist. “Make up your mind, Georgie. Shall I satisfy my hunger with you, or-–”

  “Breakfast, before I faint with hunger, and not for you, sir.”

  “You are cruel but I agree, on condition that while we eat I do not want to hear any more regarding your widows and orphans.” He looked out of the window. “The sun is shining. Shall we ride later?”

  * * *

  Harriet knew that according to the unwritten rules, which dictated propriety, she and Mister Markham should not be seated in her parlour at Mivart’s Hotel without a chaperone. Even a widow, mother of a child, alone with a clergyman would not be exempt from criticism and gossip if it became known.

  Aware that not even the most censorious member of society could find fault with her long-sleeved, iris-blue morning gown, worn with a small ruff at the throat, she smoothed the letter on her lap.

  “May I ask who has written to you?” Mister Markham’s voice sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

  “Of course you may.” Harriet looked down at Mrs Tarrant’s reply to her letter, which she wrote three days ago. “We are invited to visit Calcutta Place with Arthur.”

  “Ah, Major Tarrant’s famous house in the Hertfordshire countryside.”

  “Famous?”

  “Yes, the major inherited it from his godfather, a nabob, who, according to rumour, filled it with treasures from India. I’ve even heard there are statues of Gods worshipped by the Hindus. They include one of a blue boy called Krishna, who holds a flute to his lips, and has a peacock feather in his hair, and an incredible one with a lion’s head and a man’s body.”

  Harriet frowned in response to his descriptions. “You are well informed.”

  “Don’t look at me so warily.”

  “I apologise. Your interest in idols surprised me.”

  “Please put your mind at rest. I have no particular interest in heathen gods, but I remember reading an article on the subject of the nabob’s collection, and thinking I would like to see them. In all probability they are as interesting as the marble sculptures Lord Elgin shipped to England.”

  Harriet inclined her head. “I daresay they are.” She picked up the letter. “Should we visit the Tarrants?”

  Mister Markham’s delightful dimples appeared when he smiled. “Maybe,” he patted his pocket. “I have the special license, so perhaps you would prefer to be married first.”

  Does he really want to marry so soon without his family’s approval?

  Mister Markham’s eyebrows twitched. The dimples on either side of his firm mouth almost disappeared while he waited for her answer.

  His sister calls those who try to snare Mister Markham the band of hopefuls. Well, I didn’t set a trap for him, but he is caught in one. Should I marry him?

  “Lady Castleton?” the rector prompted.

  “If we accept Mrs Tarrant’s invitation, perhaps we could be married while staying at Calcutta Place. I would like her to be present at the ceremony because she has been so good to me.”

  Delay will give me the opportunity to discuss my situation with my benefactress. I only want to marry Mister Markham if he weds me because he loves me, not out of chivalry.

  “Of course you would welcome Mrs Tarrant’s at our wedding. What a brute I am not to understand you need the presence of at least one well-wisher when we are at the altar. So, if you wish, we shall accept her kind invitation.”

  “Why does he have to be so nice? It would be selfish to marry him if his only reason for marrying me is quixotic. If so, I think my heart will break.” She forced herself to smile at him. “Thank you. How good you are.”

  “I intend to always be good to you and Arthur.” When he smiled, his dimples reappeared. “So,” he continued, “we agree. In your reply to Mrs Tarrant’s letter please tell her we shall arrive on the day after tomorrow. Now, I hope the pile of papers on your escritoire are part of your memoir?”

  Relieved by the change in the subject of their conversation, she nodded. “Not a part, I have scribbled the first draft.”

  “May I read it?”

  “I would prefer you to wait until I have copied it in a fair hand.”

  “If you wish.”

  Although she gave instructions for them not to be disturbed, a loud knock on the door heralded her abigail’s intrusion.

  Before the woman curtsied, Harriet noticed Plymouth’s swift, suspicious glance at where she sat, opposite Mister Markham, her feet primly placed next to each other on a footstool. Heaven above! Although she was betrothed, her straitlaced servant thought she should be chaperoned.

  “My lady, please forgive me for interrupting you.” Plymouth handed her a pasteboard visiting card. “A lady and gentleman hope you will receive them.”

  Harriet scrutinized the card. “’Pon my word, Mister Markham, my Cousin Percival has arrived, presumably with his wife.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Mister Markham, I can scarcely believe my cousin and his wife are in the drawing room!” Delighted by their arrival, Harriet hurried to look at herself in the ornate gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece. She retied the bow of her dainty muslin cap. “What will he think of me?”

  “He will admire your beauty,” Dominic replied.

  Beautiful! He flatters me. No, perhaps he does think I am. The thought gave her confidence.

  “That you are a fashionable lady.” Plymouth muttered..

  Plymouth’s words proved how proud she was to serve her, so, although the woman should not have spoken, Harriet did not reprimand her.

  Dominic stood. “I should leave.”

  “No, please stay. I am nervous. You cannot imagine how disappointed I shall be if, after meeting me, Sir Percival does not wish to further our acquaintance, Harriet prattled.

  “Only a fool would not want to,” Dominic assured her. “For who, including your humble servant, would not want to get to know you better?”

  She laughed. “Lud, sir, the words, your humble servant, are worthy of a play actor.”

  Dominic gazed at her, the expression in his green eyes serious. “Not so, my lady, I am yours to command.”

  His words warmed her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, for, by now, she knew her betrothed well enough to know
he did not dissemble; and, at that moment, she made up her mind to win his love by ‘hook or by crook’.

  Her abigail’s deep sigh reminded Harriet of the woman’s presence. She turned around. “Plymouth, please admit Sir Percival and Lady Loxbeare.”

  Barely able to breathe, due to excitement at the imminent prospect of meeting her cousin and his wife, Harriet stood motionless in front of the fireplace, her attention on the door. It opened. Sir Percival, a gentleman of medium height, with an oval face, mid-brown hair and winged eyebrows, who was dressed in the height of fashion, entered the parlour.

  Lady Loxbeare, a little shorter than her husband, attired in a cream muslin gown with deep frills at the hem, and a modish, lavender velvet spencer, presumably a concession to the cool September weather, hesitated at the threshold.

  Before Harriet could welcome her cousin and his wife, and introduce them to Mister Markham, Sir Percival walked briskly towards her. His kiss on her forehead took her by surprise, and rendered her speechless. A pair of eyes, the same blue as her own, scanned her face while he cupped her chin with his right hand. “Lud, you are the image of our grandmother.” He let go of her chin, clasped both of her hands, stood a little further away from her to scrutinise her. “When you visit us at Loxbeare Manor and see Grandmother’s portrait you will agree? Allow me to welcome you into the family on all of all he Loxbeares’ behalf.”

  Sir Percival exuded so much good nature it made it impossible to object to his familiarity, although, from the corner of her eye she saw Mister Markham poker up.

  “’Pon my word, Sir Percival,” Lady Loxbeare trilled, and shook her forefinger at him, “when will you learn not to behave like an over-enthusiastic puppy? To judge by your outrageous familiarity with Lady Castleton, no one would think you are nine and twenty years old besides being the proud, doting father of two sons and a daughter.”